#i was delivered some devastating news jn the middle kf this which helped me get into that mindset

[marlasbreastlump]

Marla told me that when she died she wanted to have her body embalmed.

She told me she wanted to be like one of those Catholic saints whose corpses they have on display in European cathedrals. The nuns dunk them in acid and pour a thin layer of wax over their skin, then put them in an airtight glass coffin and call them incorruptible. Eventually their fat breaks down and beads up on top of the wax so the nuns have to wipe it off with a rag.

By that point, she couldn’t get up from the stale mattresses they had at the clinic. I could count the bones in her hand without Tyler’s kiss. There was a third lump in her breast. The doctors said there was little that could be done at that point.

If only she’d come in before there was a third lump in her breast.

If only she’d noticed when her skin started to turn yellow.

If only she’d reported to the clinic that she’d been coughing up blood.

If only.

They still recommended chemotherapy, but Marla didn’t have health insurance and she said she couldn’t stomach being bald when she already looked like a shrink-wrapped skeleton.

She said that maybe if I hadn’t used her collagen trust fund for soap, it could have been used to give her a touch up before her funeral.

.

Evacuate soul.

.

The day after she died, I was the one making the arrangements since her mother could only afford to fly in for one day and Marla would rather have her be at her funeral than see her like this, and she didn’t want her mother to plan her daughter’s funeral. Embalming a body to last for more than a year would cost two months of rent for Marla’s crummy apartment. The mortician asked me if I had a wedding ring for Marla to wear during the service, and whether I’d like her to be with or without makeup.

Two days after she died, Marla was given an open-casket funeral with her mother and I attending. The mortician dressed her up in a frilly blue dress and kitten heels. Afterwards, Marla’s mother took her to be cremated and gave me a dainty little egg-cup full of Marla. The rest of her she took. I put the cup on the shelf next to her mattress still covered in slippery plastic. I don’t know why she kept it sealed when I didn’t see her bring anyone home during the last months. She told me that since Tyler, other men felt mediocre by comparison.

Oh Tyler, even now I’m thinking of you.

Three days after Marla died, I went to a gun shop where a man with a split lip and bent nose called me sir. He asked, “What is Tyler Durden planning?

“What’s next?

“What’s happening?”

I told him that the first rule of project mayhem is to not ask questions and he gave me a handgun without registration and three boxes of ammunition. Tyler’s been dead for years and he’s still getting me free stuff. Marla would’ve loved this.

.

The tub in Marla’s bathroom has a clog and her hair sticks to the porcelain like black cursive so I sit on the toilet lid instead. The corners of my mouth rip a little as I stretch my jaw around the gun. My demon smile never healed right since I kept biting the stitches open in the mental hospital. It tastes like rust and the barrel knocks against my teeth that didn’t get blown out the first time. This brings me back.

I think about how all the melanomas, brain parasites, bowel cancers, all the people on the roof that night are dead by now. I think about Marla in the little egg cup and Bob with his brains blown out and Tyler gone.

Tyler, is this what you wanted?

Tyler, I miss you.

I click the safety off.

After they’re done scraping my brain matter off the tile, my father will probably be the one to identify my body. I wonder whether I’ll join Bob as one of Project Mayhem’s martyrs, or if that title doesn’t include suicides. They wouldn’t be saying my name either way.

His name is Tyler Durden. His name is Tyler Durden. His name is Tyler Durden.

I tongue at the gnarled scar tissue of my cheek. Second time’s the charm. Was it you who missed, or me?

Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. You should have aimed straight and saved me all this trouble. Few more years and I’m right back where I was. Ground zero. I think this is bottom plenty.

I think of the New Zealand on my foot. I think of my father. I think of my boss and the mayor’s special envoy on recycling and my job. In a few seconds I’ll look like one of the car crash victims whose rear differential locked up and sent them careening into an 18-wheeler.

Oh Tyler, deliver me.

Pull the trigger.

Evacuate soul.