Here it is! Christmas Day has arrived in Release Me!
This chapter was hard to write, but I hope you all enjoy it. I don't really have much else to say apart from, thank you for reviewing and for supporting me throughout this journey. It means a lot.
WARNING: This chapter includes mention of suicide, so please bear that in mind before you read.
Thank you!
She was broken. Her whole world was in pieces, and as of this second, she didn't think it would ever be put back together.
She'd never felt so alone. So cold.
She was barely sixteen years old, and already she was an orphan. She knew it was wrong to think it, but she couldn't help but feel like she'd been left behind.
Life was so cruel. So merciless.
And that face. She didn't think she would ever forget it. That look of betrayal. It would haunt her for the rest of her miserable, lonely life. And she deserved it. She knew she did, no matter what anybody else said.
She felt a droplet of water land on her shoulder, rapidly sinking into the thin fabric of her pinafore. Another droplet hit her square on the nose, then another on her head until the heavens above opened up its gates, and the rain began to pour. Whether the sky was mourning with her or just punishing her, she wasn't sure. Either way, it made no difference. She couldn't even feel the rain tracing paths down her skin because her body had become so numb. Numb with sorrow and anguish. Consumed by it.
She looked down into a muddy puddle, her reflection distorted, and this time she wasn't sure if she could even blame the water because these days, she hardly recognised herself anyway.
The building up ahead loomed over the path's entrance like a towering giant, reaching out its hands to claim more victims of its failed society. That would be her soon. A victim of a society where the poor perished and the rich flourished.
Despite not wanting to, she began to walk a bit faster as the rain pelted down on her until she was standing right outside the huge oak double doors. There was a long chain dangling beside her which she guessed was the bell, so she pulled on it and waited. Part of her was hoping no one would answer, the idea of spending a life of servitude in here terrifying.
Less than five seconds later, however, there was a rumble as the door on the left was pulled open from the inside, inviting her in. The hallway was fairly bright, brighter than what she expected, but aside from that, completely unwelcoming. The walls were stripped bare, showing no signs of colour nor love. Stripped of life.
Her heart thumped heavily in her chest as she slowly approached the front desk, the relieving officer sitting behind it looking more menacing than anyone she had ever seen before. Her footsteps echoed, bouncing off the stone walls, and when she reached the desk, she saw a middle-aged man with greying hair and a sour look on his face as if he had just swallowed a lemon. He was lazily scratching something down on a piece of parchment, but she couldn't see what. It was silent for a few seconds, and she stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to finish.
"Name?" He suddenly boomed without even looking up, causing her to flinch.
"G-Geller, Monica Geller," she croaked out, her voice stuck in her throat.
He sighed heavily, already making Monica feel like a burden, and she hadn't even been admitted yet. He pulled out a card from under the desk, and from the angle that she was standing, she could just about read 'TICKET FOR ADMISSION' printed at the top in huge black letters. The words looked intimidating.
"Age?" He asked, sounding bored.
"Sixteen."
"Creed?"
"Jewish, sir."
He stopped at that and finally looked up, causing her to swallow nervously. It was no secret that Victorian Britain was predominantly Christian, but she had heard whispers that Judaism was also on the rise. She peered into his face and noticed he had black eyes. But they weren't deep, expressive eyes. They were soulless. Devoid of warmth and welcome. He stared at her for a few seconds, his gaze piercing her, before finally looking back down, moving on to the next question.
"Occupation?"
"I was a seamstress," she responded as she proceeded to tell him the address and the name of her last employer.
"Marital status?"
"Single."
She wanted to roll her eyes, but whilst she came from an impoverished background, she knew that wealthier families held 'coming out' parties for their daughters. Once her schooling was complete, she would be presented at these parties to inform society that she was now available on the market for a husband. The thought made her shiver.
"Address of your last residence?"
Monica felt her eyes become glassy, caught off guard by his question. She no longer lived there, and it no longer held any significance in her life, so she wasn't expecting to be asked about it. All the question did was bring up painful memories for her. Well, they were happy memories…but they were painful to think about.
"Number 20, Pottery Lane in Notting Hill," she whispered.
