I walk into a disgusting bar and head down to the basement by way of a narrow dirty stairway. Some basement. The walls are splattered with dried blood like a bad modern art project. The room smells like a sewer infested with rats and is filled with men who have pain and anger written all over their faces. They are tougher than me, but it matters not, for I will pick my opponent wisely. My father was murdered and my mother married his killer. You might say I have issues. Issues like two daggers stuck in my eyes. Maybe if I beat up some of these imbeciles I will feel better or at least distracted. Whatever. That monster in the corner will end me with a knock-out punch and add my brains to the wall art. Yes, a permanent nap would do the trick. I often contemplate whether to stay or not. Mother can stay with her killer-husband. I’m so bored and restless anyway. A good brawl will break the tedium of these melancholic black clouds of November hanging over my head. I snap out of it long enough to worry about the foolish men around me. One with soft eyes turns towards me with a sympathetic look. This is irritating. I blank stare him back. I know who I’ll fight first tonight. “The 23rd rule of Fight Club is that if you are supposed to be the King of Denmark and you aren’t, you kill the weakest ones first and work your way up from there.” The guy with the soft eyes says almost in a whisper, “My name is Cordelia.” Then he spells it for everybody like he’s imitating me! Cordelia. That’s his name? That sounds like my girlfriend. He sort of looks like her, too. He has long dark hair but I can’t see his face due to the baseball cap pulled over his eyes. I don’t feel like playing nice. This guy is gonna get it.
“Remember all the wonderful gifts you would give me?” says Cordelia, her voice sounding strangely like my girlfriend’s.
“I never gave you anything! Who are you, anyway?” I retort.
“Well, that’s not true,” Cordelia replies.
“Are you lying to me?” I say.
“What do you mean? Of course I’m not.” She (I’m sure it’s her at this point) says nervously.
“Why don’t you go and become a nun…Cordelia.” I say nastily. I know I’m hurting her now but I don’t care. I keep talking. “I never even loved you. Look at yourself. You're a witch with all your makeup, fancy clothes, and your stupidity. Nobody should ever get married. Get yourself to a convent right now!” I lash out at her. She turns her head and is crying a river when I turn away, leaving her alone, in the dark, cold basement that is Fight Club every Saturday.
Written by Emily Mack
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