Hey ya'all! I have to say thankyou for all the reviews. I knew that this wasnt the sort of story where people would be reviewing much, so it was nice to recieve a few! And yeah, Lauren..I do love tourturing Chan...I dont know why! Why do I always put my fave characters through hell?...eh, it doesnt matter! And Leondra...I'm glad you think I do taboo subjects well...I'm always scared that I will offend someone in the wrong way! I dont mind offending them in the right way, in the fun way, but not when they have been through a similar experience, or know someone who has. So, I'm glad to hear that you think I'm doing well! I hope I am!
Thankyou all for reading, and I will try to have the next chap up asap! Cheers! Please read and review!
I do not own friends/characters/actors...but I love men with muscles...and I hear that Matt Perry is bulking up...YUM-MY!
The blood lingered.
Dried, not trickling anymore. But it still lingered.
Morning had come, and Chandler was still there. Chandler was able to shower now. Chandler was able to wash away their filth, their touch, their smell.
He was able to attempt to get rid of them, knowing that he had no chance.
The smell lingered.
It would always linger, no matter how much he scrubbed.
It was like a cancer, slowly but surely eating him up inside. Hurting him, paining him, killing him.
Chandler stared at the door still; he hadn't taken his eyes off of it once that night, with the exception of blinking. He had been afraid that if he looked away, the worst would happen. If he looked away, he wouldn't have been able to look anymore.
If he looked away, he would be taken away.
We might just come after you later…to finish the job
The chair still sat there, protecting him from any would be attackers. Protecting him from the evil that he knew lurked beyond that door.
The terror lingered.
He was terrified to go out there; terrified to face the world that he had only recently loved. Terrified to see his friends. Terrified to shower, to see his body, broken and used. Terrified to see the blood running off of him.
He wanted it off of him, but he was scared to see it. If he saw it, it was real. He knew what had happened, but a small part of him – the part that was still numb – longed for it to not be. Longed for the truth to be much nicer; for it all to have been a dream.
But that was impossible. To dream, you had to sleep. And Chandler hadn't slept.
Chandler would never sleep. Not when he was sure he was in danger. Not when he knew that every time he closed his eyes, he would see them. Know that every time he closed his eyes, he would feel them.
Feel their touch.
Their smell.
Them inside him.
Them violating him.
Them ruining him.
Chandler would have cried, but he had finished his tears hours before. He had cried all he could at that moment, and his tears had dried up. He knew that they would come later, but for now, they were gone.
Movement.
In the other room. Beyond the closed door. Beyond his haven. Beyond his walls.
Chandler shifted nervously, never once taking his eyes off the door.
"Chandler?"
The voice, so familiar, so wonderful, so caring. He knew that voice, he adored that voice. That voice was his best friend. He adored his best friend.
Not anymore.
Not after last night.
He couldn't face him. Couldn't face the voice. Couldn't face the music. He couldn't face Joey.
His friend was a different person to him now. His friend wasn't familiar, wasn't wonderful, wasn't caring.
His friend was dangerous. His friend was terrifying. His friend was hurtful. His friend was male. His friend wasn't Joey.
Not anymore.
Joey was a threat. Joey was pain. Joey was suffering. Joey was everything he had never been.
All because of the night before.
Chandler couldn't trust his friend anymore. Chandler couldn't trust any male. Chandler couldn't trust anybody.
Chandler wasn't even sure if he could trust himself.
He had been numb, and he had enjoyed that. He had wished for that for longer. But the numbness had been rudely taken from him, and left him with the pain, the smell, the touch, the memories. Things he didn't want, but had anyway. That was why he couldn't even trust himself.
"Chandler? You in there?"
"Y-Yeah," Chandler answered after a beat, knowing that if he didn't, Joey would come in. Joey would attempt to come in, anyway. Joey would become concerned when he couldn't get in. Joey would worry. Joey would panic. Joey would want to see him; to comfort him, to touch him.
Chandler didn't want that. He didn't want Joey anywhere near him. So he answered.
"I-I talked to Rachel."
Chandler remained silent. He wasn't sure what to say.
"Are you okay man?"
Chandler remained silent still. He wasn't okay, far from it. Furthest from it. Light years from it. But Joey couldn't know. If he did, Joey would come in. Joey would become concerned, worried, panicked. Joey would want to see him, comfort him, touch him.
"Chandler?"
"I'm okay," Chandler called, pulling the pillow tighter to his body.
"You sure? It sounded a bit rough…I'm coming in."
"No!" Chandler yelled, involuntarily moving away from the door. "No, I'm fine Joey…really! Don't you have…an audition?"
"Yeah, but I can miss it…you're more important than any audition Chandler."
Joey's voice was soft and sweet; sickly sweet. Chandler trembled.
I've been waiting all night for this
"G-Go…go to your audition…I'm fine," he insisted, squeezing his eyes shut at the memory.
"You sure?"
"Yes! Go! Get the part!"
"Okay, you win…I'll be straight back though…I wanna make sure you are okay."
"Okay," Chandler agreed, although there was no chance in hell of him letting Joey near. Not willingly. He would have to soon though, otherwise the others might realise. Might suspect. Might know. He would have to let them near him. Soon. Not now. Soon.
"Okay buddy."
Chandler listened to the footsteps, moving away from his closed door. Another door opened and closed, and Chandler breathed a sigh of relief. Joey was gone. Chandler was less threatened now. Chandler could have his shower now.
Chandler could get rid of the blood, the smell, the touch.
Well, he could try.
It would prove to be unsuccessful, but he could try.
