"I really like you, Marla."
I wasn't lying when I said that. Tyler was there because I needed a way to be with her.
I needed Tyler to toughen me, to restore my masculinity – to get rid of the emasculated living I had suffered from for so long.
But then it had gone too far; I often wonder what the point of reclaiming my masculinity would have been if the world had been destroyed, like Tyler had wanted.
Would I have died and been remembered as a real man, larger and better than God? Or would I have been another nameless face lost in a cause that I didn't understand until too late?
Marla and I, we grow together; we start from that bottom that Tyler brought us to, and we climb upwards at a slow, unsteady pace.
I fear falling asleep for months, wondering if Tyler will resurface from the deepest orifice of my brain when I do.
Marla tells me not to be stupid, shaking her head: then she softens only slightly and tells me that if "Tyler" comes back, we'll handle him together.
We go back to the hospital where they give me more medication that I don't want to take, and I receive counselling from a doctor with a bristled, ugly beard.
I'm sure he's never been a part of Fight Club or Project Mayhem, as he doesn't say all the things the others do. He genuinely seems to want to help me.
Or maybe he just wants to get rid of me quickly so that he never has to stare at my ugly face-splitting grin again.
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