AN: I have to go to Orlando on business starting Wednesday. I won't be able to update until I get back…sorry! Please review, kay?
Regression
~Undertow~
You know I am tired.
Cold and bony tired.
Nothing is going to save me,
I can see.
I can't say I'm fearful.
I can't say I'm not afraid.
I am not resisting,
I can see.
That I don't need a heaven.
I don't need religion.
I am in the place where I should be.
I am breathing water.
I am breathing water.
You know a body's got to breathe.
I'm drowning, me.
I'm drowning, me.
('Undertow', by REM)
It was a warm day, yet he could not stop shivering. His eyes followed the stationary landscape, as the taxi weaved its way through the city streets. He was vaguely aware that the driver had the radio tuned to a soft rock station, and that Monica was sat next to him, her tiny hand enclosed around his.
The ride had been silent since it began, twenty minutes ago. Monica had attempted to reach out to him several times that morning, but it was clear that he was too nervous to reply.
He'd insisted that he was ready to see Harold; but the truth was, he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready. It had been so long…and he had a horrible foreboding deep inside of him, gnawing at him.
They arrived at the courthouse a few minutes later. Chandler wordlessly stepped out of the cab, as Monica paid the driver and followed him. He stood in front of the courthouse for a long moment, staring up at the gleaming white columns that looked down on them ominously.
He felt Monica take his hand. Sighing shakily, he looked straight ahead, and proceeded up the long concrete steps.
The house seemed so much…colder. He shivered, as he walked up the steps, and into his bedroom. He closed the door behind him, drowning out the angry voices that filled the house.
Harold and his mother were arguing, about what, he wasn't sure. But he had heard his own name a few times, giving him a vague idea.
It was his fault. His mother was screaming and crying and it was all his fault.
He slid down his bedroom wall, and closed his eyes. He wrapped his arms around his head, and tried to drown out the yelling.
Tears slid down his face, but he refused to acknowledge them.
The darkness started creeping its way over him, through him and around him. He struggled to fight it off, but his defenses were worn. He sobbed for an immeasurable amount of time, and was not aware when the yelling had stopped.
Nora opened Chandler's bedroom door, and found him curled in the corner of his room, fast asleep. She crossed the room and knelt beside him, before placing a warm hand on his tear-streaked face.
"I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered softly, "I don't know what else to do."
Charles met Monica and Chandler in the main corridor of the courthouse.
"Dad," Chandler looked at his father as he walked toward them, "What's wrong?"
"The arraignment was early. I'm afraid you missed it."
"Oh," Chandler said, his shoulders drooping slightly.
"The charges have been dropped. Your mother is filling out some paperwork, and we were going to go get something to eat," Charles said nonchalantly.
"Oh. Is, uh, is Harold here?" Chandler's voice was involuntarily shaky.
"No. He won't be bothering you or your mother again," Charles said vaguely.
"What does that mean?" Monica asked.
"I had a little talk with Harold a few days ago. I wanted to ensure that Nora would not go to jail, but that more importantly, Harold would not bother you anymore. We've filed a restraining order."
"Dad, I…I'm not sure what to say. I—"
"Son," Charles placed a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, "I wasn't there to protect you when I should have been. I will not let him hurt you again."
"Dad, I appreciate that, I do…but I think I need to see him again."
"What?" Charles and Monica asked simultaneously.
"I need to resolve this. And I think that the only way to do that is to see him again."
Charles sighed, and looked at the ground. When he looked back up at Chandler, his eyes were glistening.
"I am so proud of you," Charles whispered, and pulled his son into a hug.
Chandler closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms around his father. He never expected Charles' words to have such an impact on him. But he realized that somewhere deep down, he had been seeking his father's approval, seeking his love.
And now that he knew he had it, he held onto it, as tightly as he could.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Monica asked for what seemed like the twentieth time that evening.
"I'm fine, Mon, really," Chandler smiled and kissed her hand.
They had just dropped Charles and Nora at their hotel, and were walking back toward Monica's.
"Are you really gonna talk to Harold?"
"I feel like I have to. There is so much stuff that happened that was left unresolved…things with my father, my mom, and of course with Harold. I feel like if I am going to go forward, I need to close the book on the past…without burying it in my head, ya know?"
"It seems like things are really going well with your dad," Monica commented softly.
"Yeah. I think we still need to talk…really talk, but I have a feeling…everything is going to be fine from now on."
"I wonder what your father said to Harold?"