"Pardon? You need to speak up!" He ordered, and Monica flinched again at his harsh tone before repeating her answer, this time more loudly.
"Have you ever been admitted to a workhouse before?" He questioned.
"No, sir."
"And why are you requesting to be admitted now?" He asked, this time staring at her directly, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
"Because I'm now an orphan. I have no money and no place to go. This is my last hope," she said dejectedly.
He continued to stare at her for a few seconds, his eyes boring into her soul before he scribbled down her reply.
"And lastly, your nearest relative?" Once again, she had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Hadn't she just told him she was an orphan?
"No one, sir. It's just me."
The man sighed, not out of compassion but out of exasperation, it seemed.
"Very well. From this admission form, we see fit to grant you administration and entry to this workhouse. Please read this list of rules and wait over there until you are called through for your medical exam."
He gave her a one-sided strip of parchment, and she glanced down at it, her heart beating at the long list of rules on it.
"Your personal belongings will be taken and stored and will only be returned to you if and when you leave."
Monica clutched the small bag she had closer to her body, the thought of not having her sentimental belongings in her possession unsettling. Inside it was her mother's brooch and earrings, her father's watch and a single photograph of her, her parents, and her brother. It wasn't much, but it was all she had left of them.
"You will be given a workhouse uniform which you must wear at all times, and this uniform will remain the property of the workhouse. If you leave this workhouse in possession of the uniform, you will be charged with theft of union property. You may request to leave the workhouse at any time, but you must do so a week in advance. If you do leave, you may not re-enter the workhouse for another two weeks. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
He nodded at her, and she went and sat down on the row of wooden chairs at the end of the hallway. She began to read the list of rules, but she struggled to take any of them in. All she could think about was how her life had come to this. She felt a lump in her throat, tears threatening to spill over onto the parchment.
How had it all gone so wrong?
No more than five minutes had gone by before she heard her name being called.
"Miss Geller?"
Monica looked over and saw a medical officer, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, peering out the side of a door. The woman smiled at her and called her through.
Very timidly, Monica entered the room and immediately noticed a rather large tin tub, almost full to the brim with water, and a wooden examination table on the far side of the room. She felt goosebumps break out over her body, a sudden fear gripping her. The woman shut the door behind them, then walked over to her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"No need to look so worried, dear. I know the relieving officer out there is quite terrifying, but I promise you are in safe hands with me."
Monica weakly smiled at her, the whole situation feeling absurd at this point.
"What's your name?" The woman asked kindly. She was only a bit taller than Monica, with straight blonde locks reaching just below her chin.
"Monica," she replied, chewing her lip nervously as she eyed the tub.
"I'm Dr. Mona Somerville. The medical officer here at All Saints Workhouse. I'm here to make sure you are bathed, examined, and then dressed appropriately before being sent directly into the workhouse and your dormitory."
"Bathed?" Monica asked weakly, unsure if she'd heard correctly.
"There's no need to look so nervous. Every inmate is required to be thoroughly cleaned before they are allowed to integrate with the rest of the workhouse. You will be expected to have a bath once every week as filth amongst inmates is not tolerated in this workhouse. So, if you would, please strip and place your clothes in the basket and your belongings on the side, and I will double-check the temperature of the water with my thermometer so you can get in.
"Strip?" Monica asked, her face growing hot.
"Well, you can't bathe properly if your clothes are still on, can you?" She responded with a chuckle.
Monica failed to see what was funny.
"Can I…errr…have some privacy?" She asked, perplexed that this woman didn't seem to be picking up on her issue with the situation.
"I'm afraid workhouse regulations require each inmate to be supervised at all times whilst bathing."
Monica looked at her in horror. Surely this was all kinds of illegal. Shouldn't everyone have a right to privacy, especially from strangers?
"There's no need to be shy or embarrassed. I have seen many bodies in my career, both living and dead, so trust me when I say, I have seen it all. There's no judgement in here. Plus, I will see everything when I give you your full-body medical exam anyway, though I promise to make it as comfortable as possible for you," she smiled in what Monica could only assume was meant to be a comforting attempt to relax her.
