AN: Me, again.  Okay, just a few notes for folks.

First, thanks to everyone who has taken a moment to review this story.  This fic was never meant to be this long, so you can see how inspirational feedback can be, lol.

Monica-Bing: I did get all of my luggage back, thank you!  Now go finish When You Think Of Me!  Scoot!

Neka: Yes, I know my profile picture is always Ewan, but you have to understand the depths of my obsession for that man…lol.  I will consider your idea though, LOL.

Jenni: You are the Queen banner-maker woman extraordinaire! I lub my DWL banner! *hugs*!

Now I'm not saying this is the last chapter…though I am pretty sure I am losing people with the length of this one, ha.  Maybe a chapter or two more?  (Didn't I keep saying that with The Theory? lol.)

Regression

~Everything's Made To Be Broken~

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

('Iris' by the Goo Goo Dolls)

She watched him, from across the Center's common room, sitting at a large table all by himself.  His face was the picture of concentration, as he studied the puzzle that lay in a hundred pieces before him.  Corrine smiled, and began to walk toward him.

"Corrine," the voice came from behind her.  She turned to see her good friend Mark heading her way.

Mark Novak was the only other on-site child psychologist in the center.  Corrine had confided in him several times regarding Chandler Bing.  In Mark's opinion, Corrine was becoming too attached to the boy, but he kept this to himself.

"Mark, welcome back.  How was the trip?"

"It was…educational.  The children were great, but it rained the whole time I was there."

"Well, that is what Seattle is known for," Corrine laughed.

"Har har," Mark shook his head. "Anyway, I wanted to see how you were faring with your star patient," Mark nodded toward Chandler, who was still deeply engrossed in his puzzle.

"He closed up a lot after his birthday," Corrine whispered somberly, "But at least he's talking."

"Do you think I could talk to him?"

"Uh, I don't know that he'll want to talk with you," Corrine responded reluctantly.

"Well, you can introduce me, at least," Mark persisted.

"I suppose," Corrine relented, and led Mark to Chandler's table.

Chandler looked up as Corrine approached, a tall, dark haired man close behind her.

"Hi Chandler," Corrine smiled broadly.

"Hi," Chandler whispered, before looking back down at the table.

"I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine.  This is Mark Novak.  Mark, this is Chandler Bing."

"Hi Chandler," Mark smiled.

"Hey," Chandler said softly, without looking up.

"Corrine tells me you are quite the puzzle whiz," Mark smiled and slowly sat down in a chair across from Chandler, "I used to be pretty decent myself."

When Chandler didn't reply, Mark looked up at Corrine, then back over at Chandler.

"So, can I help you with this?" Mark reached across the table slowly.

Chandler jerked back, and looked up at Mark wildly.  Mark immediately retracted.

"I'm sorry, I—" Mark stammered, and looked back over at Corrine, who was rounding the table to calm Chandler.

"Sweetie," Corrine sat next to Chandler placed her hand on his shoulder, "he's my friend.  He won't hurt you, I promise."

Chandler continued to stare at Mark warily, his skinny hands clenched into two tight fists.  He took a deep, ragged breath, and broke his gaze, when he looked back down at his puzzle.

Corrine and Mark watched silently, as Chandler appeared to be processing what Corrine had told him.  After a long, uncomfortable moment, Chandler straightened, and unclenched his fists.  He looked back down at his puzzle, and began studying it again as though nothing had happened.  Mark and Corrine shared a puzzled look, and moved to stand.

"A beach," Chandler suddenly whispered.

"What?" Corrine asked softly.

"It's s'posed to be a beach," Chandler said, as he pushed a jigsaw into place.

"Oh.  Okay," Corrine smiled, and scooted her chair in slightly.  She smiled faintly at Mark, who hesitantly returned the smile, and turned to help the young boy with the puzzle in silence.

"Chandler, it's your dad again.  I just…well, I wanted to see how you were.  Monica called and told us what happened.  Can you call your mom or me back?  I love you son."

Chandler stared at the answering machine for a moment, an indecipherable expression on his face.  After a moment's deliberation, he hit the 'erase' button, and collapsed onto his sofa, covering his face with his hands.

He wasn't ready to face this, not yet.  He was still so confused, and so lost.  The offender in his dreams alternated between his father and Harold, and at times, there was no face at all.

He shook his head, and let out a low, frustrated groan.  This was getting him nowhere.  He couldn't live in hiding for the rest of his life; and he couldn't live the rest of his life like a victim.  He'd spent too much of his childhood that way.

Chandler stood up, and straightened his shoulders in determination, before walking to his front door.  He swung it open confidently, but all of his resolve evaporated when he saw his father standing on the other side of the door, his hand poised to knock.

"Chandler, there you are," Charles smiled warmly, and moved toward Chandler.

"No, stay away from me," Chandler yelled, as he backed away from Charles.

"Chandler, what's going on?" Charles looked bewildered.

