AN: I am very, very sorry for the delay.  There was…chaos, post Orlando.  And then my computer crashed.  And I was gonna finish this on Wednesday, but then Matthew Perry was on The West Wing, so I didn't finish in time to post on Wednesday.  Damn, Matty looked good on The West Wing, huh?  That is one fine looking man.

And now, back to the Chandler torture.

Regression

~With The Phoenix Rising*~

Darkness.

It had consumed her, briefly; and she was vaguely aware of the voices that filtered their way into her subconscious, beckoning her into the light.

Monica opened her eyes, her brow furrowing slightly.  Where was she?  Why did her head hurt?  Why was Joey looking at her like that?

"Mon, you okay?" Joey placed his arm around her shoulder, and guided her to a sitting position.

"Yeah.  What happened?" Monica raised her hand to her forehead, and blinked several times.

"You-you fainted," Phoebe said, as she and Joey helped Monica to her feet.

"Wh-" Monica's eyes widened, as she studied the ruin that surrounded her.  And suddenly, everything came flooding back.  She was in Chandler's apartment.  And she was there because he had suddenly stopped talking to her on the phone earlier.  And when she'd gotten here, he was nowhere to be found.

The panic that had filled her previously returned; she felt her eyes well up with tears, as she looked up at Joey's concerned face.

"He-he's not here?"

Joey shook his head somberly.

"Are you okay?" Joey asked softly.

"We need to find him," Monica whispered.

"I know," Joey replied, his own eyes glistening.  He looked down suddenly, in a futile attempt to hide his emotions from Monica.

She smiled, and placed a shaky hand on his cheek.

And she hoped that Chandler knew how much he meant to the man that stood before her.

She smiled sadly, as Joey took a long, deep breath, and set his jaw, before bolting out the door.

*

He saw them as soon as he rounded the corner; Chandler on the ground, with Harold hovering ominously above.

His face reddened, as he sucked in a ragged breath. 

"Get the fuck away from him."

Harold turned, and Joey swung his fist into the man's face.

What could only be described as a homicidal rage overtook Joey, as he shoved Harold against the cold brick wall.  With fire in his eyes, he dared Harold to fight back; but to no avail.  Phoebe pulled Joey back, and Joey snapped out of his hateful trance long enough to see Chandler, lying in Monica's arms, once again broken and battered.

The sight before him should have sent him into another frenzy; instead it stopped him, and made him realize that what he was doing was not going to help his friend.  He glared at Harold, and told him to leave, before turning his attention back to Chandler.

**

The wall was stark white; so white, in fact, that she began seeing charcoal blotches jump on and off in the literal blink of an eye.

It was her mind, playing tricks on her.  She had been staring at the wall for an undisclosed amount of time (minutes? hours? days?) and her tired eyes were wreaking havoc on her mind.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock kept constant beat, reminding her that time was passing, with nothing but silence to fill it.

Phoebe sighed, and looked down at her feet.  Her orange-tipped toes were scrunched into little fists—the only visible indication that she was anything but relaxed.

Tick, tick, tick.

She looked up as Joey walked into the room, his eyes bloodshot and his shoulders hunched.  He slumped wordlessly into the seat adjacent to Phoebe's, and sighed heavily, as he adjusted the ice pack that had been hastily wrapped onto his hand.

Phoebe studied Joey's hand for a long moment.  She smiled slightly, recalling their recent trip to Las Vegas, where Joey had found his hand twin.  He'd been so excited, like a child on Christmas morning.

Chandler's recent revelations had taken so much out of all of them.  Phoebe no longer saw the pure innocence that had once surrounded Joey.  She'd almost literally watched the protective shell of innocence slip away from all of them.

None more so than Joey.

And then of course, there was Chandler.  Phoebe found that she just could not wrap her mind around all that Chandler was going through.  And she knew that deep down she didn't really want to know.

The thing was, none of them would ever really know, or understand, what was going on inside Chandler's mind.

And because of that, Chandler would always be alone.

Phoebe looked up at Joey's face, and saw that he was trying to fight off sleep.  His head jerked up and down like a bobble-head doll, and his eyes blinked wearily.

Phoebe wrapped her arm around Joey's neck, and pulled his head onto her shoulder.

Tick, tick, tick.

"Would you like to tell me what you are thinking about right now Chandler?"

The familiar, irritatingly cheery voice of his therapist pulled him away from his dark thoughts.  He looked at the plump, dark skinned woman, then immediately looked back down at his hands, which were folded neatly in his lap.

"I can't help you, if you don't help me," her voice was quiet, and filled with patience.

Corrine sighed heavily, and stood up abruptly, before turning to look out her office window.  She had made little progress with Chandler Bing since his arrival over a month ago.  He refused to speak to anyone directly, and rarely made eye contact with anyone.  Corrine was convinced that the boy had been abused, but had found no physical evidence to support her theory.  She needed a breakthrough, and she needed it soon; Chandler's mother wasn't willing to keep her son in the center, if Corrine couldn't give her answers.

Answers that only Chandler had.

Sighing again, Corrine was ready to end the session, and send Chandler back to his room, when a remarkable thing happened.

The slight, frail little boy, the boy that avoided speaking, the boy that barely ate or slept, the boy that had sat silently in her office everyday for a month…spoke.

"I…want to go home."

Corrine whipped around, stunned.  She sat down in her chair slowly, afraid that any sudden movements would startle the boy into silence again.

"You want to go home?"

