AN: Well, we've finally made it to the end. I'm afraid some of you will be frustrated with the lack of resolution on some points here, but I did warn you that not all loose ends would be tied up, lol.
This one is dedicated to all of you wonderful people who stuck by this fic AND reviewed it to the bitter end. You rock, and I love you! (Not like thaaaat, come on!)
Also, I know I've used the lyrics in a previous chapter. The repetition is intentional.
Regression
~Final Chapter~
Home… hard to know what it is if you've never had one
Home… I can't say where it is but I know I'm going home
That's where the hurt is
I know it aches
How your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on
Leave it behind
You've got to leave it behind
(Walk On~U2)
Two months later
"Chandler, I'd like you to tell me more about your relationship with your father," Renee looked up from her notebook, and set down her pencil.
"Then, or…now?"
"What do you think?"
"I just love it when you answer my question with a question," Chandler sighed sarcastically.
Renee smiled wryly, but said nothing in response.
"I…I haven't spoken with my father since that day," Chandler said quietly.
"Why not?"
"I don't know," Chandler shrugged, and looked past Renee, and out the window, "I suppose I don't know what to say to him."
"Are you still angry with him?"
"I…guess, a little bit."
"You can't move forward, until you heal these old wounds, Chandler. We've made a lot of progress regarding your feelings toward Harold, and what he did…but your parents are a part of this too. You can't close them off, you can't ignore the issue."
"I know. But this thing with Harold—"
"I know it's frustrating, Chandler, but you need to deal with things that you can control. And that is something that is completely out of your grasp. You mentioned that your friend Phoebe told you that karma would eventually catch up with him. Do you believe her?"
Chandler sighed, and looked at his hands. He bit his bottom lip, and shook his head slowly.
"No, I don't, not really. It has nothing to do with Phoebe, really, I mean, I respect that she totally believes that he will pay somehow, but…I just don't believe in karma, really."
"Why not?"
"Because, I know, now I know, that I did nothing wrong, and that I didn't deserve what happened to me. But sometimes…late at night, I wake up sweating, and I can feel him there, smell him on me, and it scares me, it scares the shit out of me, because I know that no matter what I do, he will always be there, haunting me. And no amount of therapy, or forgiveness, or acceptance, will change that. None of that will take away the darkness, and none of it will keep me from seeing his fucking face when I close my eyes. I hate that, and I hate that he is out there, and no one knows where, and that he could be doing this to someone else—he could be destroying another child, taking away their innocence, their childhood. If there was karma, he would be six-feet under, or behind bars, and I could make love to my girlfriend without crying, and I could go to sleep at night knowing that I wouldn't wake up in a cold sweat. Because I don't deserve to be in this—this prison, and he doesn't fucking deserve to be out there."
"You're right Chandler, you're absolutely right. But there is nothing any of us can do. You can beat this—you can beat him, by trying to live your life, and working to find the happiness you deserve. I know you can do it, because I've seen the way you're eyes light up when you look at Monica, and I've seen that unconscious grin that appears, however briefly, on your face when you talk about her, or Joey, or Phoebe, or Ross, or Rachel. You have something that he will never have. You have people that love you unconditionally, Chandler. And that is your revenge. That, as your friend Phoebe would say, is your karma. Fix the relationships you can, and move away from the ones that hurt you. You need your father, whether you realize it or not. Talk to him. Tell him what you've told me. Or don't. Just open the dialogue."
"This all sounds…vaguely familiar," Chandler smiled slightly.
"Yes, well, listen this time," Renee laughed.
*
One Week Later
"Hey," Monica ran her hand down Chandler's cheek gently, "we're about to land."
"Kay," Chandler mumbled sleepily, and pulled his head off of Monica's shoulder.
"Wow, you slept through the entire flight," Monica smiled.
"Sorry I fell asleep on you," Chandler said, as he adjusted his seat.
"It's okay, I didn't mind. I think I slept through a good portion of the flight myself. The in-flight movie was horrible."
"What was it?"
"I don't know, but it had Rodney Dangerfield in it," Monica shook her head, as Chandler let out a short chuckle.
"Vegas, baybee!" Joey yelled, as he stuck his head between Monica and Chandler's seats suddenly.
"Thanks for that, Joe," Chandler smiled.
"Are Ross and Rachel still bickering back there?" Monica craned her neck around Joey's shoulder.
"No. After thirty minutes of 'You stole my peanuts—No I didn't', the stewardess and about eight other people threw packets of peanuts at both of 'em," Joey giggled, "Ross squealed like a woman when one hit him in the face."
"Typical," Monica muttered, as the plane made its final descent.
*
Monica felt Chandler tighten his grip on her hand, as they approached Charles' house. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze in return, but Chandler refused to look at her. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes slightly glazed. She realized then that he was unconsciously squeezing her hand, and that his mind was no longer in the present.
It was strange and surreal, being back at this house. He hadn't been back since…well, since That Day, and the mere sight of it now was turning his stomach.
This is good for me…I need this…it's part of the recovery…
He repeated the mantra over and over in his head, hoping that eventually, he'd believe it.
Ross pulled the rental car into the driveway, and both Rachel and Joey shot out of the minivan, and toward the house. Charles was standing on the front porch, and smiled wryly as both of Chandler's friends shot him a quick hello and an apology, on their way to use his bathroom.
He watched, as Monica, Ross and Phoebe made their way out of the van, each of them stretching aching limbs that had yet to recover from the long flight. His son made no move to get out of the vehicle, and Charles wondered briefly if he planned to spend the entire trip inside the rental.
