Warnings: TylerxNarrator slash, slight non-con.
Disclaimer: Fight Club belongs to Chuck Palahniuk.
You tell yourself you should have known you couldn't have gotten rid of Tyler that easily, that you can never get rid of him. You feel him everywhere; in your mind, in your flesh, in your bones. You feel him in every glistening drop of sweat that rolls down your skin as you lay in bed, once again, unable to sleep.
He is in the very blood cells that pump their way through your veins.
You're afraid to close your eyes because every time you do you feel him drifting into your head, all blonde hair, blue eyes, an attractive face and a chipped grin. You see his split lip and bruised cheeks vividly behind your eyes; rumbling deep voice in your ears, in your thoughts, in your –
"You are not your fucking khakis..." –
You jolt awake and curse as your head bounces off the headboard, and not for the first time. He comes to you in your dreams, in your thoughts, in your every waking moment. Every word he's ever said to you racing around in your head, drowning out every bit of peace you wish you had. Everything he's ever done to you, the punches, the bruises, the feeling of scorching flesh as he pours lye on the back of your hand, and even down to the kisses he's placed on your skin. You feel them all and you can't help but curl up under the sheets and sob, begging, pleading that you didn't feel him anymore.
But Tyler is watching. He won't let you forget.
You shudder and whimper and try to edge away as you feel the soft touch of wandering fingertips on your burning skin. Tyler's fingers are cool and dry and for a moment it feels nice, but Tyler doesn't do nice, and suddenly you can feel nothing but pain as broken fingernails carve bloody little rivers down your arm. You scream and he laughs.
Tyler enjoys tormenting you, teasing you, hurting you. Tyler wants to make sure you know that he's still there; he wants to make sure you feel it. Oh, and feel it you do. There's not a single moment where you can make yourself forget.
Tyler's hand grabs your shoulder and roughly pulls you towards him. You are on your back, wide eyed and scared, looking up at him. "Tyler," you say, but it comes out as little more than a wounded whisper. He slugs you in the face and you feel a tooth come loose.
It's like Fight Club all over again. But you are not a god.
"Look at you", he mocks, "what a wreck."
You are inclined to agree, you haven't slept in months. But you don't say anything. Only lie there and stare at him as he leers at you with that Tyler-smile of his, both rows of chipped and missing teeth showing between his torn lips. You absently wonder how many of your teeth Tyler has knocked out himself.
"Go away," you whisper. You squeeze your eyes shut, shake your head side to side as if your brain is an etch-a-sketch and you're erasing the image of Tyler. But it doesn't help, you can still see him. You just want to sleep. Just want to wake up and work your nine to five and come back home to your consumer life-style. Everything you were before Tyler showed up and changed everything. You just want to be normal.
Tyler doesn't like this and he lets you know as he slugs you again. You almost choke on your tooth as it rolls to the back of your throat. You spit it out.
"Fuck society!" He shouts. "Have you learned nothing? The whole reason this thing started was because you were looking for a way out. You needed a way out." He laughs. "You need me," he says. "You've always needed me."
He fingers the scar on your cheek from your little stunt with the gun, and you wish everyday that the bullet would have come out of the back of your skull instead, covered in blood and brains; grey matter dripping out onto the floor. But you were never that lucky.
You had tried to commit suicide after that once, with a bottle of Marla's pills. She had interrupted you before you had the chance, but you know now that even if she hadn't, you never would have swallowed them. Tyler wouldn't let you.
"I saved you." He whispers, and warm air blows across your ear with every breath that he takes. Tyler's suddenly too close, too warm, too real. And you gasp as his teeth find their way to that little bundle of nerves behind the shell of your ear.
"No," and the sound comes out as a strangled whisper. "No, no. I don't want to be saved, Tyler. I don't. Please."
You feel the hot prickle of tears behind your eyes now and you try viciously to hold them back. Tyler doesn't seem to be listening now. You can't help the shudder that passes through your body as Tyler's hand toys with the hem of your shirt; his teeth sliding down to your shoulder. "Please, Tyler. I just want to sleep."
He grabs your face roughly between his fingers and forces you to meet his gaze, blues eyes so penetrating and dark. "'Please Tyler, please', you don't even know what you want. You were born into a society that tells you what you want. You can't think for yourself. That's why I'm here."
"I don't want this," you whisper, "I don't want you." And you flinch as Tyler laughs at you, cold and hard.
"You don't know what you want." He repeats, and then he kisses you hard, rough, and vicious; everything that Tyler is. Nothing gentle, nothing sweet, nothing nice because Tyler doesn't do nice. You cry out as his teeth bite down on your lips and draws blood.
You try to struggle, but it's no use. His kiss burns like the puckered scar on the back of your hand. The constant reminder you have of Tyler, his souvenir to let you know that he's in control, has always been in control. The image of him always burned into your mind, perpetual and glaring, forever a scar in your subconscious, like the image of his lips burned forever into your hand. Making sure you never forget, because you know you can't.