Regression
~The Bermuda Triangle~
Way down in the triangle
Where the sea was smooth as glass
Giving you one answer to a question
That you never thought you'd ask
--Bob Welch
In the midst of darkness, perceptions can be deceiving. Children often mistake a pile of clothing, hanging limply on a desk chair, as a ferocious monster, or a hovering menace.
In the light of day, clarity returns, and the pile of clothing is not offered a second glance.
The mid-morning sun burned brightly over New York City, giving the grimy city an almost incandescent glow. The streets shimmered, and the towering skyscrapers lit up the skyline as though aflame.
Children giggled, tourists wandered in awe, and taxi's blared; the city was full of life, and in the light of day, not nearly as menacing as darkness made it seem.
All of this went unnoticed by the young man who wandered the street, shoulders hunched, and head bowed.
He was deep in thought, on his journey toward the hotel that was temporarily housing his father.
Charles Bing had always shown a detached indifference toward his only son. After his marriage fell apart, however, Charles had had an overwhelming urge to right the wrongs; to overcompensate for years of neglect.
His efforts had been met with quiet defiance, and haunting misery.
Chandler had never understood his father's detachment, and by the time Charles had moved to reach out, Chandler had been too far inside of himself to understand the motives.
Charles had no one to blame, but himself.
The hotel was filled with and artificial chill; Chandler hugged himself as he crossed the over-decorated lobby, and pressed the elevator button.
He shivered; whether it was from the air-conditioned air, or his own nerves he couldn't be sure.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open slowly, silently.
Chandler stepped inside the metallic box, and pressed the button that would take him to the fourteenth floor.
His mind raced, and his hands trembled. Though he had insisted to Monica that he needed to do this alone, he now stood inside the ascending elevator, overwhelmed with doubt and loneliness.
He wanted Monica here with him, reassuring him, and giving him the courage he needed to do this.
The elevator dinged again, and once more the doors slid open. Chandler stepped off of the elevator, his legs barely holding him up. Taking a deep breath, he proceeded toward his father's hotel room.
He stood in front of the door, staring at the brass numbers, for an immeasurable period of time. A million thoughts ran through his troubled mind, the most prevalent being; what if he was wrong? Was he about to completely destroy the fragile relationship he had with his father? Shaking his head in irritation, he straightened his shoulders, and knocked on the door.
*
He was the last person Charles had expected to see that morning.
But now, the man that had caused his only son so much agony was standing before him, and it took all that Charles had not to strangle him right where he was standing. Instead, Charles straightened, and tightened his face.
"Harold," Charles muttered, "You've got a lot of fucking nerve."
"Charles," Harold smiled sweetly, and stepped into the hotel room uninvited, "it's good to see you again."
"What do you want?" Charles replied shortly.
"I'm just…curious…is all. How is Chandler? Has he had any new breakthroughs lately?" Harold strolled nonchalantly through the room.
"Can you explain to me how that is any of your business?" Charles snapped.
Harold turned, and smiled. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
He was trembling, visibly trembling.
Chandler took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, trying to center himself. He heard the door swing open, followed by a surprised gasp from his father. Slowly, Chandler opened his eyes, and focused on his father's shocked expression.
He was still trembling.
"Chandler," Charles rasped, concern suddenly lining his tired eyes.
"Dad," Chandler managed to whisper shakily.
"Son, I—"
"Looks like three's a crowd," Harold suddenly appeared behind Charles, a strange grin on his face, "I'll just be going."
Charles watched Chandler's eyes widen in shock, then narrow in anger, as the latter backed up against the wall of the hallway.
Charles quickly stepped out of the doorway, and stood between Harold and Chandler.
"Just go," Charles glared at Harold, who had not taken his eyes from Chandler.
Harold grinned, and tore his eyes from Chandler's. He looked over at Charles, and slapped him on the shoulder playfully.
"Good to see you again, Charles. We should do this again sometime!" Harold smiled broadly, and turned on his heel, before making his way toward the elevator bay.
Once Harold had walked away, Charles turned to Chandler, who was still staring straight ahead.
"Son, I don't know why he came here…but I won't let him come near you, I promise…"
Chandler looked over at his father, his eyes filled with accusation.
His trembling increased and he shook his head angrily.
"Chandler, come on," Charles said softly, and led his son into his hotel room.
He was no longer in control of his own actions. He was barely aware of the fact that his father was leading him into his hotel room, and toward a small blue sofa. His mind was in a haze, and his heart was racing wildly. He looked up as his father, who was crouched in front of him, and his face darkened.
"Why was he here?" Chandler growled shakily.
"I—I honestly don't know. Chandler—"
"I don't believe you!" Chandler screamed, and stood abruptly.
"No, Chandler, you have to believe me! I have no idea why he was here! He just…came by! And I was in the process of throwing him out of here when you came…"
"Bullshit!" Chandler pushed his way past Charles, and headed toward the door.
"Chandler, I swear!" Charles turned and followed his son, "I—I'm so sorry—"Charles' voice hitched, and he let out a short sob.
Chandler stopped at the door, and turned slowly. He glared at his father, and approached slowly.
"What?" Chandler whispered, his eyes narrowing.
"I—I wasn't there when you needed me…and I feel like maybe you're shutting me out again to get back at me for not being there when you were going through…and for…but Chandler, I don't know why Harold came here—"
"You," Chandler said sharply, as he jabbed his finger in his father's face, "have no idea what I've been going through…you have no idea what—" Chandler stopped suddenly, his eyes clouding over.
"What? Tell me, Chandler, please. I need to know what I've done, and what I can do—"
Chandler's head jerked up, and he fixed his striking blue eyes on Charles.
