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With insomnia, you become numb to the things around you. Everything is distant. Cars on the street could be rushing by you and you wouldn't even register the wind nor the flash of headlights. It's only at the last moment you somewhat realize what happened, and then you'd think about getting hit by a car.
Somehow I always end up thinking about death. My former school counselor would tell me that I need to change the pattern of my thoughts. She wouldn't be proud of what my pattern of thoughts are nowadays.
I'm not suicidal.
I can't help thinking about my death. It just happens. I wouldn't care if I died today, tomorrow or in a few years. Tyler would ask me if I'm proud of my life, of what I've accomplished. I'd say I'm not and most likely never will be. I'm fine dying like any other useless guy. Tyler would start a rant that I'd half-heartedly listen to, something about death.
I know Tyler Durden. I live with Tyler Durden. I fight Tyler Durden. We created Fight Club.
I'd be content dying right here, right now. I'm as accomplished as I ever could be. I'm so close to rock bottom.
Tyler would be proud.
Unfortunately, I still crave. I'm empty again. Fight Club isn't cutting it anymore. Tyler's fists penetrating my body isn't enough anymore. I'll never reach enlightenment at this rate.
Tyler would not be proud.
I can already hear his voice chastising me about needing things. The things we own end up owning us.
This is how it goes; you find something that makes you feel alive and you abuse it until you are used to it. It doesn't give you a kick anymore. Then you find something new, something better.
Rinse and repeat.
This is the closest I'll feel like an addicted junkie. Difference here is that there's always another drug they can upgrade to and overdose at some point. I'm stuck here. I'm stuck here like this; always craving and waiting, yearning even.
Maybe I should start using drugs.
No, Tyler would despise me. He's completely against synthetic drugs. Says they are full of chemicals (of course they are). Rather stick to tobacco and weed.
No sweet opioid to inject into my veins and to put me to sleep. No kiss from death.
With insomnia, you're never truly asleep. You're always in some kind of daze. Tonight is one of those nights again. I couldn't sleep, and until I find my new personal drug, I won't. There are weeks of sleepless nights waiting for me. Tiredness will nestle deep into my bones. My heavy eyebags will be the only thing keeping my light, skinny body from blowing away in the wind.
As I stare at the water stained ceiling, I rake my brain for anything that could help, for any past information. After counting the cracks and moldy spots for the upteenth time, I remember the silly and juvenile behavior I had as a young teen.
Most importantly, I also remember how to dismantle a razor and get the blade out of the plastic casing.
This is stupid, I think to myself, yet I cannot keep my body from dragging itself off of the dirty mattress and shuffling into the bathroom.
I stand in front of the chipped sink and look at myself in the mirror. I look like shit, but that's nothing new. Yellow, green, red and purple paint my face. The hole in my cheek is staring back at me. My split lip is smirking at me. I'm quite sure that I'm vaguely hallucinating because of my sleep deprivation.
Oh, well, what's new?
Snapping out of it, I finally grab the shitty plastic razor that Tyler and I share. He's probably not gonna be happy about me destroying the only shaver we have in the house. Maybe he'll understand my desperation.
No, who am I kidding?
He'd punch me and yell at me for being so pathetic, for stooping so low and doing such an idiotic thing. He'd call me a teenage girl begging for attention. I wouldn't even argue. I agree wholeheartedly with him.
Sometimes Tyler makes me feel like a teenage girl.
I move to sit on the grimy tiles, my back leaning against the bathtub. My body is still sore from the beating I took last night, therefore it's more of a stumble. It's like a baby bird falling out of its mother's nest; graceless. I feel like one, too.
Ugly, small and naked.
I tug my boxers up to expose my thin thighs. A teacher once caught the thin red lines on my arm and immediately reported it to my parents. Cue the yelling, berating and insults. My mother and step-father thought I had quit after that incident, thinking the shame and guilt would have stopped me. Maybe I had learned something. But the truth is that I learned how to hide it and be less noticeable, more discreet. I know where to cut and where not to.
I'm not stupid.
We all evolve to adapt.
And old habits die hard.
I dig the blade into my flesh and drag a line. Blood immediately pops up in little bubbles. I watch the droplets slowly descend down my thigh, joining each other to become a long drip. It doesn't hurt that much, not really. The first shock is exhilarating, though. I had forgotten about the first surge of adrenaline and pain, it's been many years since I've last done it. The feeling is akin to humanity’s first step on the moon. Okay, maybe not that great, but it's the best comparison my brain can come up with at the moment. I continue to drag neat lines on my leg. I'm decimating my thigh.