It did not.
"Full-body exam?" Monica squeaked out.
"Yes, I will be checking your eyes, nose, and sense of smell, your mouth, your ears including your hearing, your temperature, and heart rate, your stomach, and lastly checking for any venereal diseases," she calmly explained.
Monica's face was flaming at this point, feeling absolutely mortified at how this workhouse operated. Although…as much as she loathed to admit it, she imagined many arrived at this workhouse with spreadable diseases, so it made sense that every inmate was checked first. She just wished there was a more dignified way of doing it.
Realising that the sooner she got this over with, the better, she took her belongings over to the small table, then began to reluctantly remove her clothes. Whilst she was undressing, Dr. Somerville bent over the tub and put a thermometer in it, checking that the temperature adhered to the workhouse's guidelines. The water needed to be no less than 32 degrees Celsius and no more than 38 degrees Celsius.
"35 degrees. Perfect," she announced as Monica put the last of her clothing in the basket, feeling utterly humiliated.
"You can get in when you are ready," she smiled once more as she went over to the side to grab something that Monica couldn't quite see.
Monica stared at the water, soft ripples breaking out when she dipped just the tip of her finger in it. She had to admit that it did look inviting, the warmth on her finger tempting. She sighed and lifted her leg over the side of the tub before full immersing herself into the water with only her head bobbing out the top of it. She instantly felt her muscles relax as the heat hugged every inch of her body.
"Here is a bar of soap and a washcloth," Dr. Somerville informed her, putting the items on the small table beside the tub. She then bent down to retrieve Monica's clothes from the basket, ready to be bagged and sent to the laundry room.
Monica watched as she walked over to the other side of the room with her clothes, her back towards her. She kept her eyes on her for a few more seconds, then flitted them over to the bar of soap that was staring at her. She suddenly realised that she didn't want to move, she didn't want to wash, she didn't want to do anything. She looked over to Dr. Somerville again to find that she still had her back towards her, then closed her eyes. She tried to relax her mind but instead felt her chest constrict as memories of the past few weeks – no, the past few years – started flashing before her eyes.
"M-Monica," her mother coughed, "Don't forget that I will always," she wheezed, "I will always love you, even when I'm gone."
"I love you too, Mama," she returned, her wide, innocent eyes glistening.
"There's a very high chance that she won't get better, sweetheart," her father told her solemnly a few days later.
"I'm sorry to inform you of this, but she has passed," she overheard a physician tell her father in the other room. Another week had come and gone.
"Monica, our Father said that you need to sell your Alice in Wonderland book so that we can get more money." Two years had gone by, and she was now eleven, living in a household struggling to make ends meet.
"Why not, Father?" Her big brother had whined one night whilst she quietly sat opposite her father.
"Because there isn't enough money to put food on the table, Ross!" Their father bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table, making the legs shake.
Desperate to get these thoughts, these memories, out of her head, she slid under the water quietly, fully submerging her body. She found that the hot water was somehow freeing for her. This was her way out.
She didn't want this life. She didn't want any of it. She just wanted out.
She had finally had enough, and she was done.
"I'm sorry to say there's been an accident," a policeman informed her, "The mine caved in. There was nothing that could be done."
"And what of my father?" Her voice cracked, already knowing the answer.
She couldn't take it anymore. Not the memories. Not the workhouse. Not her life. Not any of it. She slowly opened her mouth, ready to inhale the water which would bring her the sweet release of death when her body suddenly reacted, and she jerked herself up and out of the water.
Monica quickly drew in a sharp intake of breath and gasped heavily as she clasped her hand to her chest, her heart beating erratically. She blinked, her mind disorientated as it took her a few seconds to realise where she was.
She was in her room. She was twenty. And four years had passed.
She suddenly shivered, remembering that she was completely naked following last night's activities. She quickly grasped the bed sheet, pulling it up and clutching it to her chest as her heartbeat began to return to a more comfortable rhythm.
Last night.
