Ah. Apparently it's a month since I last updated this – you're probably waiting for a pathetically thin excuse. Luckily, I have three. Firstly, I lost the notebook that I write everything down in (the fact that it turned up two weeks later exactly where I left it is irrelevant – I believe that someone broke into our house, stole it for a while, and then put it back – and as soon as I can work out why, I'm going straight to the police!). Secondly, I've had a lot of homework. Which sucks. And thirdly... I had a difficult decision to make after this chapter (when you read the end of this part – which you shouldn't skip to straight away now that I've said this – you'll realise what the decision is), and I wanted to prevaricate. So, anyway. Feeble excuses. Here's a chapter, with love. Do forgive me.

These eyes are strongly covered in disguise
We're waiting on the real
Time again, you'll see that no one knows for sure

I should write one of those self-help books, I really should. You know – 'Life for Dummies', or 'Coping With the Day-to-Day Traumas of Teenage Existence' by Jack Bing. Chapter One – 'So, your father's a murderer.'

Although, of course, he isn't technically my father (and I don't actually know for sure whether he actually is a murderer – I mean, I'm sure that there are any number of Chandler Bings who have lived in New York at some point in the last decade. In my house.). And I'm not even sure if the killer trait is passed down generation to generation anyway. But, still. For some reason, I didn't guess that this was the big secret everyone was keeping from me (well, really. It's not exactly the first explanation that leaps into your mind, is it?).

"Jackie!" shouts Phoebe right in my ear, and tweaks my nose. Hard.

"What?" I ask, looking (what I assume to resemble) hurt and indignant.

"Is everything okay?"

Oh, sure. Everything's just fine. Spring is in the air, the little bunny rabbits are being born, and – oh, yeah – my Dad's a serial killer (probably). "Uh..." I consider asking her whether you can inherit the psychopath gene from someone without actually being related to them – but I figure that there might be a tiny chance that she'd guess what I was talking about (or possibly not – Phoebe's not always lightning fast on the uptake). "...Sure."

"You're not worried about anything?"

I try my best to look sincere (fully aware that I probably resemble the lovechild of a ferret and a constipated warthog). "Nope... Why?" (I'm so daring).

"Oh, no reason. It's just that I was – y'know – cleansing your aura –" (as you do) "- and you didn't seem to notice."

I feign interest. "Oh, no. I totally noticed. It's great. Really... er... clean." (Does that mean it was dirty to begin with? How does one go about dirtying an aura in the first place, anyway? Someone should write a book on it. I'd buy it.)

She beams. "That'll be six hundred dollars, then!"

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

For all of this, I'm better off without you
Do you regret all your loneliness?

Phoebe scribbles something down onto a pad of paper (which she's been sitting on and thinking that I can't see for most of the afternoon). I'm torn – if I ask, I'll probably live to regret it, but if I don't, I'll be wondering about it all day. And, obviously, I have way more important things to worry about. Like having a psychotic axe murderer for a (adopted) father (which, if you ask me, is more than enough to be getting on with).

"What're you writing, Pheebs?"

"An epic sonnet. About you." Yeah – there you go. I was right. Already regretting it. She pauses, and sucks her pencil for a second before recoiling and spitting it out in disgust. "Yuck – lead!" (Ever the intellectual, is Phoebe.) "Anyway. What rhymes with 'what did you write in that letter to Chandler, Jack'?"

Oh, she's sneaky – I'll give her that. "You could try 'mind your own business, not-so-cool Aunt Phoebe," I mutter.

She stares at me, aghast. "Take that back, young man! I'm totally cool!" She pauses. "You're going to tell me, though. You always do – I know you well, Jack Bing."

She's probably right – but there's no way in hell I'm going to admit that to her face. "This is different, Pheebs!" I whine.

"No, it's not! It's the rule!" she cries.

The rule? I shrug. Probably something she picked up at the massage parlour (and, when you consider the kinds of things you could pick up at a massage parlour, I'd say she got off pretty lightly...). "What rule?" I ask, fully aware that my life would be simple and carefree if I learned to keep my mouth shut once in a while. But, still. Where would the fun be in that?

"Have you never watched TV, Jackie?" she asks, exasperated. I don't answer – it's a ridiculous question, since we're watching television as we speak (reruns of some old sitcom, but I'm not paying attention). Phoebe seems to have an uncanny knack for missing the blindingly obvious – it's a skill I hope she'll teach me one day. "The person who gives the contact details of the estranged father to the kid becomes their confidante – which, by the way, is a really cool word-" (because that's the issue here) "-and guides them through life! If you're going to do the whole angsty teen thing, then you're really gonna have to do the background research, Jack!" She cracks me over the head with her notepad.

"Can you sum up what just happened, please?" I ask wearily. "I think my brain just exploded."

