CHAPTER 4

He could feel his hot, stinking breath on the side of his neck and he shuddered involuntarily. "Get away," he croaked weakly. "Get away. Get away get away get away get away! Get aw-" his voice cracked and he broke down into sobs. Monica practically ran through the door.

"Hey, he's not here now. I am, and I'll keep you safe, I promise," she said comfortingly. He was now curled up in his bed, wrapped tightly in the covers, forehead slick with a sheen of sweat. He was still in those blood-soaked pants. He wouldn't let her, or anyone else, for that matter, anywhere near them. It just felt so wrong. Every time anything brushed against them he was ripped into vivid flashbacks.

"Wh-wh-wh..."

"Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh..." Monica murmured.

"N-no, what if, what if he comes in through the, through the window?"

"He won't," she promised.

"You, you can't k-know that."

"I'll lock them. And I'll get you a cold facewasher."

He watched her as she locked the windows. "Mon?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"W-why are you doing this? Don't you hate me now?"

She turned to look at him, and the look on her face was one of a person taken completely and utterly by surprise. "What? No, of course I don't. Why would you think such a thing?"

"Well, I..." he looked down, tears leaking out again. If she didn't already hate him, she would when he told her. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't, he wouldn't, he-

"Chandler, look at me," Monica murmured. "You can tell me anything. It's okay. You're one of my best friends. I'm going to love you no matter what."

He shook his head and said haltingly, "Not after this." He took a deep breath. "It... it's my fault. He told me so. If I didn't want this, it wouldn't have happened. I must have wanted it on some level. I must have, Mon, I must have... or he wouldn't have... and I wouldn't be..."

She knelt beside him and kissed his sweat-soaked hair, lacing his fingers with hers. "Chandler, honey, you didn't want this. You most definitely didn't deserve this, so don't you dare think that. People like him, they... they say what they think will get you to comply with them, and what they think will get them off the hook later, scot-free. He said all that so you would feel guilty, so that you wouldn't tell anyone. I promise you, nothing you've ever done or ever could do would justify the actions of that, that sick pig."

Chandler nodded, not quite convinced, and squeezed his eyes shut as shame washed over him once more.

F•R•I•E•N•D•S

Monica watched as her friend nodded and then closed his eyes, seemingly lost. She was struggling to keep her grief in. He was playing with her fingers, a welcome if brief distraction from his current pain. Monica would have been content for him to stay that way, but she felt like she was going to be sick at any moment and thought it best that her devastated friend didn't see the extent to which all this had affected her.

"I'm going to get you a facewasher," she mumbled, disentangling her fingers from those of her friend. Once out of his room, she practically ran to the bathroom. She reached the toilet just in time, heaving up her breakfast and watching miserably as it splattered across the bowl. She sat beside it, head in her hands, wondering how on earth anyone could do this to Chandler. Chandler, the greatest guy she had ever met and was likely to meet, Chandler Sense-of-Humour Bing, the Chandler who played innocent practical jokes and still laughed at the word "poopy". Not this. Never this. She couldn't believe it. She finally gave in and let the tears fall.

F•R•I•E•N•D•S

Chandler needed a bath. He was still in those pants, and the scent of blood mixed with sweat was making him feel more nauseous than he already did, if that was even possible.

It had been two days since it had happened, an agonising two days both for him and for Monica, he was sure. He felt irreparably broken and also incredibly guilty that Monica had to deal with that. He hadn't had to see any of the others yet, although he knew they all wanted to see him. He just couldn't face their pity. Monica had been sleeping on a mattress on his floor, as her presence was the only way he could get any sleep, and Joey was bunking with Rachel until Chandler felt better. He almost laughed at the absurdity. Joey should just move in with her if that was his plan; Chandler didn't think he would ever feel better.

He shifted agitatedly, throwing the covers away, only to scramble onto his knees and pull them back over himself at the sudden flash of panic that followed. Rationally he knew they didn't offer any real protection and that this pseudo-safety he felt when under them was entirely psychological. But everything rational had gone out the window when he'd been... no, the word was still too awful, even to think. He gagged as he got another wiff of the now caked-onto-his-pants blood-sweat mixture. If only he could make himself get up out of this bed. But he couldn't. The simple, absolutely terrifying truth was that he just. Didn't. Care anymore. There was no point - he'd feel just as dirty afterwards and nothing would change.

Another wave of panic crashed over him at that thought. He was getting used to these random attacks but this one was worse than any he'd experienced, even if he counted the earliest ones, the ones that had happened before he'd resigned himself to the constant, aching pain in his chest.

"Monica!" he screamed.

She burst in. "Chandler, it's okay," she said quickly, her opening words whenever he called her now.

"Can't... breathe..." he wheezed as more panic flared up, and he squeezed his eyes closed as terror welled up inside him.

Monica wrapped her arms around him tightly and he let her, surprising even himself. He could feel her slowly rocking him back and forth, murmuring soothingly.

But this one was really bad, and it wasn't working. He was hyperventilating now, and that made everything worse. "Mon..." he gasped.