Chandler shook his head, "I said I…I don't want to go home."

His voice was timid and shaky, and Corrine now saw that she hadn't heard him correctly the first time.

"Why don't you want to go home, Chandler?"

"I…don't want to be in the dark."

The vagueness of the statement confused Corrine, so, against her better judgment, she pushed forward.

"Did…did someone at home hurt you?"

Chandler visibly shrunk into his chair, and Corrine knew she had hit on something.

"Chandler, has someone been hurting you at home?"

"It's dark," Chandler whispered softly, a lone tear slipping from his right eye, and down his flushed cheek.

"Chandler—" Corrine stopped, and noted that he had closed himself off again.  She nodded slowly, stood up, and timidly walked toward Chandler.

"You've made excellent progress today.  Why don't we call it a day, and we can start fresh tomorrow, okay?"

Chandler shrugged noncommittally, as Corrine led him to her office door.

He paused briefly in the doorway, and turned to look back at her.

And in a flash, she saw that they had only scratched the surface; the pain that this boy carried, was going to be with him—with them—for a very long time.

"How are you feeling?" Monica asked, as she walked into Chandler's hospital room the next morning.

"Okay," Chandler said flatly, his eyes never leaving his thin, pale yellow blanket.

"What's wrong?" Monica knew that the question was stupid.  What wasn't wrong? 

"Mon, I—" Chandler stopped, and sighed heavily.

"What?" Monica sat down on the bed, and gingerly took Chandler's hand.

"I—I need to talk to Renee," he finally blurted out quickly.

"Oh," Monica slumped, her disappointment evident in her voice.  Why didn't he want to talk to her about what had happened?  Monica knew it was selfish, and perhaps irrational to believe that she could help him more than a trained professional could, but she couldn't help herself.  She needed Chandler, and she needed him to need her, and her alone.

"Are you mad?" Chandler asked softly.

Monica shook herself out of her thoughts, and looked down at Chandler.  He looked up at her, his sapphire eyes begging for the right answer.  Monica smiled reassuringly.

"Of course I'm not mad, honey.  I'm just concerned.  You've been acting so…I mean, I know that your encounter with—with him shook you up, but—"

"I have things that…need to be resolved," Chandler sighed.

Monica nodded, and watched Chandler close up again.  She felt her heart ache with despair.  It was like all of their work had been wiped out with this one encounter.  Chandler had completely regressed into the shell he had been when he'd first recovered his memories.

And Monica wasn't sure they could get through this a second time.

"Shhh…" the voice carried the ominous tone that sent his heart racing in fear.

He clutched his pillow tightly, and squeezed his eyes closed.  A large hand fell onto his shoulder, and turned him to his back.

"Look at me," the voice demanded, and his stomach rolled.

He opened his eyes, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"You've been a bad boy, son," the voice was filled with disappointment.

Chandler fought back sobs, his heart breaking as he absorbed the words.  He was vaguely aware that he was being touched, being abused.

He was numb to it now.

But as his eyes focused on the face that hovered before him, his mind began to register all that was happening.

He closed his eyes, not willing to believe that this was real.

Not willing to believe that a father could be so cruel to his only son.

Chandler's eyes shot open, and he let out a primal cry.

"What happened, Chandler?" Renee asked softly, as she placed a warm hand on his.

"It was him.  It—it couldn't have been though.  I—I was so sure…" Chandler sat back in his seat; his eyes filling with unshed tears.

"Who did you see?"

"M-my father.  It was my father," Chandler whispered, as though he couldn't believe it.

"It was your father that abused you?"

Chandler closed his eyes tightly, and shook his head.

"I don't know," he whispered raggedly.

"I'm taking Chandler for a walk," Charles called from the front porch of his desert home.

Chandler felt his shoulders cinch, as his father laid a heavy hand on his thin shoulder.

"Come with me, son."

"I don't know," he repeated once more.

The room was quiet for a long while.  Corrine watched, as Chandler played with a loose string on his oversized navy sweater.  She wondered what he was thinking; she wondered if he would ever tell her.

"It's my birthday," Chandler whispered suddenly.

"Oh," Corrine mentally scolded herself for not checking Chandler's file for something as mundane as a birth date.  She vowed to get something put together for the child before day's end.  "Happy birthday."

"It's not so happy," Chandler muttered softly.  He pulled on the renegade string, and hung his head lower, as tears started falling from his eyes.

"I'm sorry that you have to be here on your big day," Corrine offered.

"Where else could I go?" Chandler shrugged.

Corrine knew that she couldn't allow herself to become too attached to these children.  They were her patients, after all, and eventually, they would leave, and she would have to let them go.

Logically, it made sense for her to keep her distance.  It was easier on everyone.

But this child looked up at her, his eyes pleading, needing someone to love him. 

And she couldn't resist his desperation.  She couldn't keep her distance.

She would become the friend he needed, and the mother he deserved.

It went against all logic, and all that she believed.

She stood up, and walked around her desk.  She crouched next to him, and pulled him into a deep hug.

"Happy birthday, Chandler," she whispered again, as he cried into her chest.

She would be there for him, no matter what.

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

-The End-

('Alone' by Edgar Allan Poe 1829)

*Chapter title borrowed from the book; With The Phoenix Rising: Lessons from Ten Resilient Women Who Overcame the Trauma of Childhood Sexual Abuse

By Frances K. Grossman, Alexandra B. Cook, Selin S. Kepkep, Karestan C. Koenen

Hardcover, July 1999, Jossey-Bass