"No, Jack!" she replies, seriously. "When your brain explodes, you die." I stare at her. "Oh, okay," she continues. "Yeah. I get it. You weren't being serious." (You think?) "Basically, you're going to tell me what you said to him anyway, so we might as well get it over with now and cut out the crap."

"You have such an elegant way of putting things," I tell her. "I just made it clear to him that he's – y'know – missed his chance. For being a dad. And that I don't need him."

"Is that true?" (No. Obviously I'm making it all up.) "Do you really not need him?"

"I've managed alright for the last ten years, Pheebs!"

She tilts her head to one side. "True. And you've got your Cool Aunt Phoebe instead, haven't you?"

"And your Cool Aunt Rachel!" a disembodied voice cries from the master bedroom. "I'm always there for you too, Jack!"

Okay. Either Phoebe's got a ghost who's giving me its vote of support, or Rachel's been listening into our conversation. Well – it is almost Halloween...

"How long has she been in there?" I question Phoebe (I've decided to assume that it's Rachel – it's the only sensible option. Phoebe would never allow a ghost to hang out in her apartment – she would naturally have exorcised it. Does she think I haven't noticed the 'Be Your Own Ghost Hunter' kit she keeps in the fridge?)

Phoebe shrugs. "She's getting ready for dinner with her boss in there."

"And that takes three hours?" I ask incredulously.

"Hey!" calls Rachel. "If you want me to get fired for wearing last season's clothes, then fine!"

I roll my eyes. "Great. So now someone else knows about my secret letter."

"Oh, no. It's okay. She already knew. I told her," Phoebe says, matter-of-factly.

Oh. Okay. Because obviously that makes it better. "Phoebe! I thought you were my confidante!"

She smiles innocently. "Yeah. But I've always wanted to be a double agent, too! Don't deny me my lifelong ambition, Jack!"

This ride is drifting slowly to the side;
We're swerving off the road
Going past the cones
that warned us from the start

The phone rings, and Phoebe makes a lunge for it, tripping over her own feet, and landing flat on her face. "What?" she asks, as I smirk. "I had a feeling it was someone special ringing!"

"Sure. And when someone special phones, the normal thing to do is throw yourself onto the ground in appreciation, is it?"

"Maybe not for you," she retorts haughtily. "But for some people, this-" she waves an arm around "-is a symbol of respect."

"Oh, yeah?" I ask, glad for the change of topic from my letter to Chandler. "Who would that be, then?"

Phoebe is rescued from answering by Rachel, who emerges from her bedroom half-dressed (score! It's alright to admire your aunt if she isn't a blood relation, right? And, of course, when I say 'admire', I really mean 'drool over like a dog'. I am a sick, sick man). "Hel-lo!" she cries. "Telephone! Ringing! Someone! Answer!" She is partially distracted by Phoebe's splayed form on the carpet (if someone got a piece of chalk out and drew round her, then we could make our own low-budget cop show). "Pheebs... what're you doing?"

"Showing her admiration for whoever's ringing us, apparently," I remark dryly.

"Oh," says Rachel. "Oh." She is, of course, pretending to understand in order not to hurt Phoebe's feelings (once you've known my aunt for some time, you get used to doing this – it becomes almost second nature). She turns her attention back to the frantically ringing phone. "I'm... uh... going to get this... you two can just... carry on with whatever the hell it is you're doing." She picks it up, turning away from us and shaking her head – I get that reaction from women a lot. "Hello?"

There's a long pause. Phoebe picks herself up from the ground and starts talking to me, but I barely notice – I'm more intrigued by the contorted expression on Rachel's face. Something about it stops me from leaning forwards and telling her that, if the wind changes, she'll stay like that – I stare at her, captivated by an intuition that something's wrong (and, yes, I get the same feeling every time the telephone rings, but this time, it's different. This time, it's real). Not just Ross calling to ask if she needs more bananas from the supermarket – not Emma (my 16-year-old cousin) asking if she can spend the night at a friend's house. This is something big – and I'm petrified.

Rachel puts the phone down wordlessly, the crash cutting through the silence and causing me to jump. She turns to me, and I notice that her cheeks are streaked with tears and that's what makes me certain that this isn't a dress rehearsal - that this is where I have to finally grow up and be the man.

"Oh, God," she whimpers, taking a step towards me – instinct tells me to turn and run – run home, and lock myself in my bedroom. But I don't. I'm an idiot. I just stand there, my mouth hanging open like some kind of sick puppet, and I let her tell me. "Oh God, Jack," she gasps, her voice wavering like an opera singer struggling to reach the top notes. "It's... it's Monica. I'm... I'm so sorry..."

Everything stops.

For all of this, I'm better off without you
Do you regret all your loneliness?

Dun dun DUN! Please review and such, and have a nice day!