I have never seen a Fight Club prompt here before. You are awesome. I hope I do this justice :/

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He’s never looked the same. He didn’t go to a hospital – none of you ever do.

After a while, even the dull-eyed, late-night nurses look at you funny when you’ve forgotten all your previous excuses and say you’ve walked into a car door for the third time in a row.

His hair is still shockingly, shockingly yellow, but his face is purple and yellow and green, and if he laughs too wide you can see where you’ve knocked the teeth out.

You’ve destroyed him. You find you like the thought.

Sir, he says to you – he doesn’t bow because that’s not what Fight Club is, you can’t stop bowing down to Egyptian cotton sheets just to bow down to the man – men, if you count Tyler – who birthed you this new life.

He doesn’t bow, but he shows you the proper respect.

You can have your own life now, you say to him. Gucci underwear, snake-skin boots, houses with stained-glass windows – he could take his pick.

I don’t think I can, anymore, he says.

You don’t think you can either.

You reach out and touch a bruise under his eye. You can feel a crack under his skin, where the cheekbone has healed crooked.