Disclaimer: anything you recognise isn't mine.
Warning: mild slash.

I'm here. In heaven. White on white, with all the angels in their squeaky-clean rubber-soled shoes. I'm not crazy, I'm not Psycho-Boy, and I'm not Tyler Durden.

I'm just not.

I'm not anyone.

I know it's bad, but I sometimes think that despite everything Tyler did to me and my nice, neat, Ikea-catalogue life, I was better off when he was around.

Before Tyler, before Marla, before the support groups, I was bored. Tired, bored, dying inside every time somebody looked past me when I talked to them.

When they checked their watch.

When they took a sip of coffee.

When their eyes weren't fixed on my face.

Then came the groups, Remaining Men Together, the big moosie, the big cheesebread, and they were really listening. It was good at first.

But then came Marla. It wasn't so good after that. Changeovers, that's what they're called in the movie-projection business. Maybe you remember it, Tyler? That's probably when you first began to come to life.

Tyler, naked on the beach. Sitting for exactly one minute in the perfect shadow hand he'd made. A moment of perfection is worth the effort, the pain, the pint of blood you have to swallow, the torn-out cheeks, and the gun I put in my mouth.

After Tyler came fight club.

Then came Project Mayhem.

Then the gun, then this white on white heaven, and now the squeaky-clean Old Testament angels with their squeaky-clean smiles and their blank eyes as they look through me.

As they check their watches.

As they sip their coffee from little plastic cups.

As they look at everything but me.

Oh, Tyler.

In Tyler we trusted. And oh, I trusted you, Tyler.

But I didn't mean it, I didn't want you to kill my boss, I didn't want you to blow up the world.

Maybe you didn't want that either. You mixed the nitro with paraffin. You knew.

Paraffin never works.

The French beaches, yeah, the ones I've never seen, the Mona Lisa, the Elgin Marbles, they should be preserved. Or at least, not ruined out of spite, not by some wack job with his cheeks torn to pieces.

Not flattened by some repressed, bruised, angry man with an alter-ego who wanted to see the world fall back to before English colonization.

Not destroyed by some bored, white, upper-middle-class basket case with nothing better to do than whine about his -imaginary- best friend leaving him.

Oh, Tyler, why did you have to go?