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I’ve done myself in this time.
That’s one of the only thoughts crossing my mind as my chin is smashed against the concrete floor for what may be the twentieth time of the night.
Around an hour ago now, when the meeting started, Tyler had come bustling into the dingy basement, talking excitedly about fighting me to show our growing number of newcomers the ropes.
I just nodded and remarked that it sounded like a fun idea. Inside, I was beaming. It felt like being chosen as one of God’s favorite disciples.
But Tyler never pulled any punches. It simply wasn't in his nature. By the time he was done with me, one of my eyes was already swollen shut and I was pretty sure I had broken a finger. I am Jack’s ruptured capillaries.
Next I was up against Glasses, nicknamed for his refusal to take off his glasses to fight. I have no idea how they haven’t broken yet. Normally I would have pounded him into dust, but I wasn't at the top of my game after fighting Tyler (I never was) and he managed to knock me over by running into my knees at full speed. We grappled on the ground for a while until he eventually ceased beating me into the concrete because I had stopped moving.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I was able to stand back up, and Tyler put me up against another man. The revolving door of new opponents didn’t seem to stop, and each fight seemed to leave me with more damage than the last.
When my current enemy (this time, a thin man with a bleached buzz cut) looks down on me, digging the front of his foot sadistically into the space between my ribs, my facade begins to slip.
Now, Fight Club was about healing. It was about taking the pain and letting it transform you, escaping the torture of daily life. The pain is supposed to make me better. Stronger. That was what Tyler was always preaching.
This didn’t feel like an escape. All at once, I feel backed into a corner like a scared animal. I reach out behind me and blindly (my eyes are nearly swollen shut) crawl backwards, away from my assailant, but the man is too quick, and he follows swiftly.
He lands another few kicks to my side before getting bored and going straight for my face. I haven’t tapped out yet, but I let out one pitiful groan and attempt to hide my face in my hands.
I must look depressing enough that he does actually leave my face alone. Unfortunately, this is because he changes targets and punches me directly in the throat.
I can't catch my breath. I can't breathe. There are spots swirling through my vision and everything's starting to go black around the edges. I feel like I'm about to pass out. I desperately try to yell 'Stop' but nothing comes out.
He stands up and I am saved because he must be done with me. He's standing above me, and everyone else is still cheering, still just watching. He doesn't clear out and nobody moves in to take his place.
I realize he isn't done with me yet when he raises his foot and brings it down, full force, onto my throat.
I don't have time to panic about not being able to breathe again because everything immediately goes black.
***
Regrettably, when I can see and breathe again, I am still laying in the middle of the circle. Buzz cut has disappeared, and in his place is now Tyler.
Tyler somehow looks perfect despite spending his evening beating people (read: me) up in a sweaty basement all night. As I stare up at him, beautiful in his uniquely handsome way, I think I might have once had a dream about dating a beautiful boy that looked like him while I was in grade school. I definitely had more than a few after my beach visit in Florida.
It seems like Tyler got between the other guy and me. I can’t tell if I’m grateful or embarrassed. He shouldn’t need to get involved, I should be able to tap out when I’m done. I should be able to take more.
All of these thoughts are drowned out when Tyler reaches out a hand to help me up. I stay silent, even after he leans in to discreetly whisper “You okay, Ikea-boy?”
When I don’t answer, he pats me on the back, harsher than necessary, as if he’s trying to knock the sense back into me.
I let out an embarrassing, rattling whine. It feels like something’s wrong with my sternum. And my windpipe. And maybe my ribs. Nothing felt like it was in the right place. I am Jack’s quickly deteriorating first aid knowledge.
Tyler’s eyes narrow at the noise, letting out an involuntary chuckle. I’m aware I’m acting strange, but I can’t seem to right myself. All I can focus on is the increasing pain all over my body. That and the crowd of people still gathered around me, inspecting me like a bug under a magnifying glass. Maybe if the light hit me just right, I’d burn up right there and not have to deal with the consequences of this.
After I take a few more slow, shaky turns in a circle, Tyler must realize that something is genuinely wrong. I nearly sink back to the ground, except he catches me with an arm around my midsection. My chest is shaking with quick, ragged breaths, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I am not going to cry.
Tyler must dismiss the other people from the basement: I hear him barking orders, and when I look up, we’re alone. When he sees that I’m paying attention to him again, he brings us down slowly, keeping his arm around my waist as he lowers us both to the floor.
He looks me in the eyes, bearing an expression that was a mix between pity and confusion. My mouth goes dry, and my vision starts to tunnel as I realize how pathetic I must look. Meetings were supposed to be things that I couldn’t ruin. Fight Club was sacred, a place with no rules other than the ones that Tyler laid out for us. As long as I listened to Tyler, I couldn’t go wrong. God, why didn’t I tap out?
Tyler plants his hands firmly on my shoulders. “Hey, you’re alright, come on…”
I can barely hear him. My entire world is narrowing to the fact that I can’t seem to breathe all the way in, and all of my energy is going towards not letting the tears in my eyes fall.
Finally, when he realizes that his approach isn’t working, he reaches out (with more caution than I’ve ever seen from him) and pulls me firmly to his chest. I’m briefly shocked out of my panic by the display of affection, the moment giving me déjà vu to crying in Bob’s arms at support meetings.
Tyler’s voice comes out hushed and strained, a whispered and repeated “Come on man, copy my breathing, you’ll be fine, it’s fine…” The slight edge of fear in his voice is what breaks the dam, and suddenly, shamefully, my eyes flood with tears. Tyler just sits there, in disbelief, maybe, as I let myself sob for the first time in months. He just keeps his arm on me, letting me clutch at his sides and sob into his chest.
I don’t know how long it goes on for. I can feel the shame in my gut mixing with the damage that’s already been done to my ribcage. Despite that, I feel better. Lighter, somehow, as the two of us stand silently, gathering our shoes and belongings before walking silently back towards the house. Neither of us have anything to say; nobody has to say anything. There was a shared understanding that neither of us would mention this in the morning.