Why were you born?
To live.
What is the meaning of life?
To find love.
What is love?
Chandler.
Repeating the questions to herself, her heart pounded even faster, and her mind raced through every possibility again. Beads of sweat inched down her soft, delicate skin, tainting it with shame. The walls seem to collapse on her, the eggshell coloring giving a migraine that would take down an elephant. Her breathing was short and forceful, almost as if someone - something - was choking her.
Although, Monica had every right to feel suffocated.
Therapy is not a dark cave to hide in. Instead, you must expose your entire heart to the light: A complete stranger. A daunting task, one that required courage; something so plain inside us all, but hard to flesh out. If one thing was kept a secret, then everything from there on would be nothing more than an interrogation. Monica was not a good liar. Her heart was jumping out of her sleeve. Therefore, she decided that it was best to just spill it, no matter what. She would not make this more complicated than it needed to be, despite that being one of her many specialties. In fact, this would be an easy day. Monica would make everyone's lives just a little bit easier. The idea almost felt nice, talking to someone outside of the four of her friends, and not thinking about him. Although, as Monica sat in the room, waiting for the psychiatrist to come, her anxiety kept building up as she watched the clock tick above the door. There was no way to truly prepare for this; she would have to cross the bridge when she came to it, with what she already had prepared.
All she needed to do was avoid saying something stupid; or not saying anything at all.
So, when she heard the handle turn, her entire life flashed before her. Everything she had done, everyone she had loved, and everything in her mind would need to be discussed right here, right now. Memories of the last two weeks hurt her the most, but she had to persevere if she wanted to get through this.
After all, this person was here to help her.
When the gust of air from the hallway almost knocked her back, her eyes fluttered to see the woman standing in front of her. She was an older woman, almost sixty, and her shoulder-length curly blond hair was tangled and messy. Despite all of this, however, she seemed sweet. After shaking hands with Monica, she sat in her armchair and flipped the paper on her clipboard, before clicking a pen, ready to write. As she looked at Monica, a warm and motherly smile came.
"Hello, Monica, I'm Barbara."
Barbara.
For some reason, that name struck her as familiar, despite never meeting this woman before in her life. However, her voice was like the sweetest honey, instantly melting any fear into a paste that was crushed under her feet. Slowly, she exhaled, and nodded her head in response, to which Barbara smiled at.
"Now, Monica, I'm going to ask you a couple of questions. It will all be completely confidential. Are you ready?" She flashed another smile before speaking, and when she did speak, it was slow, deliberate, and had a pinch of thoughtfulness behind it. It was hard to imagine someone in her career path could give off such a genuine aura.
"Y-Yes."
"Do you drink, or do any drugs?" She spoke even slower this time, knowing that it was a touchy subject, and that it was a major factor in almost everything that followed. Monica had never touched drugs before, even after hearing the rumor that they made you lose weight, which was just a gimmick in itself; she was not stupid.
However, she did drink frequently. Or, at least she used to. Ever since Ross's accident, she never even brought an ounce of alcohol to her lips. She knew her judgement had to be the best it could possibly be; even if it wasn't enough to stop her from hurting herself.
Monica had Ross to thank for teaching her that.
"No."
"Do you or anyone in your family have a history of mental instability?" Barbara brought up another volatile question; this was to see that, with exceptions, that mental disorders can be passed on by genetics. When Monica heard it, she immediately thought of her mother, or her Aunt Sylvia. But it wasn't so much of being unstable than it was being crazy, much like herself.
"Err.. No."
"I see..."
As the woman scribbled something down, there was a very uncomfortable silence; one that would bring be so unbearable that Monica would desperately want to just rip out her heart and yell the truth. She wasn't expecting a bunch of questions, but apparently that was all that was going to be coming at her. So, she made a decision.
Monica shut her eyes, and spoke with a hard and unforgiving voice.
"I'm jealous."
"Pardon?" Barbara lifted her head up and pulled her reading glasses down, revealing her iron grey eyes, which held so many years of wisdom; wisdom that Monica hoped would help understand her plight, and why she took a razor to her wrist.
"I'm jealous. That's why I hurt myself. I'm not 'mentally unstable' or any of that crap. I was just jealous. Nothing more." She spoke very fast, hoping to rush all of this. Monica didn't feel it, but the pain was eating away at her heart with every passing second, and she feared that if it didn't come out now, it never would.
"...Jealous of whom?"
"My brother." Monica didn't want to mention Ross by name, as that would only make her cringe. It was unclear why, exactly, but she knew better. She also knew that if this were to ever get back to him by any other source than herself, she would have hell to pay.
"Why?"
"He has everything. I don't." He didn't actually have everything, but there wasn't exactly much time to explain what he did and did not have. Monica was hyperventilating enough already; she didn't need that kind of grief hanging over her.
