One For The Road
Chapter Seven: Shattered Illusions
The wind howled through the trees, producing the only sounds around the small, nondescript cottage. Inside the dark stone building, were remnants of some sort of life. A tiny stove, a stained, worn reading chair, a soot-filled fireplace, and a small wooden table and two matching chairs. The wooden floors creaked when walked upon, as did the wooden ladder that led to the loft.
The loft was dark and damp, and only a thin mattress and an old armoire occupied the loft's limited space.
For many, the cottage was not livable; but for the broken hearted, there was nowhere else to be.
To the people in the small Scottish village, the man who lived in the cottage was an enigma; He'd wandered into town two months ago, and offered an exorbitant amount of money for the run down cottage that sat on the outskirts of town. Since that day, he rarely, if ever left his cottage, choosing instead to live the life of a hermit—angry at the world, angry with himself, perhaps. He had little interaction with the townspeople, and when he did, the encounter was brief, and dismal.
It wasn't that he was overly rude, or demanding. In fact, he was just the opposite. Mirium, the elderly woman who ran the town market, encountered the man more than most. She often remarked that the man was quiet, very polite, but very sad. He would smile courteously, but his eyes showed a darkness that was unnatural. He'd once told her his name was Nicholas, but she often wondered if that was true. He had stuttered the name, and was obviously not comfortable with it. But, not wanting to startle the boy, she simply smiled, and told him it was a nice name. He was silent for a moment, seeming to ponder the statement. In the end, he had simply smiled once more, and walked away.
He was a good-looking young man. Well built, in good shape, with a sharp, chiseled face and striking features. But it was his eyes, noted Mirium, time and time again, that struck her most. They were a dazzling sapphire blue, and seemed to have the power to take hold of a person's soul. She often wondered, what those eyes were like, when they sparkled.
For they must have sparkled at some point—a person must feel an ultimate elation before they can experience such a grave loss.
He had lost something—or someone. That much was clear.
~***~
They were never quite the same after London.
No one was willing to talk about it—or him. They all went on with their respective lives, as though nothing had ever happened.
But something had happened.
There was a hole—a large gaping hole—in the middle of the group. They could all feel it, even if all five refused to acknowledge it.
None of them wanted to hear his explanations that day. All they wanted was to get back to New York, and forget that any of this had happened.
But it was living with them—eating away at them—a dark shadow that refused to leave their sides.
Two months after their return to New York, it all finally came to a head.
Ross and Emily were in the midst of a thorny divorce; Ross had been cheating on Emily with Rachel since their return. Joey had slowly disconnected himself with the group, and was now almost completely departed from the core five. Monica had become almost completely introverted, and Phoebe had become acerbic to the point of cruelty.
The turning point came on Thanksgiving. The group had reluctantly gathered for the holiday, more out of habit and obligation than anything else.
It wasn't one big thing that started it: it was a dozen little things, like scorched yams, a debate between a parade and a football game, and a cranberry stain on the rug. In the end, none of the little things mattered. The yelling started during the meal, and ended with the slamming of doors and more than one set of shed tears.
A week later, no one had spoken to anyone else. Feelings had been hurt, and egos stepped on. When Monica finally ventured outside, she pointedly avoided Central Perk. Little did she know, so did everyone else.
The letter came, one week and one day after the Thanksgiving fiasco.
Monica recognized the handwriting immediately. And had she been in any other state—had she been on speaking terms with her brother or her best friends—she would have tossed the letter in the trash. But she was fighting both a broken heart, and a horrible loneliness—she longed for something familiar—even if it came from the one person she wanted to despise.
Dearest Monica,
I'm not sure that you will ever read this—in fact, I'm almost sure that you won't. But the words need to be written, and the feelings need to be expressed, whether or not you wish to hear them.
I know that what happened to you, and the others, must have been shocking. More shocking, was the news that I am not the person you thought I was. For this, I cannot apologize enough. I hurt you, I know this, but you must know that that was never my intention. Of course, I never intended for you to find out the way you did, either.
