Fight Club

I am jack’s smirking revenge
I currently reside in hell. Or as most people call it, the Psychiatric Ward of Manchester State Penitentiary.
I live in a small room, with stone walls on all three sides, and cage-like bars on the fourth.
Tyler doesn't come into my cage, or into the dining area, or outside when I get my fifteen minutes of fresh air every day. He doesn't come into the showers or into the visiting area once every month when Marla Singer comes to see me.
But Tyler is not dead. I did not kill him. He's only dead to the outside world.
He only exists in my head.
He comes when I go to sleep. When I lay down on the squeaky metal spring mattress on my small cot in the corner of the room, Tyler comes. I don't like to sleep, but I do anyway. Every night I visit Tyler.
When my eyes crack open, I quickly shut them against the harsh bright light. Brilliant white, it makes its way through my closed eyelids, burning my sensitive pupils, not used to the brightness, wanting the dark. Wanting to wake up in my cage.
I am surrounded by white, like I stepped onto a piece of paper. I am lying on the ground... or is it the ceiling, or the walls? Here, everything blends together into nothing, into oblivion, into infinity.
Tyler stands in front of me.
But it's really me that standing in front of me. Because Tyler doesn't exist, that's what everyone tells me. The doctors, Marla, even I tell myself that Tyler doesn't exist.
But he's standing right in front of me.
Tyler smiles.
"We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world," Tyler laughs as his boot comes down on my stomach. I grunt.
I Am Jack's Smirking Revenge.
"Why are you doing this?" I croak.
The first rule of Project Mayhem is you do not ask questions.
"I'm not," Tyler says calmly. "You are. We are."
I Am Jack's Broken Heart.
"You're not real," I say, blinking rapidly as I climb to my knees. "You're not fucking real."
The first rule of fight club is you don't talk about fight club.
"What is...