(A/N): I just want to say a thank you to everyone who liked the story, reviewed it or even followed it!
Disclaimer: I don't own Friends. Wish I did though.
…
Phoebe and Rachel made a B-line for the park, running as fast as their legs could take them. The tone in which Joey had used when he spoke to them, told them that this couldn't possibly be good. They couldn't remember what first went through their minds when they had gotten the call. Panic? Fear? Relief? At least they'd found Chandler, and that he wasn't lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Even if he was in a bad way, he was still alive, and that was all that mattered. It just didn't make any sense. He was the normal one, not the crazy one. Sure, he could be a little eccentric sometimes, but it just wasn't him. They never thought that this would happen to Monica or Chandler. They were the perfect match. His wittiness mixed with her competitiveness, just seemed to balance wonderfully. It was the beginning of their lives together, and all of that was thrown away.
They finally arrived at the park, seeing Joey wave frantically to them, like some sort of signal. The sight they saw chilled them to their bones. Chandler, shaking, foetal position in Ross' arms, weeping uncontrollably, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Stop it! Stop saying that!"
Ross soothingly rubbed circles on his back, shushing him like he was a child. Joey shooed horrified citizens away, embarrassing expression evident. Phoebe ran over to them, concern blossoming in her features, she started trying to comfort Chandler herself.
"Get up, dummy! People are laughing at you!" Monica hissed, no one else heard her but the crying male.
"Chandler, what's wrong?" Phoebe tried, obviously knowing the answer.
"Monica. S-She won't l-leave me alone."
This was a problem.
"What?"
"She keeps saying all these things. She won't stop it!" he choked, his tears resembling to those of a five year olds.
Ross gave a frightened, pitied glance to the blonde woman holding Chandler. He nodded solemnly, lifting himself from the grass. Walking over to Rachel and Joey, he ran his bony hands through his gelled-back hair, sighing with perplexity.
"And, where is Monica?" Phoebe asked, playing along.
Her friend pointed with a shaky finger to a nearby tree, it was impossible to tell where he was pointing though, his view seemed undecided, unfocused, unsure. His eyes were glazed over, a layer of fantasy covering them. His pupils were the smallest she'd ever seen, a swirling, black pool of emotion and confusion. Huge, deep mulberry bags hung loosely, sleep deprivation written all over them. He looked a complete and utter mess. He hadn't shaved, he hadn't eaten, he hadn't even changed his clothes in four days.
"Come on, Chandler. Let's go." she whispered gently, hoisting the sniffling man from the ground.
He flinched even as they were walking away, as if Monica was shouting at him from behind. His nerves were frazzled. In a quick daze, he was placed into a cab, driven home and put to bed, his attitude to sleep easy and respectful.His dreams explained the main events that happened recently.
Monica lay on the hospital bed, the rise and fall of her chest occupying the thoughts of her husband. He hadn't talked much since she was diagnosed with cancer. It was like the whole incident had made him mute.
"Any day now..." the doctor warned him.
He hated everything about this. He hated the waiting. He hated the fact that he wouldn't be able to see his wife again. This whole thing terrified him. This disease was eating away at her, it was destroying her body. She looked like death itself. So cold and weak, the cover girl of illness. Her once blue eyes, blue like the sky in summer, were as grey as the clouds just after a heavy rain.
"Chandler. I'm tired." she wheezed, eyelids drooping wearily.
"No, honey. You can't go to sleep, not yet..." he replied, paranoid that if she slept, she wouldn't wake up again.
He turned to face the heart monitor, its slow, rhythmic beep lulling him into a state of subconscious calm, almost hypnotic. He'd stayed like that until he reminded himself of his wife's condition. He swivelled back round to face her; asleep. Her quiet snoring spread a smile on his sad face, she did deserve some rest. So did he. He drove back home, his bed calling out to him. It was his mistress, his only weakness. He loved sleep because it was a chance to get away from all the stress of life for a few hours.
He awoke the next morning, filled with worry. He had left his love at the hospital all alone, he had to visit her immediately. He jumped into a cab and made his way there, anxiety kicking in. The strong smell of antiseptic wafted in his nose, as he made his way through endless, white corridors. His wife's room was empty. She was gone, the bed no longer covered by a limp, nearly lifeless woman. A nurse rushed by, but he locked his hand on her arm like a vice.
"Where's my wife?"
"Oh, didn't you get the call, Mr Bing? Monica, passed away in the early morning. I'm so sorry for your loss." her voice dripped with empathy.
"W-What? How could t-this of happened?" he stuttered, but the nurse was gone.
He slumped down onto the shiny, marble floor, tears spilling over his eyes like miniature waterfalls. His soul mate was dead. Dead. The word killed him on the inside.
She was dead?
Monica was dead.
…
(A/N): A bit depressing there. I really look forward to writing these chapters! Thanks so much for reading them! Please leave a review, tell me how I could improve, or whatever you want!
Until next time... :^)