A smile spread across her face, and she looked over to the side of her. The sheets were rumpled as if they had been slept in, but he was gone. She knew he would be, so she wasn't worried. Instead, she felt a feeling of calm wash over her as she realised that this was the happiest she had felt in a long time. It was ironic, considering she had just had a nightmare about one of, if not the darkest moment of her life. It was as if her subconscious was telling her that she had made the right choice, pulling herself up from the water before it was too late. It was telling her that there were better days to come. And last night was proof.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, still smiling when she noticed an envelope with her name on it resting against the candlestick holder on her desk. Furrowing her eyebrows curiously, she hauled herself off the bed and wrapped the bed sheet around her as she trod over to the desk. She found a small note lying flat on the table next to the envelope. She picked it up, desperate to know what it said.
Dearest Monica,
I am so glad I can call you that now. Thank you for fulfilling my Christmas wish.
Unfortunately, I had to leave before my parent's and Rachel woke up, especially because it is Christmas Day. I wanted to say goodbye to you, but you looked so peaceful, and I just didn't have the heart to wake you up.
I was meant to give you this last night with the trinket box, but as I am sure you can remember, we got side-tracked. And I am so glad we did because last night was amazing. I hope you think it was too.
Anyway, I hope you like it.
Until our next lesson,
Chandler.
If it was possible, Monica's smile got even bigger.
God, this was a problem. A major problem. There was no way she could deny her feelings for him at this point.
She had no idea what she was going to do.
Shaking her head, deciding that she wasn't going to dwell on it today, she picked up the envelope and turned it over to find a gold wax seal on the back. Peeling it off gently, she pulled out the contents and flipped it over to find a snowman waving at her with the words 'May yours be a joyful Christmas' printed across the bottom.
He had gotten her a Christmas card.
She felt her heart swell to an immeasurable size as she opened it to find inside his neat and swirly writing once more.
Dearest Miss Geller,
May Christmas Day bring you and yours,
The Christmas gladness that endures,
And fill the hearts wherein it dwells,
With all the joy of Christmas bells.
I hope this Christmas is special for you and is full of festive cheer.
Your dear friend,
Chandler.
Monica immediately felt tears well up in her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away as they spilt over.
Yep. She was definitely in trouble.
It was two hours later, and Monica was stood outside Phoebe's door upstairs in the tavern. Ready to celebrate Christmas with her, she raised her hand, a bright smile on her face, and knocked three times.
"Come in," a cheerful but also stressed voice called from inside.
Monica turned the handle, not prepared to be almost knocked over by what seemed to be a live giant teddy bear when she opened the door.
"Clunkers, down!" Phoebe rushed over, pulling the bundle of energy from off her.
"I'm sorry, Monica. She obviously senses people who have good auras as I can, which is why she was so excited when you came in," she explained as the dog sat at her feet, its tail wagging eagerly.
Monica quirked an eyebrow and fought to keep the grin off her face, "You got a dog?"
"Yeah. Do you know smiley Sam? The guy who comes in here every Friday? Well, he was moving house and couldn't afford to have her anymore, so he asked if I would take her," Phoebe explained, bending down to pick her up.
The dog had a thick coat of long white fur, with pointy black ears sticking out either side of its head. Monica's heart melted as she approached Phoebe, the dog panting excitedly in her arms, and she pushed the fur from its eyes.
"She's adorable," Monica commented as she scratched her behind the ears, "And her name is…Clunkers?" She tried not to laugh.
"Yeah, it really fits her, don't you think?" Phoebe asked her enthusiastically.
Monica pressed her lips together, holding back her laughter and hummed in agreement. "Sure!"
Phoebe dropped her back down to the floor, and she ran off into the kitchen.
"Anyway! Merry Christmas, chuckaboo!" Phoebe grinned, giving her the tightest hug.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Pheebs," she responded happily, "Something smells great!"
They pulled apart as Phoebe took Monica's hat and shawl from her, hanging them up by the door.
"Yeah, just another half an hour, and it'll be ready. I hope you're hungry!"
"Of course," she smiled as she sat down on the sofa, Phoebe joining her.
"Soooo, how was he?" Phoebe asked out of nowhere, a glint in her eye.
Clunkers came trotting back in from the kitchen, jumped up onto the sofa, and rested her head on Monica's lap.
