Бойцовский клуб

           Mysecondfight,theguyputsakneebetweenmyshoulderblades. Theguypullsbothmyarmstogetherbehindmyback,andslamsmychestintotheconcretefloor. Mycollarboneononeside,Ihearitsnap. 

           IwoulddotheElginMarbleswithasledgehammerandwipemyasswiththeMonaLisa. 

           Mrs.PatrickMaddenheldhertwobloodyfingersup,thebloodclimbingthecracksbetweenherteeth, andthebloodrandownherfingers,downherwrist,acrossadiamondbracelet, andtoherelbowwhereitdripped. 

           Fightnumberthree,Iwakeupandit’stimeforfightnumberthree. Therearenomorenamesinfightclub. 

           Youaren’tyourname. 

           Youaren’tyourfamily. 

           NumberthreeseemstoknowwhatIneedandholdsmyheadinthedarkandthesmother. There’sasleeperholdthatgivesyoujustenoughairtostayawake. Numberthreeholdsmyheadinthecrookofhisarm,thewayhe’dholdababyorafootball, inthecrookofhisarm,andhammersmyfacewiththepoundingmolarofhisclenchedfist. 

           Untilmyteethbitethroughtheinsideofmycheek. 

           Untiltheholeinmycheekmeetsthecornerofmymouth, thetworuntogetherintoaraggedleerthatopensfromundermynosetoundermyear. 

           Numberthreepoundsuntilhisfistisraw. 

           UntilI’mcrying. 

           Howeverythingyoueverlovewillrejectyouordie.