"Monica," Barbara paused, trying to think of an easy way to say it. "If you were jealous enough to attempt suicide, that's not good. You should know that." She kept herself, despite Monica's ever-flaring temper. Patience was a virtue; and Monica was the ultimate test of it.
"I do, now. I was just in a bad place. I'm not, anymore. I don't even need to be here." Although it may have been a little extreme to tell this woman how to do her job, Monica was not always known to be subtle, no matter how much the situation called for it. It didn't help that she began speaking even faster, her words staccato-ed.
"Maybe you do, maybe you don't."
"...Can I go?"
"Only if you come back next week." Barbara gave another smile, this one a bit more mischievous. What followed after was another pause, this one much more intense, as Monica was not nervous, but downright belligerent. Like many other times, when she set her mind on something, she was going to get what she wanted. And she wanted to leave.
"Just a precaution."
"...Alright, fine."
With that, she packed up her bag and left, knowing that that was probably not the best way to have handled her therapy session. However, it was all true, as all of this was because she was simply jealous. It didn't matter how much she denied it; it was still the truth.
He had Rachel. He had Ben. He had a six-figure income.
He had everything.
As she paced through the halls, Monica quickly averted her gaze to the floor, in order to stop her growing envy towards Ross. He didn't deserve it, after all, since not only was he smarter than her, he just got plain lucky. Phoebe would call it fate or some sort of cosmic force, but Monica knew it just the hand they were dealt, and they had to play it. That's all she needed to keep telling herself. Even if she didn't have most of the things Ross did, she did love him, and he loved her.
She couldn't ask for a better brother.
Hastily, Monica sped out of the office building, hailing a cab, ready to just go home and forget about it - Ross, Rachel, Chandler - all of it. Just go home and take a nice bath and forget her stupid, petty high school problems. After a while of trying to not think about it, however, Monica figured that this is how Rachel must have felt dealing with her 'problems' back in high school.
How she must have felt when Ross cheated on her.
It felt pretty bad.
And she had never even been in a situation like that. Sure, she had dated some jerks, but she had never been cheated on by the man she had so desperately loved, and given her entire life to. It was just unfeasible to comprehend exactly how that would have felt. Rachel didn't resort to suicide. How did she manage?
As she tried to answer that question, Monica listlessly stepped out of the cab and into her apartment building, thoughts clutched in her small and pallid hand. She just wanted to stop thinking, although she knew that was nothing short of impossible. She was too tired to clean. She was too depressed to eat. Anything that usually helped her get her mind off of things was infallible right now; other than taking a long, hot bath. That was always the one thing she could rely on to make her feel better. The bath salts, keeping her afloat within her dreams, where she was pampered by a dozen Swedish models to the music of Whitesnake. The candles with individual scents that effortlessly blended into each other like putty. But that was nothing, compared to the dreams she now had of her friends, and of Chandler. They would save her life, while he kissed her wounds better. They would be on the front lines, while he was her personal shield.
It was bliss.
As Monica dipped her foot into the tub, the familiar warmth combed over her, and she was home again. Once she got in, the bubbles laid softly against her skin, and the soft sounds of the her new rainforest cd in the background brought her to a lake withing a jungle, where she swam with her friends. Ross and Rachel were making out behind the waterfall, their bodies intertwined like lions in heat. Joey and Phoebe were busy splashing each other and playing Marco Polo, and were having a great time with the simplest things; something Monica wished she could do.
And here she was, her legs dangling over the edge of the lake, staring at the bright blue skies above, which were cloudless and free; much like her own eyes - or Chandler's.
Chandler.
Where was he? The various signs and symbols in her dream pointed in every direction, but lead her nowhere. Her head craned left to right, but she saw no trace of him, just the rest of her friends, most of whom were replicas of Ross and Rachel. They came closer every time she blinked, smiles on their faces and arms linked together. They were so happy. Their bright and shining faces, while inspiring, only reminded her that she was alone. What she wouldn't do to trade places with them, making others jealous for once.
Alas, it would never be that simple.
As she turned her head away, the couple said their 'I love yous' and walked away. As Monica slowly returned to face forward, she could swear she saw a soft train of a wedding dress in the corner of her eye. When she tried to ignore it, it came back, even harder. It was just not fair. Rachel didn't want to get married half as much as Monica did. But, there she was, with her husband.
It was wrong. It was terrible. Why couldn't she wake up?
But it was not until she felt the native graze of the bath salts against her skin did she realize that she had fallen asleep in her porcelain waterbed. Quietly, she drained the water in small intervals, as to not wake Rachel, if she was even home. Slowly, Monica stood up and stepped out of the tub, making sure she had ample gripping as to not slip. Once free, she wrapped a towel around her and went back into her room, slipping on her pajamas and going under the blankets, where she could dream once more.
