suicide is painless
Monica Geller sat on the couch of her New York City apartment, tears stinging her eyes. Emotions stormed inside her, dark, painful emotions, like knives plunging into her stomach. Her mind felt branded with anger, an anger she could not bear inside her, yet she could not release.
"I hate him," she stated clearly and simply.
"Woah," cautioned Phoebe Buffay, an arm around Monica, consoling her, "Careful what you say. I know you don't hate him...though your aura is kinda black and flingy..."
"I do hate him, Pheebs, I really do."
"How can you hate him when you were so in love?"
Monica paused, her mind taking in what her friend had said, "I don't know. I just hate him."
"Well, he's not in the country anymore, is he? You don't have to deal with him," offered Rachel Greene helpfully, tugging on her brown-blond hair.
"I wish I could tell him how much I hate him."
"He probably hates you as much as you hate him," said Joey Tribianni carelessly through a mouthful of hawiian pizza. The rest of the group stared evily at him, clearly displaying their disgust at his comment. "What? It was a nasty break!"
"I hope I never see him again," Monica continued, ignoring Joey.
Ross Geller gave his sister a brotherly smile, "You never have to, Mon."
"God! I just can't put into words how much I hate the guy....I just wish he was dead!"
"You don't mean that Monica, surely!" Phoebe insisted.
"I do. I really wish he would just die..."
~
Chandler Bing was wide awake in a deep sleep. He was trapped in the blurry dreamworld and could not dig his way back to the surface and into conciousness. The technicoloured demons and barbed wire that curled like metal snakes inclosed on him and all he could do was let the rolling emotions in his nightmare dungeon consume him and tear him apart. He was drowning, he could not breathe. A thousand red, hate-filled eyes burned into him and he screamed inside, but the only sound around him was a deep scratching, gurgling, crackling, shaking noise and words that he didn't recognise. He panicked, unable to move.
"Go ahead. Build a better messiah. We can dig another grave..."
Electronic voices buzzed and hummed in his head.
"This is your calling. If you are hearing this, there is nothing I can do..."
His heart pounded, his skin prickling like a million needles piercing him.
"Something has grown in my chest. I have seen it. It is hard and cold. It's been dormant for many years. I have tried to save you, but I cannot come to save you, but this is what you deserve, this is what we deserve..."
His lungs were burning. He needed to breathe...
"This is something we have brought upon ourselves."
Frantically, he tried to scramble to the surface of this nightmare world, knowing it was just a dream, though reality seemed to be creeping in...
"We are not a victim. You are not a victim..."
He closed his eyes, his lungs shutting down from lack of oxygen.
"We are not a victim. You are not a victim..."
Now he was dead in this dream, yet he was still alive and could not escape the voices, the background that trembled around him like a volcanoe erupting.
"God will grovel before me. God will crawl at my feet."
Something inside Chandler broke and a scream slipped from his lungs. Air flooded back into his body and relief washed through him. Now that he could breathe, his eyes came to focus. Before him there was nothing but a void, and a piece of paper. Without warning, he felt a sharp pain in his right index finger. He looked down. The finger was a rusty nail. The hand took control and began to write something with the nail, the rust forming words that turned into ink as they appeared on the paper.
He began to read what he'd written.
TELL M
The raspy, metallic voice returned with a hiss.
"These are the dying years. These are the dying years."
In a swirl of thick blue smoke, a white medicene bottle appeared in Chandler's hand and his fingers locked around it, turning into metal. The cap burst off in flames and the contents of the bottle, twenty or more little white pills spun from the bottle and into Chandler's mouth. Black, dirty water swirled suddenly in his mouth and he swallowed.
He was waking up. His eyes fluttered open.
"When you are suffering, know that I have betrayed you..."
~
The moonlight was a silver trail over his eyes as Chandler woke. He blinked and sat up, the cold and terrified persperation dripping down his back. His bed was damp with sweat, as was his hair and forehead. He looked around the room for assurance that yes, it had been a dream. He didn't remember the dream, but knew he didn't want to. He sat up and leaned his head in his hands. He was going to do it now. One more dream, one more depression, and he'd do it. That's what he had promised himself. So he rose from his bed for the last time...hopefully. His fear was building up inside of him, like it did everytime he attempted to end his life.
He left his bedroom and entered the kitchen of his London apartment. Even after living there for two years, he was still taken aback when he woke up to find he was not in his apartment back in New York.
The soothing sound of his crying soul beat in perfect time with the miserable beating of his wounded heart. Quietly and delicatley he opened a drawer and took out a large kitchen knife. In the moonlight, the silver blade glistened like the ocean glistening under the sun.
