When We Dance
~Four: On Love, In Sadness~
Oh love it's a brittle madness, I sing about it in all my sadness
It's not falsified to say that I found god so inevitably well,
It still exists pale and fine. I can't dismiss
And I won't resist and if I die well at least I tried
--Mraz/Keene
Time, or at least the measuring of it, is a constant. No one second is any longer or shorter than the next—time ticks away, with absolutely no regard for the affect it has on the world that surrounds it.
But when it matters most, time can seem to drag…or to fly, and it can seem bitterly unfair, or wonderfully just.
Monica watched time slip through her fingers like fine granules of sand; and she was powerless to stop it.
Ever since they received The Letter, every moment seemed precious; and the hours seemed to pass at an alarming rate.
Her reality was foggy—strange and dream-like. She wanted to deny that all of this was real, but her mind told her that she didn't have time for denials.
They had 48 hours.
There was a mad rush to gather the money—all five of them cleaned out bank accounts, savings, 401-k's—they sold things—televisions, radios, even pints of blood.
And they came up $12,000 short.
And 46 hours had passed.
Silence—a stifling, awful silence—filled the room, weighing it down, and suffocating the people who occupied it.
Would the kidnappers accept only $38,000? Would they be willing to compromise?
Monica heard Joey let out a heavy sigh, and she lifted her head to look at him. He had this continuous, pain-filled look on his face. He looked as though someone had punched him in the gut, and he had yet to find his breath again. He was leaned up against the living room window, his head tilted toward the glass, and his arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
Monica stood up slowly, and approached Joey, her eyes glassy and red. She stopped in front of him, and placed a shaky hand on his forearm. He wordlessly wrapped her in an embrace, and let out another slow, shaky breath.
Monica kept her head buried in Joey's chest, praying for time to stop, to slow down. Hoping that what they had would be enough.
Wishing that she could go back in time, and tell Chandler that London was the best thing that ever happened to her.
Moments later, she felt the others surround her and Joey, arms around arms, and faces buried in shoulders. The group of five stood in the shadows of the fading light, and prayed for a miracle, for a brighter tomorrow—for a sweet ending to the cruel nightmare that entrenched them.
They stood in silence.
And time ticked on.
~*~
It was dark…and cold. So cold. He shivered, and tried to ignore the unyielding, throbbing ache that filled every part of his body. His mind focused on Monica, and of an imagined conversation he had been having with her over the past several hours. His mind no longer aware of the line between what was real, and what was not, he would groan audibly, and loudly, unaware that the words that formed inside his head were indecipherable to the outside world.
"Monica? Wait, please!"
"This conversation is over! And so are we!"
"No, Mon, wait, I can explain—"
"Explain? Explain what? That you're a pathetic loser who can't get his own life together, much less maintain a stable relationship? That-that you are a horrible friend, and an even worse boyfriend?"
"Monica—"
"Leave me alone, Chandler!"
"Monica!!""Stop yelling!"
"Monica!"
"I said shut up, Bing!"
He was vaguely aware that someone had hit him, and that his head had hit the wall, and then the floor. He struggled to sit up, but couldn't move. He struggled to open his eyes, but the darkness consumed him. He called out for Monica, but there came no reply.
He was alone again.
*
Jerry is becoming increasingly annoyed by our guest's constant moaning. I think he is trying to say something, but with the gag cutting into his mouth, his words are lost.
He looks sick—he is sweaty, and he shakes a lot—his eyes are covered; yet he moves his head as though he was looking at something, or someone.
Today is the day. We have given up any hope that this man's father is going to pull through with the money—we can only hope that his friends come through.
Jerry picks up the phone, and dials the number. If these people don't have our money, I know that he will want to kill this man—and I'm not sure that I can let him do that.
He is looking at me, and I can tell by the look on his face, that they don't have the money. My throat goes dry, and I feel flush; I look over at the closed closet door, and I wonder if this man is aware that his life is about to end. Jerry is still talking to the people on the phone; it sounds as though they are trying to negotiate something—and there is a knock on the door.
Jerry's eyes light up, and I suddenly wonder if the trace-blocker on the phone is really working—but then I think that if it were the cops, they would have just kicked in the fucking door by now.
I walk toward the door and open it slowly. An older man stands on the other side, out of breath and sweating. He pulls out a gun and shoves it in my face. He smells like gin and cigarettes. I back up, and he follows me into the apartment, slamming the door as he enters.
Jerry drops the phone and pulls out his own gun.
"Charles, you stupid fucker. You're too late—I've already killed your kid."
"Bullshit," Charles says shakily, and turns to me, "Where is he?" he demands.
A noise from inside the closet, and the three of us turn to the door simultaneously. Jerry turns his gun toward the closet, and pulls the trigger four times. Charles drops his gun, and Jerry turns and shoots him in the head.
It all seems to happen in slow motion. And I am unaware of the fact that I have fallen to my knees, and that I am muttering toward the dangling phone receiver.
"You killed them—I can't believe you killed them."
*
Ross and Rachel were on the phone shift, while the others went to get food. Ross had insisted that Joey and Phoebe take Monica, and she had gone reluctantly, her eyes tearing up as she walked through the door.
They were sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the television screen, their minds only on their missing friend.
Ross was closest to the phone when it rang, and he picked it up halfway through the first ring. Rachel watched, as he walked into the kitchen, while he carefully explained their situation to the man on the other end of the phone. He listened, his shoulders dropping, when the offer to take the $38,000 was rejected.
Ross kept talking, trying to get them to give him more time. Suddenly, there was yelling, and the sound of the phone clattering. He kept his ear to the phone, and was vaguely aware that Rachel had approached him, and that she had wrapped her arms around his waist as he listened. She placed her head on his chest, but jerked away when he pulled the phone from his ear, the popping of gunshots startling him.