Monica had called him a few days ago, informing him that Chandler wanted to speak with him, and that they were coming to Las Vegas. The news was both exciting and terrifying; Charles had no way of knowing how Chandler felt now—all he knew was that Chandler had not tried to contact him since that day—and Charles was beginning to think he'd never hear form his only son ever again.
Charles diverted his eyes toward Monica, who had now noticed that Chandler had not gotten out of the car. He could see her trying to coax him out, while simultaneously telling the others to take their bags to the house. Charles cracked a smile—he knew that Chandler had survived this—all of this—because of Monica. She cared for him, and took care of him, and for that, Charles was forever in her debt.
After a few moments of muted conversation, Charles watched as Monica pulled Chandler out of the car, and led him toward the house. When they reached the front porch, Monica gave Chandler a reassuring look, before continuing on into the house.
They stood there, staring at each other, both trying desperately to avoid eye contact. Chandler shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and rocked back onto his heels; Charles began picking at his fingernails nervously.
"Dad," Chandler said finally, his voice raspy and dry, "I—I don't hate you…I need for you to know that. I don't hate you."
Charles smiled and took a small step toward his son.
"I—I was scared, and I was a little angry I guess…but then I thought about it, and I realized that there was nothing you could have done, really. I—I want—I wanted to tell you that," he whispered the last few words softly.
"Son, I—" Charles stopped and looked up, trying to control the onslaught of tears, "I'm just so sorry that all of this ever—I just want to help you, if I can. And I—I want to be your dad again. I know I've done a shitty job so far, but I promise I'll try—I promise—"
"No, don't promise anything, please. Just—you know—be there," Chandler said firmly.
"I will, I swear. I—I just want to be your father again—I want you to let me be your father again—" Charles repeated.
"You've always been my dad," Chandler smiled through tears.
Charles let out a sob of relief, and pulled Chandler into a tight embrace.
"I thought I'd lost you," Charles whispered after a short moment.
"I love you Dad," Chandler whispered in reply.
"I love you, son. And I'm so sorry."
*
She found him, an hour later, standing several yards from the house, staring blankly at a small gully that ran along the other side of the road. She approaching him slowly, and placed her hand lightly on the small of his back.
He didn't move.
"Hey," Monica whispered softly, "You okay?"
"Yeah," Chandler whispered flatly.
"What are you doing out here?" Monica turned to look out at the gully, as she wrapped her arms around herself tightly. The chill that filled the desert air didn't seem to faze Chandler though; he simply stood there, rooted to his spot, his eyes never leaving the land that sprawled out ahead of him.
"I haven't been back here since that time my Mom brought me out here," Chandler said suddenly.
"After you—after you jumped?" Monica asked.
"A little afterward, yeah."
"Did it help? Being out here?"
"No," Chandler shook his head and closed his eyes.
"Harold was here too," Monica stated flatly.
"He raped me down there," Chandler opened his eyes, and stared down into the ravine again.
Monica looked at her feet, and repressed an ever-present sob.
"It hurt like hell—my ribs were still broken from the jump—but all I kept thinking the whole time was that my Mom was gonna be mad, if we had to go back to the hospital. She always hated hospitals," Chandler trailed off vaguely.
"Chandler—"
"It's so weird, coming back after all this time. I just—it looks the same. But—but it seemed like it was darker that night…"
"Maybe we should go inside, honey. It's cold out here," Monica furrowed her brow in concern.
"It was darker that night," Chandler continued, as though he hadn't heard Monica at all.
"Chandler, please," Monica placed her hand on Chandler's bicep, and he turned to look at her.
"I have to leave it here. I have to, or I'll go mad. He won't hurt me again," Chandler was looking at Monica, but it was evident he was talking to himself.
"You're right, he won't. I won't let him. None of us will."
Chandler took a deep breath, and Monica saw his eyes clear.
"I know," he smiled, and pulled Monica toward him, "I know you won't."
"Sweetie, you scared me," Monica placed a shaky hand on Chandler's cheek.
"I'm sorry. Let's go," he said abruptly, and led her away from the ravine.
He never looked back.
*
Two Years Later (Epilogue)
He sat alone, on the front pew, looking at his hands. Silence surrounded him, as did an angelic glow of the fading sun, shining brightly through the stained glass windows to his left. In the distance, he could hear voices—jumbled conversations—from the other side of the church doors.
He pulled down his tie—deep blue, that brought out his striking cerulean eyes—and let out a soft breath.
"Chandler, the limo's here. Are you ready?" Monica placed her hand on his shoulder as she spoke.
He nodded silently, but made no move to rise. She circled the pew, and took a seat next to him, before grasping his hand in hers.
"I know how much she meant to you," Monica whispered, and laid her head on his shoulder.
"She was sick for a long time—I had no idea," Chandler croaked.
"No one did, honey. She hid it well."
"I can't believe she's gone. I feel like—I feel like a part of my heart has been ripped out."
"It has, in a way, I suppose. Sweetie, I am so, so sorry."
"We should go," Chandler stood, and wrapped his arm around Monica, as she stood with him. They walked down the aisle of the church, arms wrapped around each other, toward the front door of the chapel. Chandler placed his hand on the handle, but hesitated, before pushing the door open. He stared at the ornate wooden door, and swallowed hard.
"She loved me…she loved me when no one else did," he whispered sadly.
"I know," Monica whispered.
He pushed open the doors, and a flood of white light filled the room. He stepped out into the sun, and took his wife's hand in his, before leading her down the stairs and into the waiting limo.