Chandler's insides were shredded and torn apart, his mind felt like metal. His throat was dry like broken glass and his eyes were a deep screaming blue. The tears fell slowly, the sobs rising up from his burning stomach. With the last drop of strength that streamed through him he sliced open his viens. Dark red blood poured from his wrists and he relished the pain. His life would soon be over.
He felt it slipping out of grasp as the blood poured out of his system. He was being drained, he became weaker. His legs gave way and he fell to the kitchen floor. Chandler felt himself sinking deep into the black... His soul was bleeding from his punctured viens like melting ice. He felt the cold of hatred in it.
~Through early morning fog I see~
Suicide for revenge. The ripped flesh on his wrists was seeking vengance. He didn't value his pathetic life enough to keep living when he could die and make them pay for ruining it. He was alone now. There was no one left to hear his silent piercing screams.
~The visions of the things to be~
His friends were gone, his girlfriend was gone, his parents hadn't spoken to him for two years, he hated his job...all his problems left him through the gash in his wrist. All the hatred built up inside of him was leaking out. He hated everyone he knew, even those people he was would've died for. He was dying for them now. Dying to escape the hate. He hated his ex-friends for turning on him when he broke up with his girlfriend. He hated her as well, even more than anyone. He never thought he'd be capable of holding such hatred for her, but he did. Maybe it was the whole "mental issues" thing, but he felt a deep, intense hatred for her...
~The pains that are withheld for me~
...But the person he hated more than anyone was himself. To hell with life. Death was the only certain thing in life. "Without the threat of death there's no reason to live at all."
~I realize and I can see...~
And there, lying on the kitchen floor of his apartment in London, Chandler Bing died.
~That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please.
The game of life is hard to play
I'm gonna lose it anyway
The losing card I'll someday lay
So this is all I have to say.
Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please.
I try to find a way to make
All our little joys relate
Without that ever-present hate
But now I know that it's too late, and...
The only way to win is cheat
And lay it down before I'm beat
And to another give my seat
For that's the only painless feat.
The sword of time will pierce our skins
It doesn't hurt when it begins
But as it works its way on in
The pain grows stronger, watch it grin
A brave man once requested me
To answer questions that are key
"Is it to be or not to be"
And I replied "oh why ask me?"
'Cause suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please.
...and you can do the same thing if you please~
A WEEK LATER
"Mail time!"
Monica looked up to see Joey slide into her apartment with the mail.
"Please don't sing the song," she pleaded.
Joey grinned. "Here's the mail, it never fails, it makes me wanna wag my tail, when it comes I wanna wail--"
"Don't!" Monica warned.
That was enough to silence Joey.
"Sorry," he apologised sheepishly, handing her the mail, "But yeah, here's the mail."
Monica shuffled through it. Bills, bills, junk, bills, letter....? Not recognising the handwriting, she turned the envelope over.
Sender: Nora Bing.
Her heart skipped a beat and all she could do was stare.
"What?" Joey's voice interupted her thoughts.
"It's...it's from Chandler's mother..." she stammered.
"Chandler? Chandler's mother?" Joey echoed in disbelief, "Why?"
"I don't know!"
"Open it!"
Monica did. She read the letter quickly, breathing in it's contents.
~
Dear Monica,
Hi. I know you're wondering why I'm writing to you, so I'll get straight to the point. A week ago, Chandler's boss found him dead in his apartment, a suicide. He'd slit his wrists. He also took an overdose of anti-depressants. I know I should have phoned you earlier, but it's been so busy. His funeral was on Tuesday.
I just thought that you had a right to know that there was a note, that said simply, "Tell Monica I love her."
Please don't think any of this was your fault. As I'm sure you're aware of, Chandler had been having psychiatric problems for quite some time, and I'm sure the break-up between he and you wasn't why he chose to take his own life.
I will be in contact with you shortly.
My thoughts are with you.
Love,
Nora
~
The letter dropped to the floor and the world spun around Monica as her gut tied itself into a tight, black knot.
Joey saw the light in her eyes fade and be replaced with a hollow emptiness. "What is it?"
"He's dead," her voice was monotone.
"What?"
"He killed himself."
A long silence followed as Joey took this in.
"You got your wish," he said gently.
~
ummm the end. the song is the original theme from the M*A*S*H movie, and it was redone for the Blair Witch Project soundtrack by Marilyn Manson. oh and some of the things the voices in chandler's dream say are transcribed from "track 99" of Antichrist Superstar so yeah. i know, i picked on chandler again, but i just started writing and one thing led to another. i promise, next time i'll kill ugly naked guy or do a nice nc-17 lol. review please :):):)
Monica Geller sat on the couch of her New York City apartment, tears stinging her eyes. Emotions stormed inside her, dark, painful emotions, like knives plunging into her stomach. Her mind felt branded with anger, an anger she could not bear inside her, yet she could not release.