Please, please believe me when I tell you that you DO know me. You know me better than my parents, better than Penelope, and better than I know myself. I am the person that you know as Chandler—it's just a name, Monica—and my job—was just a job. It was a job I had been struggling to break free of, once I began to realize how much I had to lose. Once I realized that I was in love with you.
It wasn't a fear of commitment that drove me from Kathy—it was a fear for her life. When she got too close, it was easier to let her go. Then I fell for you—when exactly, I am not sure. But if you have any doubts that the night we shared in London was any less than extraordinary for me, then allow me to quell them by saying to you that I was willing to do anything—anything, to hold on to you. And making that commitment meant changing myself—changing my job, and my life—so that you would never be in harm's way.
I am no longer in the work that I was once in—and I know that that may bring you little comfort now. I have become, in all honesty, a shell of the person I once was—because I have lost the only people that ever mattered to me. The hate and anger you feel is understandable—but I hope, that somewhere, deep down in your heart, you can also forgive me, for sins that I've lived with for a very long time.
If you do care to reach me, Penelope—Janice, knows where to find me. If you don't, I understand. And should I not hear from you, trust that this will be the last you hear from me.
All my Love,
Nicholas
Monica was not aware of the tears that drenched her cheeks until she put the letter on the table. He had been brutally honest—even after all that had happened, she believed what he said. Her heart had lurched when he confessed his love for her, but she allowed her logical mind to dampen any irrational romantic notions. He was not the person he said he was, and that knowledge kept nagging at her, as she paced her apartment, her mind wandering back to moments in time—moments that now fit too well into the lies he had so masterfully weaved: The difficulty he had always had defining his 'job'; The odd decision to 'move' to Yemen to escape the clutches of 'Janice'; The occasional injuries that he always had an odd excuse for—had that woman really stapled his hand?; His inability to remember Rachel when she first ran into Central Perk—wet and in a wedding gown—a few years earlier, and for that matter, his inability to remember much from the two Thanksgivings Chandler spent at the Geller's during college. All of it now made sense—and thinking about it made her nauseous.
But she read the letter again—and again and again. She read it a dozen times, perhaps, and still could not shake off the feeling that she should not give up on him so hastily. She needed advice. She needed a friend.
As if fate had read her mind, Rachel came traipsing into the apartment a moment later, apparently to gather more clothes to take back to Ross'. She did not bother to acknowledge her friend and roommate—and did not wish to linger on the thought that she still could not bring herself to tag either label with a 'former'.
"Rachel?" Monica's voice was so quiet, that Rachel thought she was imagining it.
"Did you say something?" Rachel's voice remained cold, but there was a weariness in her eyes that betrayed her façade of determination.
"Yes. I—I need help," Monica looked at her shoes as she spoke, and held her breath as she waited for Rachel's reply.
"Why?" Rachel's voice was tinged with misgiving.
"I'm…lost," Monica sighed after a moment of thought, and raised her head, but still avoided her gaze.
Rachel noted the hollowness in Monica's voice, then watched unchecked tears make their way down her face. Any resolve Rachel had quickly melted, and she rushed toward her friend, catching her just as she collapsed into a fit of heartbreaking sobs.
"It's okay, sweetie, everything will be okay," Rachel held Monica tightly, and rubbed her back reassuringly, "we'll call the others, and we can work on this."
"It's not that," Monica finally whispered, as her tremors subsided, "It's not just that," she said again.
"What is it?" Rachel led Monica to the sofa, and sat down next to her, grasping her hand tightly.
"It's Chandler."
Rachel's eyes darkened, and she stiffened slightly.
"He—he wrote me a letter. He said—he said he's in love with me."
"That bastard," Rachel seethed, though her voice was very quiet, "he's just trying to get you to forgive him!"
"No, Rachel, I don't think it is," Monica argued, though Rachel hardly heard her.
"I mean, why would he just tell you something like that, out of the blue?"
"Rach—it wasn't out of the blue," Monica whispered.