A perfect life.
Her goal; now, and forever: To have the love that her brother shared with what Monica believed to be his soon-to-be wife, with someone - Chandler - and live happily ever after, and even when they shuffle off of this mortal coil, their love will remain everlasting.
Just like Ross and Rachel.
Just like Ross and Rachel.
For whatever reason, she repeated that phrase in her head a dozen times, before realizing what she had done. Like so many train wrecks that had happened since Ross's (and hers) accident, this one hit hard and it hit fast, like a goring bull.
She kept focusing on wanting exactly what they had; something that was unobtainable, even for Monica. It was almost nothing more than a contest, despite her feelings and desires being completely genuine. All of the energy Monica had put in trying to decipher her love for Chandler was now moot. Lost in her own puddle of jealousy, which she had believe to have driven her to work at her own satisfaction, was actually just trying to measure up to Ross and Rachel, who seemed to have it so perfect, even though that was nothing less that a blatant lie.
Telling herself no, over and over again, that this cannot be her mindset anymore, proved to be unusually easy. She was in love. Chandler was not a prize nor an accessory. Monica did not want him that badly, just to upstage the lobsters so that she may stand on top, for once.
She could not have what Ross and Rachel had; no one could. No matter how much she could try and replicate it, it would not happen. Her and Chandler would have to create their own relationship, and it would be a living, breathing creature, with it's own problems that they work for to overcome; something that nearly overwhelmed her.
Thoroughly depressed, Monica fell asleep once more.
There were no dreams tonight; her brain would not allow it. The usual tossing and turning to the rhythm of her heartbeat was gone, too. She laid there, motionless, for five quick hours, until her alarm went off. It was never a pleasant awakening; even less so since that night. But there was always an excuse to not turn it off; the most common was that she had simply forgotten. However, there was no bigger annoyance than the ringing and shaking that reminded her that another day had to be weathered.
To combat this, Monica sat up, and told herself that on this day, she would do absolutely nothing. Solemnly, she took out her nail polish and began to paint her hands and feet blue; her favorite color. The color of the sky, and the color of the oceans. The color of her eyes.
The color of his eyes.
But, like usual, it didn't go her way. Rachel hopped in, and persuaded her to go see Ross, almost a little too eagerly than she would have hoped. She was too tired to question this, however, and dressed in the most casual way possible, shoving her obsessive need for neatness aside as she threw her jacket around her shoulders.
The cab ride was long and dreadful. Rachel kept asking her questions on how she was doing, how her therapy was last night, how she felt about Chandler, etc. Monica didn't want to answer any of them. She didn't even want to speak. She just wanted to think. Think, breathe, and sleep. Maybe eat a little. Yet, she had to go see Ross, for whatever God-forsaken reason, and apparently, it couldn't wait.
As they arrived, Rachel rushed Monica up to Ross's room, although she slowed down immensely once they got within sight of the living room, and Monica almost noticed the frown on her face that quickly turned into a grin as she noticed that Ross was actually not alone; he was holding Ben. They also noticed Carol and Susan, who were sitting next to him, but were almost out of sight due to Ross's tall stature.
But it was not without noticing something else. Rachel's expression had gone from lethargy to excitement and now to horror. Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, and Joey hadn't even considered the possibility of other visitors when they made the 'plan'. They assumed it would just be the six of them together. Thinking back, it was such a foolish mistake, and now everything was compromised, in one way or another.
Swallowing her doubt, Rachel pushed the door open, and led Monica in.
"Hey, guys!" She exclaimed, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, including Ben, who had been napping in his father's arms. Rachel let go of Monica's hand as she walked around the couch to greet Carol and Susan, while Monica went to get water from the cooler. They replied in their usual, casual tones, smiling.
"Rachel, Monica, hi."
After exchanging brief but thoughtful hugs, Rachel played with Ben, harshly pinching Ross on purpose, realizing that he was the one who was responsible for ruining the scheme. Monica didn't notice, and simply sat on the edge of the couch, and subconsciously watched as the pseudo-family in front of her conversed, laughed, and had fun. After twenty minutes of her leering gaze, Ross had whispered something to Rachel, which made her smile the biggest smile she had ever seen. Swiftly, she darted into the bedroom, something that rose suspicion in Monica's now-observant eye. It was apparent that something was going on, and Monica wanted answers. However, as she stood up to examine why Rachel went into the bedroom, alone, Ross yanked on her arm, turning her around to see Ben reaching out his tiny hand. Determined, though, she pulled away, but it was too late.
The door had opened, and out stepped the light.
