The thing about getting stitches is that they hurt more than the impact that caused the injury. When somebody grabs you by your hair and slams your skull into the ground you’re not really thinking about how much it hurts, you’re thinking about abstract things, like: I will look so fucking ugly if I lose one of my front teeth. Like: what if my brain came out of my nose? Tyler says that vanity killed Marilyn Monroe, that she was too beautiful to live and that’s why RFK probably had her assassinated. On principle I agree with him, but losing a front tooth is a step too fucking far.
So the actual moment doesn’t hurt, but the stitches do. And maybe it’s because stitches are pain you asked for. In fight club you ask for everything you get, but stitches are different. It’s a different kind of ask, a different kind of need.
How I met Sledge doesn’t really matter, which is good because right now I can’t remember. I wonder if I have permanent brain damage. Sledge is a college kid but he has a first aid kit and a steady hand. I tell him I fell down some stairs. Up this close, as he’s pinching my skin together with a needle and thread, his disbelief smells coppery.
Okay, I say, as if I’m conceding. I say: I was pushed.
