Emma

Dear diary,

My aunt Monica thinks that I don't trust her enough to talk about my parents with her. So I promised her I'd write in this journal if I couldn't talk to her about it. It just reeks of The Princess Diaries, but what am I supposed to do? Monica and Chandler have taken good care of me, even though they had two five-year-olds on their hands when I came along. This whole "I don't trust Monica" business is just absurd, she's the closest thing to a mother I've got. It's not her fault my biological mother is dead.

A lot of people ask me what memories I have of my parents. It's only fair to tell them I don't have too many; I was only seven when they died, and I can barely remember what I did this morning. The few memories I have are foggy and precious, and easily destroyed. That's why I hate talking about my parents; other people tend to make my memories fade away and become something else when they tell their anecdotes and funny stories. Monica and Chandler, as well as aunt Phoebe and uncle Joey, don't fit in that category, but it's become natural to answer, "I don't like to talk about my parents," when anybody asks. Including the above mentioned.

So the problem isn't that I don't trust Monica. The problem is I don't trust my own mind, my own recollection. Then there's the fact that I am, and always have been, paranoid about tomorrow. Not tomorrows date exactly, but the future in general. I will never know if today is my last day alive. I will never know if I'm going to wake up and not remember anything in the morning. I'd rather lose my own memories than somebody else's; do you know what I mean? Probably not… a lot of people don't understand what I'm talking about half the time.

Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of their death. Monica and Chandler are pacing around the house, anxiously awaiting the dreaded day. Or so they say, whenever I ask them why they're so restless. What they're really waiting for is my reaction, of course. Will I cry? Will I mope around the house just as restlessly as they are now? Will I go into a very deep, long depression? Or will I, god forbid, try to commit suicide?

I don't know what I'll do. Maybe I'll go insane.

The book closed with a soft thud and I slid it between two books in my shelf. I swivelled the chair around and closed my eyes. Monica and Chandler's guestroom had changed a good bit in ten years. First off, it wasn't a guestroom anymore; it was my bedroom. It had a sign on the door with my name on it that I had painted when I was ten and not taken down yet. The walls were covered with posters of all my favourite bands. Clothes lay strewn across the floor (Monica's eyes almost popped out of her head every time she saw it) and the bed was unmade. My desk stood pushed up against the wall next to my bookshelf, which was so overfilled it threatened to snap in two any moment.

The doorbell rang, but whoever rang it didn't wait for anyone to open. I concluded that it was Joey or Phoebe. Monica called something from the kitchen, and Joey answered cheerfully. Without really making the decision to leave my room, my feet walked towards the hall. A visit from Joey was always something good. He was almost always happy and talkative, a quality that made me really love him. Then again, all the friends were happy and talkative. I smiled; I really did love them all.

"Uncle Joey!" I said, walking towards him with a huge smile on my face. "Don't forget me." Joey smiled, but the smile didn't completely reach his eyes. He was probably thinking about the next day, and taking my statement more seriously than I intended it.

"Hey, is that what you think of me?" he said and held out his arms. I almost jumped into his warm arms and let them hug me longer than usual. "I would never forget my favourite niece."

"What about me?" Erica said, coming out of nowhere.

"Fine," Joey said and rolled his eyes; "my second favourite niece." He winked at me and put an arm around my shoulder. "So, what's cooking? It smells like lasagne."

"Mom made it especially for you," Erica said. "And she made an extra one for you to put in your freezer."

"She thinks of everything," Joey said. "Where's Chandler?"

"He went to get some soda," Monica stuck her head out from the kitchen. "Hey, Joe."

I went to sit in the couch and watch some TV while Joey and Monica talked about everything and nothing. My fingers automatically flicked between all the channels, but my mind didn't take anything in. it was busy thinking about other things. The telephone rang, and Monica went to answer it. Joey joined me on the couch and pulled the remote out of my hand.

"Hey!" I said, even though I couldn't be bothered. Joey shrugged.

