#super lame. oh also my first day went gr8!

[jacksprostate]

(Part 5, previous)

I end up in the cafeteria, staring at nothing. Mastication is the first step of eating. After getting food. After bringing it to your mouth. After the food has leapt into your hands, you can bring it up to your teeth full of cracks and holes, and you can fill them with pulverized chicken and rice and assorted steamed vegetables. And you swallow. And you’ll do this until you die, whether that’s in three, five weeks, or when you’re seventy-eight. Four days or so, if you don’t drink water. I wonder if Tyler has water, locked in the cage of my mind. I wonder if hallucinations need food, or if there’s some other sort of nourishment he needs. That I haven’t been managing to give him. I know he’d like to chew.

Maybe Tyler was onto something, walking around feeling like a bigger dick than God himself.

That night, I sleep like the dead, and I dream of it, too. The movie set of Paper Street yawns above us. I’ve got Tyler in my hands, his hair tight between my fingers as I fuck his throat. I’m curled over him. I’m giving something up. I’m more powerful than I’ve ever been. Tyler Durden has tears in his eyes and my cock in his mouth, and he’s not biting down. Not yet. There’s a heat to the world, and maybe it’s not ever. I feel drunk. He’s quiet.

We’re at fight club, a crowd of howling monkeys around us, and I won. Tyler’s on the ground, looking at me with pride over his shoulder. I’m pulling him apart and sinking inside. I’m fucking my best friend into the concrete. He’s not making a sound.

We’re in my cubicle. I have a large knife, and I’m gutting Tyler like a fish. And I’m burying my dick in him, and he smiles at me. His intestines writhe as I pull on them, hauling his body to me with each thrust. They want back in. I want back in. He’s warm to the core and cooling.

On top of the Parker-Morris building, I’m fucking a hole through Tyler’s shaved head. A cock is your gun, your gun is a cock, an explosion in one direction and I’ve blown mine though his skull. Pulling the trigger, over and over and over. His brain droops out of the hole. Twitching as cum and blood oozes out. Little bits of bone stick to his fried neutered testicle scalp. Rocky mountain oysters. I can see the head of my cock poking out when I fuck in. Out. In. His eyes are empty on me as I move my hands from his jaw to his temples and dig my fingers in. His brain is like plush velvet. It’s better than his throat. Better than his ass. Better than his guts.

Tyler could not cut a hole in himself better than the one I made for him.

I wake up with a rash on my dick from the pillow jammed under my crotch. They don’t bother with high thread counts, here. Might as well be steel wool.

I eat.

I take my pills.

I’m led to the visitation room.

Marla calls me, her voice floats to me through the aether to come out tinny on the telephone.

“Have you heard from Tyler recently?”

Out of the grave enough for speech and she already wants to butt back in.

I want to tell her, I don’t have any words for her. No messages. I’m sorry. My jaw could have rotted off, for all the use it is, and I stay silent.

“I found this new support group. You’d like it. Tyler could be your boyfriend.”

I’m the only one who’s left. Only Marla and I would know the truth if I smeared it like that.

I want to tell her that I hope she’s having a good time, in the real afterlife. That she’s not stuck some place like I was. I don’t want to ask about it. I don’t think we’ll be going to the same place. Marla might not be a good person, but I’m worse.

Regret and remorse don’t mean shit when you can barely even feel them. It’s cruel, how I’m keeping her ghost around. I was haunting her until death and I can’t even stop after.