"I hate him," she stated clearly and simply.
"Woah," cautioned Phoebe Buffay, an arm around Monica, consoling her, "Careful what you say. I know you don't hate him...though your aura is kinda black and flingy..."
"I do hate him, Pheebs, I really do."
"How can you hate him when you were so in love?"
Monica paused, her mind taking in what her friend had said, "I don't know. I just hate him."
"Well, he's not in the country anymore, is he? You don't have to deal with him," offered Rachel Greene helpfully, tugging on her brown-blond hair.
"I wish I could tell him how much I hate him."
"He probably hates you as much as you hate him," said Joey Tribianni carelessly through a mouthful of hawiian pizza. The rest of the group stared evily at him, clearly displaying their disgust at his comment. "What? It was a nasty break!"
"I hope I never see him again," Monica continued, ignoring Joey.
Ross Geller gave his sister a brotherly smile, "You never have to, Mon."
"God! I just can't put into words how much I hate the guy....I just wish he was dead!"
"You don't mean that Monica, surely!" Phoebe insisted.
"I do. I really wish he would just die..."
~
Chandler Bing was wide awake in a deep sleep. He was trapped in the blurry dreamworld and could not dig his way back to the surface and into conciousness. The technicoloured demons and barbed wire that curled like metal snakes inclosed on him and all he could do was let the rolling emotions in his nightmare dungeon consume him and tear him apart. He was drowning, he could not breathe. A thousand red, hate-filled eyes burned into him and he screamed inside, but the only sound around him was a deep scratching, gurgling, crackling, shaking noise and words that he didn't recognise. He panicked, unable to move.
"Go ahead. Build a better messiah. We can dig another grave..."
Electronic voices buzzed and hummed in his head.
"This is your calling. If you are hearing this, there is nothing I can do..."
His heart pounded, his skin prickling like a million needles piercing him.
"Something has grown in my chest. I have seen it. It is hard and cold. It's been dormant for many years. I have tried to save you, but I cannot come to save you, but this is what you deserve, this is what we deserve..."
His lungs were burning. He needed to breathe...
"This is something we have brought upon ourselves."
Frantically, he tried to scramble to the surface of this nightmare world, knowing it was just a dream, though reality seemed to be creeping in...
"We are not a victim. You are not a victim..."
He closed his eyes, his lungs shutting down from lack of oxygen.
"We are not a victim. You are not a victim..."
Now he was dead in this dream, yet he was still alive and could not escape the voices, the background that trembled around him like a volcanoe erupting.
"God will grovel before me. God will crawl at my feet."
Something inside Chandler broke and a scream slipped from his lungs. Air flooded back into his body and relief washed through him. Now that he could breathe, his eyes came to focus. Before him there was nothing but a void, and a piece of paper. Without warning, he felt a sharp pain in his right index finger. He looked down. The finger was a rusty nail. The hand took control and began to write something with the nail, the rust forming words that turned into ink as they appeared on the paper.
He began to read what he'd written.
TELL M
The raspy, metallic voice returned with a hiss.
"These are the dying years. These are the dying years."
In a swirl of thick blue smoke, a white medicene bottle appeared in Chandler's hand and his fingers locked around it, turning into metal. The cap burst off in flames and the contents of the bottle, twenty or more little white pills spun from the bottle and into Chandler's mouth. Black, dirty water swirled suddenly in his mouth and he swallowed.
He was waking up. His eyes fluttered open.
"When you are suffering, know that I have betrayed you..."
~
The moonlight was a silver trail over his eyes as Chandler woke. He blinked and sat up, the cold and terrified persperation dripping down his back. His bed was damp with sweat, as was his hair and forehead. He looked around the room for assurance that yes, it had been a dream. He didn't remember the dream, but knew he didn't want to. He sat up and leaned his head in his hands. He was going to do it now. One more dream, one more depression, and he'd do it. That's what he had promised himself. So he rose from his bed for the last time...hopefully. His fear was building up inside of him, like it did everytime he attempted to end his life.
He left his bedroom and entered the kitchen of his London apartment. Even after living there for two years, he was still taken aback when he woke up to find he was not in his apartment back in New York.
The soothing sound of his crying soul beat in perfect time with the miserable beating of his wounded heart. Quietly and delicatley he opened a drawer and took out a large kitchen knife. In the moonlight, the silver blade glistened like the ocean glistening under the sun.