"Pure habit," he said and smiled. I sensed there was something he wanted to talk to me about, but he was never any good at talking about serious stuff. I wasn't curious enough to ask him what was up. Instead, I leaned my head against his shoulder. Sometimes the thought crossed my mind that Joey and I had a relationship that went deeper than just friends' daughter and parents' friend. I'd once tried to lead the conversation that way, but my perseverance failed me and we ended up talking about food. Talking about food was how it usually ended with Joey.

Chandler came into the house, bringing the fresh, crisp air with him. He waved to me and Joey, and we followed him into the kitchen. He gave Monica a quick kiss and put the soda and beers he'd bought in the fridge; he held out a bottle to Joey who took it and nodded towards Chandler.

"Table's set, dinner cooked, Phoebe missing," Monica said. "Mike has really got to get over the honeymoon phase of their marriage."

"Mike?" Chandler said. "You know what Phoebe's like." The door opened and closed, and Phoebe called a 'sorry I'm late'.

"So we're all here," Monica said and checked of a list in her head. "Good. Let's eat."

"Where are the twins?" Chandler asked.

"They're up in their rooms," Monica sighed and rolled her eyes. "They had their dinner earlier because sitting with the grown-ups isn't cool enough, or something."

"Yes, that's how a fifteen-year-old mind works," I said and rolled my eyes back at her.

"Watch it!" she joked. "I know a room that needs a good cleaning. If you don't behave, I might sacrifice the joy of cleaning it myself and let you do it." I stuck my tongue out at her. Phoebe came into the kitchen.

"Sorry I'm late," she started, but Chandler interrupted her.

"That's already too much information," he said and hugged her. Everybody hugged everybody, and we sat down to dinner. I didn't say much, I mostly listened. That's how it always was when the friends were gathered. They did all the talking. I barely even answered questions.

Monica's lasagne, the warmth from the candle placed in front of me and the quiet voices telling stories started to make me drowsy. The sun had set hours ago, and the scenery outside the window was drenched in the pitch-black darkness. It was getting late, but I wasn't ready to go to bed yet. I didn't want to face tomorrow. At least it's Sunday, I thought to myself. At least I don't have to go to school, should I have a breakdown.

The friends admitted that it was getting late just before midnight, and then sighed and wondered when they had gotten so old as to think midnight was late. They talked about how they would sit up talking for hours past midnight once upon a time, pondered the fact that they'd spent most of their waking time at Central Perk. "How is that even possible?" Chandler asked no one in particular.

It was still ten minutes until midnight when we said our goodbyes and Phoebe and Joey left. They promised to come back tomorrow, so we could 'go out' together. So we could take Monica and Chandler's car down to the cemetery.

I always hated going to the cemetery. It gave me nightmares and horrible images of my parents' faces slowly disappearing in horrid ways. I hated thinking about going there, I hated going there, and I hated coming back from there. I hated that I couldn't say no, because Monica and Chandler wanted me to put flowers on my parents' grave, or maybe even light a candle. I didn't want to seem ungrateful and go against them on that particular matter. Monica put her hand on my shoulder and brought me back to their house in the peaceful suburb.

"Are you going to be alright tonight, honey?" she asked softly. Chandler stood next to her with an arm around her waist.

"Yes," I said hesitantly. "Why are you asking?"

"Tomorrow is a big day, that's all," she said. "I don't want you to think that you have to spend the night alone."

"I'll be fine," I said, but quickly added, "but thanks for thinking of me."

"Emma," Monica said and cupped my chin in her hand. "I always think of you." I smiled, uncertain what I should answer.

"Good night," I said and hurried to my room.

"Good night, Emma," Monica and Chandler called after me.

My bed looked warm and welcoming (Monica had during the night managed to slip away and clean up my room a bit), but I didn't want to go to sleep. I avoided lying down; afraid of what the night would bring me. I'd been having dreams about mom and dad's death, lately, and I didn't like them. They weren't nightmares, but they stirred something up inside me and left me waking up exhausted. I'd even started crying while I was sleeping.

My eyelids were growing heavier by the minute. I glared at my alarm clock. 11:59. I tried to make time freeze, but it didn't, and the clock changed to 12:00. It was officially ten years since the death of my parents.