"What?" Rachel felt all the blood drain from her face.
"It wasn't—really out of the blue. He said something about it—before."
"Before? When?" Rachel's gossip instincts kicked in, and she looked at Monica intently.
"In London. We were…talking, and he said…" Monica looked at her hands, and sighed deeply.
"What?" Rachel looked as though she were about to explode.
"He said…I was his dream girl," Monica's voice was almost whimsical, as she let herself drift back to the night she'd shared with Chandler in London.
"What did you say?" Rachel did not let Monica linger long.
"I—kissed him," Monica's face reddened, and she smiled.
"You what??" Rachel's jaw dropped.
"It was amazing. He was amazing," Monica said dreamily.
"Oh my God, did you have sex with him?" Rachel asked incredulously.
"Seven times," Monica grinned triumphantly.
"Really?" Rachel had a hard time keeping her jaw off the floor.
Monica nodded, and Rachel sat back heavily on the sofa.
"Do you love him?" Rachel's face, and voice sobered quickly.
"I don't know," Monica croaked, as another set of tears threatened.
"Can I see the letter?" Rachel asked quietly.
Monica nodded, and walked to the desk to retrieve the letter.
"I don't know what to do," Monica said, as she handed Rachel the letter.
The room was quiet for several minutes, as Rachel read, and re-read the letter. Monica hugged herself, as she stared out into the black New York night. Why did everything have to be so complicated? He loved her, wasn't that enough? Would she ever be able to trust him? The sound of Rachel sniffling pulled her from her thoughts.
"Monica, you should talk to him. I—I don't know what else to tell you, but I think it's the right thing to do."
It was all Monica needed. She nodded at her friend, and walked into the kitchen to retrieve her address book.
She only hoped Janice hadn't changed her number.
~***~
It was cold, and dark, but even the dreariness in the skies above Scotland could not match the shadows that plagued his heart.
Chandler sat in the large reading chair, his knees pulled up to his chest, and his chin resting on his knees. As much as he wanted to believe that the letter he sent Monica would make a difference, he knew that what he had done was beyond redemption. The hatred he'd read in his friend's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
As if that weren't enough, his nightmares had worsened. He had assured himself—perhaps foolishly—that the nightmares would cease if and when he killed Yuri. But he was wrong—more than wrong. He could barely close his eyes, without seeing Anna's bloody body—and the scornful looks of Monica and the others. He was a tainted soul—unworthy of love and happiness.
A window-quivering gust of wind shook him from his self-misery for a moment. But as he closed his eyes, he cursed the silence, and the storm.
He would give all he had, to be the Chandler Bing that they all once believed him to be.
~***~
He was more than angry—he was livid. The mission had failed, and the object of their deep-seeded abhorrence had disappeared. Deep brown eyes narrowed, as the slender man paced up and down the small corridor, refusing to look at the small man who had delivered the news. If it took him a lifetime—he would avenge the death of his family—his only family. For no man, no matter how righteous he believes himself to be, is above paying for his sins.
Nicholas Caulfield would suffer. Of that, there was no doubt.
~*~
Say good-bye to not knowing when
The truth in my whole life began
Say good-bye to not knowing how to cry
You taught me that
And I'll remember the strength that you gave me
Now that I'm standing on my own
I'll remember the way that you saved me
I'll remember
Inside I was a child
That could not mend a broken wing
Outside I looked for a way
To teach my heart to sing
And I'll remember the love that you gave me
Now that I'm standing on my own
I'll remember the way that you changed me
I'll remember
I learned to let go of the illusion that we can possess
I learned to let go, I travel in stillness
And I'll remember happiness
I'll remember [I'll remember]
And I'll remember the love that you gave me
Now that I'm standing on my own
I'll remember the way that you changed meI'll remember [I'll remember]
No I've never been afraid to cryNow I finally have a reason why
I'll remember [I'll remember]
I'll Remember (Theme from 'With Honors')
Words and Music by Madonna, Patrick Leonard & Richard Page