Chandler's insides were shredded and torn apart, his mind felt like metal. His throat was dry like broken glass and his eyes were a deep screaming blue. The tears fell slowly, the sobs rising up from his burning stomach. With the last drop of strength that streamed through him he sliced open his viens. Dark red blood poured from his wrists and he relished the pain. His life would soon be over.
He felt it slipping out of grasp as the blood poured out of his system. He was being drained, he became weaker. His legs gave way and he fell to the kitchen floor. Chandler felt himself sinking deep into the black... His soul was bleeding from his punctured viens like melting ice. He felt the cold of hatred in it.
~Through early morning fog I see~
Suicide for revenge. The ripped flesh on his wrists was seeking vengance. He didn't value his pathetic life enough to keep living when he could die and make them pay for ruining it. He was alone now. There was no one left to hear his silent piercing screams.
~The visions of the things to be~
His friends were gone, his girlfriend was gone, his parents hadn't spoken to him for two years, he hated his job...all his problems left him through the gash in his wrist. All the hatred built up inside of him was leaking out. He hated everyone he knew, even those people he was would've died for. He was dying for them now. Dying to escape the hate. He hated his ex-friends for turning on him when he broke up with his girlfriend. He hated her as well, even more than anyone. He never thought he'd be capable of holding such hatred for her, but he did. Maybe it was the whole "mental issues" thing, but he felt a deep, intense hatred for her...
~The pains that are withheld for me~
...But the person he hated more than anyone was himself. To hell with life. Death was the only certain thing in life. "Without the threat of death there's no reason to live at all."
~I realize and I can see...~
And there, lying on the kitchen floor of his apartment in London, Chandler Bing died.
~That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please.
The game of life is hard to play
I'm gonna lose it anyway
The losing card I'll someday lay
So this is all I have to say.
Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please.
I try to find a way to make
All our little joys relate
Without that ever-present hate
But now I know that it's too late, and...
The only way to win is cheat
And lay it down before I'm beat
And to another give my seat
For that's the only painless feat.
The sword of time will pierce our skins
It doesn't hurt when it begins
But as it works its way on in
The pain grows stronger, watch it grin
A brave man once requested me
To answer questions that are key
"Is it to be or not to be"
And I replied "oh why ask me?"
'Cause suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please.
...and you can do the same thing if you please~
A WEEK LATER
"Mail time!"
Monica looked up to see Joey slide into her apartment with the mail.
"Please don't sing the song," she pleaded.
Joey grinned. "Here's the mail, it never fails, it makes me wanna wag my tail, when it comes I wanna wail--"
"Don't!" Monica warned.
That was enough to silence Joey.
"Sorry," he apologised sheepishly, handing her the mail, "But yeah, here's the mail."
Monica shuffled through it. Bills, bills, junk, bills, letter....? Not recognising the handwriting, she turned the envelope over.
Sender: Nora Bing.
Her heart skipped a beat and all she could do was stare.
"What?" Joey's voice interupted her thoughts.
"It's...it's from Chandler's mother..." she stammered.
"Chandler? Chandler's mother?" Joey echoed in disbelief, "Why?"
"I don't know!"
"Open it!"
Monica did. She read the letter quickly, breathing in it's contents.
~
Dear Monica,
Hi. I know you're wondering why I'm writing to you, so I'll get straight to the point. A week ago, Chandler's boss found him dead in his apartment, a suicide. He'd slit his wrists. He also took an overdose of anti-depressants. I know I should have phoned you earlier, but it's been so busy. His funeral was on Tuesday.
I just thought that you had a right to know that there was a note, that said simply, "Tell Monica I love her."
Please don't think any of this was your fault. As I'm sure you're aware of, Chandler had been having psychiatric problems for quite some time, and I'm sure the break-up between he and you wasn't why he chose to take his own life.
I will be in contact with you shortly.
My thoughts are with you.
Love,
Nora
~
The letter dropped to the floor and the world spun around Monica as her gut tied itself into a tight, black knot.
Joey saw the light in her eyes fade and be replaced with a hollow emptiness. "What is it?"
"He's dead," her voice was monotone.
"What?"
"He killed himself."
A long silence followed as Joey took this in.
"You got your wish," he said gently.
~
ummm the end. the song is the original theme from the M*A*S*H movie, and it was redone for the Blair Witch Project soundtrack by Marilyn Manson. oh and some of the things the voices in chandler's dream say are transcribed from "track 99" of Antichrist Superstar so yeah. i know, i picked on chandler again, but i just started writing and one thing led to another. i promise, next time i'll kill ugly naked guy or do a nice nc-17 lol. review please :):):)