Chandler blinked back his tears, and shook his head in frustration.  Why couldn't he control his emotions better?  He was tired of crying, of feeling so miserable.  He looked back up at his father, his eyes shining with tears.

"It was you.  You did this to me," Chandler's eyes narrowed, and he launched himself toward his father, knocking both of them off of their feet.

He cried, as he pounded his fists into his father's chest, his entire body trembling with rage and fear.

"I hate you, I hate you," he muttered robotically, his mind shutting out everything around him.

"Chandler, what in God's name are you doing?" Chandler was barely aware that his mother and Monica were pulling Chandler off of Charles.

"It was you," Chandler hissed again, before breaking down.

"What did you say to him?" Nora looked over at Charles, who was wheezing.

"I…don't…know," Charles gasped between breaths.

"What happened, sweetie," Monica asked, as she combed her hand through Chandler's sweat soaked hair.

"It was him.  He—he hurt me," Chandler hiccupped, never taking his eyes off of Charles.

"What?" Nora asked incredulously, as Charles struggled to stand.

"Son, I would never…why do you think…what—" Charles shook his head vehemently, tears running down his face as he closed his eyes.

"Chandler, why would you…did you remember something new?" Nora asked softly.

"Harold," Monica looked up at Nora, "Harold must have said something to him."

"Harold is a world-class liar," Nora huffed loudly.

"Harold," Charles whispered, his mind racing.

"I don't know what to believe," Chandler said softly, as he looked up at his father.

"Please, Chandler, please believe me when I tell you that I could never…never intentionally hurt you.  I love you, son, please—"

"I need time," Chandler interrupted briskly, "to think."

"Okay," Charles nodded, "Okay.  But I will be here, when you need me, okay?  Just say the word, and I'm here." Charles looked directly at Chandler as he spoke.  Chandler nodded silently, and looked at the floor.

Nora led Charles down the narrow corridor, and toward the common room of the center.  They walked through the wide doorway, and scanned the room, searching for their son.

Charles spotted him first.  He was seated on a large, orange tattered sofa near the west window.  He was wringing his hands nervously, as he spoke to a heavy-set black woman.

Charles paused for a moment, to observe his son.  He was still so thin; he looked much younger than his twelve years.  But he looked more alive than he had in Las Vegas.

The woman who was speaking with Chandler looked up as Charles and Nora approached.

"Mrs. Bing, hello," she smiled warmly.

"Hello Corrine," Nora smiled, "This is Chandler's father Charles."

"Hello Mr. Bing.  I'm Corrine Murphy.  Please, have a seat."

Charles and Nora sat down next to Chandler on the sofa, but Chandler continued to stare at his hands.

"Chandler, would you like to talk to your parents?" Corrine asked softly, as she sat down on a light brown leather chair that sat adjacent to the sofa.

Chandler shook his head, and bit his lower lip.

"Chandler, sweetie, we…we miss you so much.  Please talk to us.  Tell us how you are," Nora smiled nervously.

Chandler looked up at Corrine, then looked over at his parents.  He stared at Nora's shoulder, still too nervous to look her or Charles in the eye.

"Are you…still mad at me?" he asked softly.

"Oh, Chandler, we were never mad at you!  Is that what you thought?  Honey, you didn't do anything wrong—"

"Then why did you send me away?" Chandler raised his voice slightly, and Corrine was taken aback by his outburst.  Chandler had barely spoken above a whisper since his first day at the center.

"Chandler, we just didn't think we could handle…we thought maybe these people could help you," Nora stammered.

"What's wrong with me?" Chandler sobbed.

"Honey, nothing…I…I don't know," Nora said, exasperated.

Hurt by Nora's apparent frustration with him, Chandler stood up, and raced out of the room.

Charles stood to follow, but Corrine stopped him.

"Let me talk to him," Corrine said calmly, "Stay here.  I'd like a word with both of you."

Charles watched Corrine run out of the room, then turned to Nora.

"I don't understand what's happened to him.  What's been going on?"

"Don't you dare accuse me, Charles.  He was fine up until a few months ago.  I haven't done anything—"

"Maybe that is the problem!" Charles growled.

Seeing red, Nora slapped Charles hard across the face, and grabbed her bag.  She started to walk out of the common room, but stopped halfway, and spun around on her heel.

"You haven't been there, Charles, I have.  He never got over the divorce, and the way we told him everything.  Maybe he hasn't come to terms with the fact that his father's name is Helena!  Don't you tell me how to raise our son!  I'm a better mother than you'll ever be!" Nora fumed, and stormed out of the room.

Sighing heavily, Charles sank back down into the sofa, and dropped his head into his hands.

Was it really his fault?  Had he really done this to his son?  Charles looked up toward the window that overlooked a large garden.  He saw Corrine, standing in the middle of the thin gray gravel trail, rocking his son in her arms.  He watched, as Nora stormed toward them, and dragged a screaming Chandler away from Corrine, and toward her Mercedes.

"Nora," Charles muttered, "what have you done?"