1st RULE: You do not talk about Fight Club.
2nd RULE: you DO NOT talk about Fight Club.
3rd RULE: If someone says 'stop' or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over.
4th RULE: Only two guys to a fight.
5th RULE: One fight at a time.
6th RULE: No shirts, not shoes.
7th RULE: Fights will go on as long as they have to.
8th RULE: If this is your first night at Fight Club, you HAVE to fight.

Each night I died. Each night I was reborn. Resurrection. And it was amazing because I got it for free – coming back the next day was a given. Not that I appreciated it back then – back then I didn't want to come back.

Stop trying to control everything and just let go. LET GO! Let go? You want me to let go? You haven't seen what happens when I let go, sweetie, Ican't let go. Not now, not when I've just found you. Not when I've just grabbed on. Because if I let go, I'll fall. And I'll drag you with me.

You're mad. In both senses – angry and crazy – not the best combination. And he's just there, it's his first night, and he's so pretty. You don't think he deserves to be so pretty. You don't think he deserves to have the face of an angel.
He thinks he can take you. Stupid boy.
And then it's all just a blur of punching and smashing and feeling his bones shatter under your fists and the blood, oh god there was so much blood. But it wasn't really a blur, was it? And if you let yourself, you could remember each and every detail, clear as day. The exact shade of cornflower blue that his eyes were as they looked up at you in terror, the precise curve of his lips as he begged you to stop. But you didn't. You didn't stop. 
What the fuck was that? They said. He was just a kid!
Well, you felt like destroying something beautiful. And he was so beautiful. You smile when you see him in corridors now – the same awkward, pitying little half smile that everybody gives the kid with one eye, a perpetually swollen, crumpled nose, a shattered jaw, a few, broken teeth. The kid who usedto be beautiful. The funny part is, you don't even know his name. You still call him Angel-Face in your head and, ironically enough, it still applies. Because there's still something hauntingly beautiful about how broken he is.
When he transferred out of there, because of all those smiles, it hurt. It hurt more than any of his pathetic punches had. It hurt because now you couldn't look at that broken face every day and know that you destroyed it. Because you let yourself lose control, let go. And nothing had ever felt better.

The other time you let go – driving, yelling, IT WASN'T MY FAULT! SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP! You're mad again. FOR GOD'S SAKE, JUST LET IT GO! Let it go? He wants you to let it go? So you do. You relax your grip on the wheel, release it all together, clip your seatbelt into place and just smile. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US? Well, no, you're just letting go. He tries to grab the wheel. You don't let him. You watch like it's a movie as you swerve off. You smile as the truck's headlights blind you and you laugh at the moment of impact. You laugh as he screams.

You go back there, to that basement, and it's so different during the day, in the light. The smell of dried blood. Dirty, bare-foot men circling each other. The aroma of old sweat like fried chicken. The floor still warm from the fight the night before. The night before, when it had become a living thing – wet inside from so many people sweating and breathing. So many people moving that the room moved. But the smell, the heaving, it chokes you. It's like a veil has been lifted, seeing it in the light of day. And suddenly you're disgusted.

So you run. You run until your muscles burn and your veins pump battery acid. And then you run some more.

You ran all the way here, to him. To this Angel-Faced boy who holds you and tells you you're perfect. You're not perfect. Because every time you look at him, you can't help but want to destroy him just a little bit. Because what right does he have to be so beautiful?

That's why you can't let go, loosen up. You're holding on so tight, clinging on for dear life.