Corrine was right about Chandler's eyes, of course. Charles could see everything within them. The intensity that resided there was too much for Charles; he was forced to look away; to look down at his shoeless feet.
Chandler sighed deeply, and took a step back, away from his father. He instinctively shoved his hands into his pockets, and rocked back onto his heels, before scratching his head and silently crossing the room.
Charles looked up, and watched Chandler walk toward the window that overlooked the busy New York streets below.
Chandler suddenly seemed oblivious to all that was around him; he stood at the window, staring blankly at the scenery beyond, for several agonizing minutes. When Charles finally worked up enough nerve to follow Chandler to the window, Chandler whipped around, and stopped Charles in his tracks.
"Dad," Chandler's voice was raspy, and sad, "Harold—he said that…that it was you that did this to me…and I didn't want to believe him, but then my memories, they…they got all fuzzy, and sometimes I'd see you, and sometimes I see him—but I don't know what is real anymore…I don't know who was really in my room at night…who dragged me into the desert in Nevada…who really invaded my dreams…my subconscious…I really, really don't want it to be you, Dad, but you have to tell me. You have to be honest with me, okay? If you really love me like you say you do, then you will tell me the truth, no matter what, okay? I just…I just need to know, Dad, please," Chandler's voice cracked halfway through his speech, and by the time he finished, he was stifling a sob.
Charles stared at Chandler, shock resonating through him…was his son really accusing him of…Charles felt a wave of nausea course through him, and he wavered slightly on his feet, before backing toward the arm of the sofa. He leaned against it heavily, and closed his weary eyes.
"You—you think it was me?" Charles' voice had a child-like tone, and the way he looked up at Chandler left little doubt in the latter's mind—it was never his father. It was always Harold.
"I—I did," Chandler sobbed, and fell to his knees in front of Charles, "I'm sorry, Dad," he croaked, "I'm so sorry—"
"Chandler," Charles said softly, as he slid to the floor to meet his son's eyes, "you have nothing to be sorry for," Charles cupped Chandler's face in both of his well-manicured hands, "It's me who should apologize."
Chandler's eyes widened slightly, and his heart raced. No, no, it wasn't him. Please Dad, tell me it wasn't you…
"I think that…this is partly my fault. Sometimes, when you were younger, I would sneak into your room after a night out, or after a show, and I would watch you sleep, because that was the only time I really got to see you. I never really knew how to talk to you when you were awake anyway…I felt like you really didn't want me in your life, and to tell the truth, I wasn't exactly sure what I should do or say to you…I wasn't a father, really. I was too self-involved to be a father. So I figured I would watch you sleep, while I figured out how to be your dad…the dad you wanted me to be.
At some point, I'm not sure when, you started tossing and turning in your sleep, and you would cry out, like you were having a nightmare. So I would sit on your bed, and pull you toward me, and try to soothe away your bad dreams.
But there was one time, several weeks before you…before you jumped from the banister…"Charles blanched, and swallowed hard, before looking down at the floor. His voice suddenly changed; it became slightly raspy, and vacant. "I was up visiting you, and I was in your room, watching you sleep, and…I don't know how long I was in there, but I heard the door open, and I turned, expecting to see your mother…coming in to tell me to leave you alone. But it wasn't Nora; it was Harold. And he saw me, and he kind of, started, and looked at the floor, and started to back out of the room. And I turned to look at you, and I saw that you had woken up, but you hadn't turned around; you were burying yourself into your sheets, and whispering something I couldn't hear. I debated about talking to you, but I wanted to see just what Harold was doing going into your room. I left, and confronted Harold. He—he claimed that he had gone into the wrong room. I—I didn't know what to do…and I left the next day, and I thought I should say something to Nora, but she was…mad at me for something, and I didn't want to just accuse Harold of…and I kind of forgot about it, I suppose…until you…until you jumped. And I was so…so filled with guilt, and I wanted to…I wanted to say something, but…I didn't. And I have no good excuse, and I'm so sorry…but at the time, I kept telling myself that I never saw anything…and that he would never be charged based on that one incident…" Charles shook his head and laughed bitterly, "I was such an idiot."
Chandler stared at his hands, as he processed all that Charles had confessed. He suddenly felt so…exhausted. Everything that Charles had said seemed to fall into place with Chandler's disjointed memories. But Chandler's head still felt heavy, and his heart still hurt. Finally, he looked up at his father, and took a deep breath.
"Dad," Chandler whispered softly, "I—I don't know what to say. I—I guess that makes sense…but… after all of that happened…after we came out to Las Vegas…after all of that, why didn't you say something?"
"I don't know," Charles replied softly, as a fat tear rolled down his cheek.
"Why was he here today?" Chandler asked again, as he hugged his knees tightly.
"He…I think he wanted to know if you had confronted me about this. I think he wants to know if he is off the hook for all of this…" Charles ventured, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"I—I need some time, I think," Chandler sighed, and stood up slowly. He helped Charles to his feet, and began walking toward the door again. He reached for the door, but turned around before opening it.
"I don't know how much time I'll need. You should go back to Vegas for now. I'll call you, okay?"
Charles walked toward Chandler slowly, and looked at him intently. "Promise?"
Chandler smiled slightly, and nodded slowly, "Promise."
Charles extended a shaky hand, and Chandler took it, before pulling Charles toward him, and enveloping him in a tight hug.
Charles closed his eyes, and allowed a small smile.
"I love you son," he whispered.
"Love you too, Dad," Chandler whispered, and pulled away, before walking out the door.
AN: Holy crap that took a long time. And it still didn't come out the way I wanted it to. Oh well, maybe I'll fix it later…
Review, and let me know what you think…I think I have about one more chapter left in me…