"What?" Monica asked, completely confused.
"Oh, come on, Monica. You've only been here five minutes, and I can already tell you're the happiest you've been in a long time. It's obviously something to do with that Chandler guy you told me about the last time you were here!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Monica mumbled, but she felt her cheeks burning.
"Monica, I can sense these things. And your cheeks have gone red," Phoebe rolled her eyes.
Monica continued to stroke Clunkers down her back, grateful for the distraction.
"We didn't have sex," she finally said, avoiding Phoebe's gaze.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. She had known Monica long enough to know when she wasn't telling the full truth. "But you did do stuff?" She prompted.
If possible, Monica's cheeks got even redder.
"I knew it," Phoebe shouted excitedly, causing Clunkers to jump as her head lifted up from Monica's lap. "So, I will repeat my question. How was he?"
Monica sighed, relenting, "It was…it was amazing," she finally admitted, an almost dreamy look overcoming her face.
Phoebe's mouth dropped open slightly, shock written over her face, "You like him!"
Monica frowned, "Well yeah, of course, I do. He's a great guy."
"No, no, no, no, no. I mean, you like him!" Phoebe emphasised, now with a huge grin on her face.
Monica rolled her eyes, huffing, "Don't be ridiculous. Yeah, I like him, but not like that. I can have an amazing night with a client without me liking him," Monica mocked the way Phoebe had said it, but even she was struggling to believe her own words.
"Hmmmm," Phoebe just responded, knowing not to push Monica. She knew Monica would admit it to herself when she was ready.
It was quiet for a few moments, the only noise being Clunkers' soft snoring, who had now curled up in between them.
Monica absentmindedly picked with a loose thread from one of the seams on the sofa, a look of conflict on her face as if she was debating saying something.
"I had another nightmare last night," she softly murmured.
A look of sadness flitted across Phoebe's face. "The same one?" She gently asked.
Monica just nodded, still playing with the thread.
Phoebe reached her hand out, placing it onto Monica's, squeezing it lovingly. Just that small gesture spoke a thousand words about their friendship.
"You did what you had to do. There was no other way," Phoebe implored Monica to see reason. She knew Monica had been plagued by the same nightmare ever since she had met her, and it broke her heart to see her continue to punish herself for something that was beyond her control.
Monica just shook her head mournfully, "I can still see his face. That same look of betrayal every time."
Phoebe reached across and forced Monica to look at her. "Listen to me. You are not to blame," she said firmly, "You need to learn to forgive yourself," she whispered.
Monica swallowed hard, not sure whether or not she could.
"Are you going to see him later?" Phoebe asked, though she already guessed the answer.
Monica nodded, "Yes. My train leaves Paddington Station at 2pm."
Phoebe squeezed her hand again, "It'll be fine."
Monica just smiled at her, thankful to have someone like Phoebe in her life.
"The only good thing to ever come out of that workhouse was meeting you," she said quietly.
"Likewise, my friend!" She patted her leg.
"Hey! I know what could cheer you up!" She disappeared into the kitchen, coming out thirty seconds later holding two shiny and colourful cardboard tubes.
"Christmas crackers!" Monica exclaimed, a smile stretching across her face.
They both gripped an end on either side of both crackers.
"On the count of three? One, two, three!"
A bang resounded throughout the living room as the crackers split open and the contents dropped out. Monica laughed as Phoebe placed the red paper hat on her head, then placed the green one on her own.
"What does your joke say?" Monica asked, all thoughts of what they were chatting about less than five minutes ago forgotten.
Phoebe picked up the small slip of paper and playfully cleared her throat before reading the pun out loud.
"What sort of tune do we all enjoy the most?" She paused, "For-tune, made up of banknotes."
Monica rolled her eyes, laughing, "That was a terrible pun, though correct. I wouldn't mind some banknotes lining my pockets."
"Okay, okay. You read yours!" Phoebe requested, laughing too.
Monica teasingly cleared her throat as Phoebe did.
"In what key should a declaration of love be made?" She paused, "Be Mine, ah (B minor)!"
They both broke out into fits of giggles, their paper hats becoming lopsided on their heads.
