[...you've always known this...]

[whynot]

Today I found both hp_rps and pp_rps. There's also an excerpt each from the Brokeback Mountain screenplay and more tales of Ang Lee's tumultuous relationship with the gay thing. The site looks like a blog to me and I wonder where the guy gets his sources, but oh if it were true. Come oooon, Aaaaang. JUST DO IT OMG. Also, POTC fans: this book. XD

Anyway.

So I was innocently scrolling through imdb.com's Fight Club trivia page as a geek is wont to do, when my mouse Transfigured itself into a bunny and bit my ass. Yes, groaty, my ass, my human-donkey hybrid. It lives in my bedroom and feeds on stray potato chips.


Dedicated to eva_c, because I don't waaaaaanna dig for a liiiiink.
Thank you to serialkarma for the beta.

Point B
Fight Club. Tyler/Narrator, Narrator/Marla. R.
A coda to Point A to Point A.

You hate it when Marla leaves for work because this is when Tyler steps out of the shadows to play. He doesn't care about cold shoulders. He doesn't care about locked doors. He doesn't care about your privacy, and your privacy includes him anyway. It would be pointless.

"It pains me," says Tyler. You're sitting on a battered armchair in the living room with the remote control in your hand and you can't bring yourself to turn on the television to drown him out. Tyler says with ironic bombast, "It pains me to see people fall out of love. I was the sun to your moon. Think about it. All the symbolic parallels apply."

He doesn't care when you say shut up.

"The enzyme to your substrate."

He doesn't care when you say he's lying.

Tyler says, "I made you live, then I killed you. And, perhaps, vice versa. The bottom line is I fucked you over, yet here I am. You've invited the murderer over for tea and permanent residence."

You say you didn't do a fucking thing.

Tyler says, "Maybe that's your problem."


***


Yes, it's fucked up for a figment of your imagination to have this much control over you. It's fucked up for it to play mind games inside your own head. It's fucked up when it corners you in the shower, or puts a hand over your mouth in bed at night, or creeps up behind you when you're alone, and slips a hand between your legs and jerks you off. You've always known this, in the same way you know you'll die someday, but maybe lately you're being pushed to the end of your rope, maybe lately the straw's broken the camel's back because it's like dawn broke somewhere inside you and you realize how bad this is.

Number one: Tyler used to make you feel alive.

Number two: Tyler scares the fuck out of you now.

Number three: Tyler doesn't exist.

Number three scares you more than number two, and more than anything ever has. It makes your breath catch in your throat and you swear to yourself you're never letting Marla go. You're never letting her slip away. You're going to let her essence wrap around you, that cloud of cigarette smoke synonymous to her existence, to your existence, together in a halo of smoke in the bedroom you share, not as one, but as two, because One is an illusion and always has been.

You think to yourself that once Marla gets back, you're going to touch her real skin and kiss her real mouth and taste her real cunt, and even when she cuts you down with words and blows cigarette smoke in your face, you won't let go because Tyler is Tyler and Marla is Marla and nobody wants to be alone.


***


"When you met me, you thought you'd never be lonely again," says Tyler, unzipping your pants, "but when you're with me is when you're most alone."

You close your eyes.


[end.]