"He won't say," Chandler shook his head, as they approached the subway station, "look Mon, I need to go to my place and pick up some clean clothes. Can I meet you back at your place in an hour or so?"
"Sure. Do you, uh, do you want me to go with you?"
"No, go home and relax. You look tired."
"Gee, thanks," Monica slapped Chandler playfully on the arm. In truth she was exhausted. She had been up most of the night, worrying about Chandler, and his reaction when he saw Harold again.
"You know what I mean. I'll be over in an hour or so, okay?"
"Alright. I'll see you soon," Monica relented, and Chandler kissed her on the nose quickly before he descended the steps to the subway station.
"I love you," Monica shouted down the corridor, and smiled when Chandler turned and grinned, before blowing her a kiss, and disappearing around the corner.
"I love you, sweetie, you know that I do. But I can't…I am not able to understand how to help you. These people will help you, and I hope that they can help me figure out what has disturbed you so badly."
"Please don't leave me here Mom…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Chandler's hiccupped cried broke Nora's heart.
"Honey, you need help. It's going to be okay, I promise."
"I'm sorry Mom, please, please…"
"Chandler, I have to go," Nora whispered sadly.
"No!"
"Chandler, honey, come with me," a plump, friendly nurse took Chandler's hand, and tried to guide him down the hallway. Chandler stubbornly yanked his hand away, and ran back toward Nora.
"Mom, I'm sorry! I'll be good, I promise!" Chandler screamed, as a large orderly wrapped his arm around his waist, and pulled him back toward the nurse.
"Please forgive me, honey," Nora whispered, as she stifled a sob, and turned to walk out of the room, her son's desperate cries echoing in her ears.
He hadn't done anything wrong. Why hadn't she said something when he kept repeating that he was sorry? Nora sat in her car stiffly, her head resting on her hands, which were gripping the steering wheel tightly. She should have told him that nothing was his fault.
But she didn't know what was wrong; so how did she know it wasn't his fault?
Chandler slid his key into his apartment door, and opened it slowly. He walked in and flipped on the lights to the living room. He looked around, his eyes widening, and his heart racing.
The apartment was thrashed. Papers were scattered all over the floor, and furniture was upturned. One of his windows was broken, and the drapes were ripped off of the rod.
Chandler stepped fully into the apartment, his keys dropping to the floor.
The first thought that went through his head, was that Harold had done this—but Harold didn't know where he lived, right? Shaking his head, Chandler crossed the room, and searched for the phone. He dug it out from underneath a pile of his clothing, and clicked it on.
For a moment, he stared vacantly at the keypad. He knew he needed to call the police, but he needed Monica more. He hit speed dial 1, and put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello?" The sound of Monica's voice was enough to calm him slightly.
"Mon, it's me," Chandler's voice was raspy.
"Hi, honey, what's wrong?"
"Um, someone, uh, broke into my place," Chandler whispered.
"Oh my God, are you okay? Did you call the police?"
"Not yet…I—I needed to talk to you, more than anything," Chandler flushed at his blunt confession, and could practically hear Monica flush with delight.
Monica smiled at Chandler's honesty, but tried to conceal it when she spoke again.
"Hon, do you want me to come over there?" She asked, as she pulled her jacket and purse from the coat rack.
Silence.
"Chandler? Do you want me to come over?"
She could hear him breathing heavily into the receiver; why wasn't he responding?
"Chandler? What's wrong?" Monica felt panic rise up through her.
Silence.
"Chandler!!" Monica gripped the phone tightly, as she dropped her purse and dashed across the hall. She threw open the door, and Joey and Phoebe looked up from the television.
"Chandler, answer me, what's wrong?" Monica looked up at Joey frantically, and in an instant, Joey was on his feet.
"Where is he?" he asked, as he pulled on his shoes.
"His apartment," Monica whispered, and watched Joey run out the door, with Phoebe on his heels.
A small sob emanated from the other end of the phone, before the phone line went dead.
Monica dropped the phone, and ran out of the apartment.
He lay on the hard medical bed, his eyes staring at the white wall blankly. They were leaving him here, because he had driven them to; because he was a bad son.
They were abandoning him, when he needed them most.
Pulling his thin blanket around his shoulders, he closed his eyes, and tried desperately not to think of Harold; of his the disappointment he'd become to his parents.
But everytime he closed his eyes, he saw Harold, and heard his voice, resonating inside his head:
"You're a bad boy Chandler. No one will ever love you."