"Who makes up these puns?" Monica gasped, catching her breath from laughing.
"You know, you should give your slip of paper to Chandler," Phoebe winked.
Monica threw her head back on the sofa, "You're not still on that one, are you?"
"Look, I'm only saying what you're thinking, and we both know it," Phoebe shrugged.
Monica ceased laughing completely and licked her lips. "Look, even if I did feel anything for him, which I am not admitting to," she added sternly when she saw the look on Phoebe's face, "it wouldn't make a difference. Nothing could ever happen between us," she sighed.
"And how, exactly, do you work that one out?" Phoebe asked, confused.
"Has it really been that long since you lived at the brothel that you've forgotten Estelle's policy?" Monica questioned.
A look of understanding finally dawned on Phoebe's face.
"Whilst living at Mrs. Leonard's Lotties and Totties, secret lovers," Phoebe began, "are strictly prohibited," Monica finished.
"Exactly. So even if I wanted something with Chandler, I wouldn't be able to. If Estelle found out, I would be kicked out, and then I would find myself on the street. Homeless. I cannot risk that."
"But maybe Chandler would take you in?" Phoebe suggested, but Monica shook her head vehemently.
"I couldn't ask that of him. I am not his responsibility. My life is not down to him, and I don't expect it to be."
Phoebe knew from the tone of Monica's voice that there was no changing her mind. She had made up her mind, and that was it.
It was silent for a few minutes until Phoebe broke it, "I think dinner should be ready. I will go and dish it up," she announced, exiting towards the kitchen.
She looked up at the ceiling once she was inside, sighing. All she had ever wanted was for Monica to be happy. She had gone through so much in her life, and she didn't deserve the constant misery she endured.
Her eyes pooled with tears as her heart broke for her. She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve as she felt a silent tear slip down her face for her best friend.
Oh, chuckaboo…she thought sadly.
Monica jumped as she was suddenly awoken from her sleep from the screech of the train's whistle. Looking out the window she realised this was her stop, and so she quickly scrambled off the train and onto the platform.
It had been a while since she had been here last, but luckily, she still remembered the way, and with a full belly from Phoebe's, the journey wouldn't be too exhausting.
She tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders as the bitter wind nipped at her skin. Phoebe had offered to come with her after dinner, but she thought it was best that she did this on her own. It was hard enough as it was.
Around half an hour later, she recognised the tall trees that loomed over the pathway, their shadows stretching into grotesque shapes. It was quite appropriate considering how every time Monica came here, she got the shivers.
A large sign appeared halfway up the path, the name of the building glaring at her in big, bold capital letters: BETH DAYSPRING ASYLUM.
Monica bit her lip. There was something about the word 'asylum' that didn't sit right in her stomach, and it made her feel uneasy. Surely there was a…nicer name for a place like this. The people who lived here were still human, just like everyone else, after all.
She pushed down the uneasy feeling in her stomach and entered the foyer, where a small woman was sitting behind the desk wearing large oval glasses that seemed to magnify her eyes so that she looked like a bug.
Monica pulled her visitation order out of her pocket and slipped it over the desk to the woman, who scanned it with her huge, grey eyes.
"Very well. Go down the hall, then turn right, and he'll be in the third room on the left," the woman directed her with the highest pitched voice Monica had ever heard.
"Thank you," she smiled gratefully.
She made her way down the hall, her stomach in knots. She felt so nervous about seeing him, still angry with herself for leaving him in a place like this, but as Phoebe said, she had no choice. It still didn't take away the guilt, though.
Finally, she reached the hall and noticed the third door on the left was open. She walked up to it and peered inside, and there he was. His skin was pale, and his hair short and curlier than ever. She knocked on the door, and he slowly turned his head towards her as she held her breath.
And there it was. That same face again. The same one that had been haunting her dreams since she left him here four years ago. Although this time, it looked less betrayed. His eyes just looked vacant now. Empty. She had to force herself not to cry.
She swallowed heavily, her mouth completely dry. She let out a breath before uttering the two words she'd been building herself up to say all day.
"Hello, Ross."