The blood ran down the drain, eerily beautiful to Chandler. It was his blood, it was his pain, it was his memory. The blood meant nothing but bad things. But still, it was beautiful to watch. Like a painting; a Monet, a Van Gough. The entire area in the shower was a Picasso.
The blood mixed with the water, streaming down the drain gracefully. Chandler was mesmerized by it. He had to be, otherwise he would see. He would notice all the other things wrong with the painting. He would see the bruises, the cuts, the scrapes. He would see the pain, the memory, the hell. He couldn't see that. He was going to, but he couldn't.
Not yet.
So, instead, he stayed mesmerized by the blood; the beautiful swirling blood. If he pretended he didn't know the origin, it was beautiful. If he forgot, for one second, that the crimson liquid had leaked from his wounds, he could be entertained. Be enthralled. Be mesmerized.
For one second.
He had been pretending for a while now; possibly half an hour. Maybe more, maybe less. It was ironic really. Chandler had always been on Joey's back about using the hot water, and now Chandler was the one wasting it all.
Not wasting.
He needed it.
He had to be clean.
He had to be rid of the smell.
He had to forget.
He had to pretend.
Chandler watched the blood for a moment longer. He wished that he could watch it for longer, but Joey would be home soon. And he was running out of blood.
It was odd really. He had been in the shower for so long, and yet there was still blood. It didn't seem physically possible, although the blood had disappeared for a while.
It was possible that he hadn't been in the shower for as long as he thought. It was possible that he had only been in there for moments. That his mind was lying to him.
Or it was possible that the blood streaming down was new.
Chandler turned away from the swirling blood; from the beautiful Monet painting and stared at his arms. Where there had been simple scrapes minutes before, there were now harsh wounds. Chandler had been scrubbing too hard.
The blood had been new. His old blood; the tainted, dirty blood from the night before, was gone. It had washed away, a Monet, a Van Gough, a Picasso. It had disappeared long before, and Chandler had created new wounds. Chandler was still creating new wounds.
Chandler pulled his hand away, wincing as the pain hit him suddenly. He had torn at his skin; torn in different places all over his body. The scrapes, the scratches, the cuts. They had only been simple minutes ago, but now they were angry, harsh and bleeding.
Perhaps that was a good thing. He had been able to watch his beautiful spiralling painting for longer then he should have, which had taken his mind off of-
Beautiful eyes…that's what we look for in a man
Chandler squeezed his eyes - his apparent beautiful eyes – tightly closed, wishing he could forget. Wishing that he hadn't been walking last night. Wishing that he had inherited his father's eyes, not his mothers.
They had been looking for beautiful eyes; they loved that in a man. If Chandler hadn't had his mother's eyes, maybe they would have kept walking. Maybe Chandler could have come home, unscathed, unviolated, undamaged. Maybe Chandler could have walked in, unafraid of the world. Maybe Chandler could have sat down with Rachel, had a few beers and watched a movie. Maybe Chandler could have gotten up early that morning, helped Joey with his lines. Maybe Chandler wouldn't have been terrified of his best friend.
Maybe Chandler wouldn't have been forced to watch his own blood stream down the drain, and pretend to himself that it was beautiful. Pretend that it was art. Pretend that it was a Monet.
But Chandler had inherited his mother's eyes.
So his attackers hadn't walked past. They had stopped, they had battered, they had violated. Everything that Chandler could have had that day had been taken away from him.
So he was pretending.
The blood was beautiful.
The blood was art.
The blood was a Monet.
Except it wasn't.
It was blood.
It was his blood.
It was from the wounds that he had helped create. The wounds that had already been there, but had been stretched. Had been expanded. Had been rubbed.
He had rubbed like crazy; trying to forget. Trying to pretend. Trying to clean.
But he didn't forget. He couldn't continue pretending.
He had been hurt.
He had been destroyed.
He had been violated.
The blood, almost water only now, was not a piece of art. He couldn't pretend that any longer. It wasn't beautiful, it was evil. It was sinful. It was pain.
The blood had been created as he had tried to clean, tried to get rid of the smell, the touch, the memory.
The memory still lingered.
The touch still ran, brutal and disgusting across his trembling skin.
And the smell…
The smell remained. Like he had known it would. Like it always would.
He would always feel dirty. He would always feel broken. He would always feel violated. He would always feel them.
And he would always smell them.
Unless…
Chandler started to scrub again; scrubbing at the already raw wounds. It hurt, and he wished he was numb again.
It had been nice being numb. He longed to be numb.
Just as he longed to be clean.
He didn't have much of a chance of that happening, he knew. But he was going to keep trying. He wasn't one to give up. He wasn't one to fail.
He had to keep trying, even if it was a lost cause. He was going to keep bathing, for as long as it took; either to get clean, or for him to realise. For him to give up. For him to know.
He already knew.
He wasn't going to get clean. He had been telling him that since they had-
You look like a good fuck…
Chandler scrubbed harder.
He had been telling himself that all night. He wasn't going to get clean. But he was going to keep trying. He wasn't a quitter. He wasn't giving up. He wasn't failing.
He had quit, he had given up, he had failed. He had done that last night, and he wasn't going to do it again. He was never going to do it again; never going to be that weak again.
So he continued to scrub, attempting the impossible. Perhaps he would scrub until it stopped hurting. Perhaps he would scrub so much that he would become numb once more.
Perhaps then he would be able to stop scrubbing.
The blood ran down the drain once more, eerily beautiful to Chandler.
It was a Monet.
It was a Van Gough.
It was a Picasso.
It was all that, because Chandler could pretend.
Chandler had to pretend.
Chandler had to be numb again.