The room was silent, as Ross listened, trying to figure out what had happened. Rachel saw his face drain of color, and in that instant, she knew.
Moments later, the others returned, their conversation animated, none of them aware of what had just transpired.
"What happened," Rachel whispered, as Ross pulled her away from the group, his ear still to the phone.
"They killed him. And someone else…I don't know who it was."
"Are you sure? I mean—"
"There were a lot of shots, Rach—I"
"We have to tell them," she whispered soberly.
Monica gnawed on her fingernails anxiously, as she watched her brother and best friend whisper quietly at the door. Her brother looked over at her, then took a deep breath before walking toward her.
She held her breath, and kept her eyes focused on Ross' shoes.
"Hey Mon," Ross whispered, and placed a heavy hand on her bony shoulder.
"Just tell me who was on the phone, Ross," Monica said flatly.
"It was them," Ross said softly, his voice cracking slightly, "Chandler—Chandler's dead."
*
I can feel the panic rising up in me. I look around the room frantically, and I struggle to catch my breath.
"Shit," Jerry mutters, "Fucking shit!"
"Jerry," I look at the dead man on the floor, his eyes glazed over, and his mouth spilling out pools of deep crimson blood, "W-we gotta get outta here…th-the gunshots—"
"I know, Fuckface," Jerry growls, "Get your shit, we're leaving!"
"I grab a bag, and throw together some essentials. I move toward the closet, then remember that there is another dead man on the other side of the door. I pull my hand away from the doorknob, and study the bullet holes on the door. I hear a low moan emanate from the closet, and I jerk to attention. The man inside is still alive. I take a small step back, and debate about whether or not I should tell Jerry.
"Come on, dipshit, let's go!"
I turn to Jerry, and open my mouth, but something inside tells me that I should keep my mouth shut. I shake my head, and hurriedly follow Jerry out the door.
*
He was huddled in the corner of the dark closet, unaware that his father had entered the apartment. His mind was on the reality that he had created for himself—a reality based around his own insecurities and his last fight with Monica. He had convinced himself that she was gone, and that he repulsed her, and all of their friends. Had he been able to break down and cry, he would have, but as it stood he was unable to speak, unable to see, and unable to move.
Unable to laugh, or to cry.
He heard a popping—a gunshot, and milliseconds later he heard something smash through the wood of the door and hit the wall behind his head. It was quickly followed by another, and as Chandler struggled to scoot to the floor, he felt a sharp pain burn through him, and a hazy dizziness overtake him, as the warmth from his own blood consumed him. The pain sharpened, and he winced, and wondered how he could survive such intense pain.
As suddenly as it had started, the gunfire stopped, and he heard muffled voices, and hurried footsteps. He was aware that one set of footsteps had drawn near, and he let out a low groan, and he wondered what was going to happen, when the door opened.
It never did.
The footsteps faded, and silence filled the room.
He felt all of his energy drain away, and as he slipped into a dark, pain-filled unconsciousness he wondered;
Would he ever see the light of day again?
*
Ross watched, as Monica collapsed into a kitchen chair, her head shaking vehemently.
"He's not, he can't b-be," she whispered to herself.
"I gotta go," Joey croaked, and rushed out of the apartment, with Phoebe on his heels.
"We don't know for sure, Ross—I mean—" Rachel wrapped her arms around Monica, and looked up at Ross pleadingly.
"I—I heard gunshots…lots of them."
They were silent for a moment, unable to form coherent thoughts.
Phoebe shattered the silence moments later, when she burst through the door, screaming.
(A few minutes earlier…)
Phoebe followed Joey into the apartment he shared with Chandler, and watched him collapse on the sofa—but not before he kicked over the coffee table and punched a throw pillow. He let out a long, low growl, before burying his head into the sofa cushions.
She was at a loss—should she try to talk to him? She had never ever seen him this upset before. She began to walk towards him, when something caught her eye—the rhythmic, constant blinking light on Joey's answering machine.
She felt something…something familiar and at the same time strange.
It was her gut instinct, telling her that she needed to hear what was on Joey's machine.
She stole a look at Joey, who was now full on crying on his sofa, then turned and hit the play button.
You have one. New. Message. The mechanical voice told her.
Message One. Today, Eight-Fifteen AM.
Um, hi Joey, this is Charles Bing, um, Chandler's father. I…I am about to do something incredibly stupid, and I…well, if something goes wrong, I need you to know…I know where Chandler is, and I…I'm going to get him…and if you—if you don't hear from one of us by noon or so…you should…you should call the cops, and have them come to…um, 347 East 86th Street…apartment eight…BEEP.
Phoebe stood in front of the machine, stunned. She looked over at Joey, who was now sitting on the sofa, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"Joey, I know where Chandler is," she said excitedly, before running out of the apartment, and bursting into Monica's.
*
The cab ride was silent, each person wondering the same thing: what would they find when they got there? Were they putting themselves in harm's way? What if he wasn't there anymore?
The cab pulled up to the building, and as Ross paid, everyone piled out onto the street. Monica looked up at the red brick building, and felt her heart lurch—were they doing the right thing?
It no longer mattered. Filled with determination, Monica straightened her shoulders, and walked into the building, her heart overruling her mind's objections.
She didn't care how dangerous, how stupid it was—she was determined to see Chandler again.
No matter what.
AN: Okay, um, I just re-read this, and I am wondering, how many times I have ended chapters with that sentence? Anyone know? LOL.
Anyhoo, only one chapter left…aren't we happy??