I don't even cry.
I am Jack's dried up tear ducts.
My dry eyes are only watching the vibrant red clash against my white skin. It's kind of beautiful in a way. I think every cut, bruise and burn is beautiful. I like the way blood drips and I like to watch scar tissue form as the flesh tries its best to fix itself. It's kind of amazing how the human body can patch itself up.
There are some flaws with the existing process, though. Take for instance our immune system. Whenever armies of bacteria intrude, our body goes haywire and turns up the temperature in an attempt to boil the offending fuckers. That's what we call a fever. A high fever is dangerous because the body might accidentally cook your brain alive. That's how fevers can make you delirious or hallucinate.
I am Jack's boiling cerebrospinal fluid.
I don't know how long I sit there and just watch the fresh blood ooze out and slowly scab over. Could've been a few minutes, maybe an hour. It's nice to dissociate like this. I got my kick and now I can just wallow in the afterglow. Everything is so close, yet so far, far away. I wouldn't mind bleeding out like this. Yeah, this is fine. Although I always imagined going out in a fight.
At least some blood was spilled, right?
Tyler barges in. No knock or anything, that's just how he is. Or maybe he did knock and I didn't hear it. I don't know and I'll never know. He saunters over to the toilet to take a piss, completely ignoring me sitting in a small puddle of my own crimson blood. I wonder if he even knows I'm in here.
“Can't go when you're watching,” he mumbles.
Oh, so he does know I'm here. I guess that's just nonchalant Tyler, minding his own damn business. No care in the world, nothing bothering him in his lane. Calm as a Hindu cow.
Why do I even care if he cares?
Like I've said, sometimes Tyler makes me feel like a teenage girl. And I hate him for it.
I remain silent and stare at the dirty floor in front of me. Tyler finishes and turns around to leave. He never washes his hands after pissing. Tyler halts mid-step and stares at my butchered thigh through his red sunglasses.
“What the fuck did you do?” Tyler scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest like a mother who caught her child doing something naughty.
It's a rhetorical question. He can obviously see what I did, so I don't answer him. I just duck my head, shrug slightly and continue looking like a pathetic mess. His eyes are burning holes into me and we both stay quiet. He's clearly expecting me to say something, but what the fuck do you say when you got caught red-handed slicing your skin open?
Don't worry, I'll replace the razor, I murmured. Of course I go with some sort of apology. Shit, I should get punched for it. Tyler, please hit me. Beat the pathetic-ness out of me. Shape and sculpt me the way you want me to be.
The expected punch never fell. Tyler only wordlessly moved to the medicine cabinet and grabbed some supplies. I'm sure he's going to throw the stuff at me and tell me to clean up my mess. Maybe he'll even start a monologue about how stupid and immature cutting yourself is.
But he doesn't. Tyler crouches down and actually wipes my thigh clean with a wet cloth. He's grabbing butterfly bandaids and putting them on the cuts after disinfecting them. It's weirdly gentle, just like patching each other up after fights is. I don't like this. I don't know what Tyler is thinking right now. I don't know what's going to happen after he's done patching me up.
I shoot him a glare, nonverbally asking him what the hell he thinks he's doing. He chuckles slightly at my weak attempt to look intimidating. He doesn't answer. Tyler finishes up by wrapping gauze around my thigh before hauling my body upwards. I'm embarrassed to admit, but I'm a bit shaky, my stance wobbly, and I clutch at Tyler to try to regain my balance and to calm the fuck down.
“Think it'll stain?” He asks and points towards the blood on the tiles with an unlit cigarette. I didn't see him pull one out. Tyler has this magical ability of making cigarettes and lighters appear out of thin air.
It'll most likely stain if nobody cleans it up. I know for a fact Tyler won't. He doesn't give a shit, even if it might look like someone was murdered in our bathroom. Past me would have had a heart attack about the mess. The mess wouldn't even have been made in the first place, that's how anal I was about cleanliness.
I'm not that person anymore.
Actually, I don't even know who I am.
“Hey, psycho boy,” Tyler blows smoke into my face and tears me out of my thoughts. “Are you even listening?”
I blink and look at him. Tyler walks to his room. I watch him flop down onto his bed. He drags at his cigarette and puffs out a cloud of smoke as if nothing happened.
“Go to bed,” he says. I nod and start shuffling to my room. I'll do anything Tyler tells me to do, although I'm pretty sure I won't be able to fall asleep.
We never speak of it.