(A/N): Sorry I haven't updated in ages. WARNING: This chapter will have some language in.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

"What? Of course she loved you, Chan."
They were all gathered around their crying friend, his cheeks stained with fresh tears that wouldn't stop falling. Their sympathetic voices didn't reach him though, he watched, horrified, as Monica appeared in the doorway.
She looked pissed.
He gulped and pulled the drenched sheets up to his chin as he cowered in fear. Shakes rattled through him when she took steps closer and closer towards the bed. How was it that no one else seemed to notice her? He tried to warn the others but his throat was as dry as the desert, only erratic croaks of desperation and anxiety were released into the air. The others shushed him like he was a child. Their tendencies dripped with melancholy concern.
"You're a bitch Chandler," his wife hissed. Her eyes blazed with fury, but were as black as the night.
"I'm not a bitch, stop saying that." he whispered, his wobbly voice startled his friends. "Please."
"Chandler, who are you talk-"
"Go away, Monica."
This time everyone looked at Phoebe. She stroked Chandler's thinning, chocolate hair and his ivory cheek gently and looked him in the eyes.
"Don't listen to her, she's wrong." she assured. Chandler's face brightened for a second before melting back into a river of sorrow. She signaled for the others to follow her out of the bedroom and quietly silenced the weeping by closing the bashed-in door, courtesy of Joey.
"He's delusional, I think this whole thing's just broke him..."

"That whore! Why was she touching you like that?!"
Chandler tucked his knees up to his chest, his wide, frightened eyes staring up at the raving woman that shrieked at him. His mind screamed for him to call out to his friends but his mouth kept sealed shut. He wanted to get away. He needed to get away, as fast as he could. But he was trapped. Trapped by his wife and the others outside the door. Escape was a mere grain of microscopic sand scattered among the thousands of failures and broken dreams on the metaphorical beach of depression. He stole a look at the clock by his bed; 3:00 am. The numbers glowed eerily like his wife's eyes.
"She's...she's my f-friend." he answered weakly, voice still croaky and quiet.
The woman scoffed and snorted. Her expression terrified him. It was the look of the devil, but it was the love of his life.
"You don't have any friends," Monica spat "You only have enemies, people that don't even want to be near you! You're a pathetic waste of space and time, you can't even save your own wife!"
That sentence rammed itself into his tired brain. He felt his lip quiver and salty tears rain onto the sheets he clutched. Loud sobs, laced with hysteria, polluted the atmosphere as he buried his head into his pillow. Maybe if he suffocated, she would leave him alone. Though he mentally kicked himself when he came up gasping for precious air. She threw her head back and released a bone-shattering howl. Chandler dived from the bed in a moment of panic and grabbed a vase that perched on the bedside table. Readying himself, he gripped the pottery like a bat and posed for attack.
"I d-don't wanna hurt you, Mon, I really don't." he stated as he tightened his hold on the object.
This made his wife erupt with maniacal laughter. His lip started quivering again, but he fought back the tears. He wasn't going to be treated like this, not by his lover anyway. She ambled towards him and smiled evilly, her teeth were a sharp as knives.
"I want to hurt you, Chandler. I want to kill you sometimes, but I won't..."
She tugged at the collar of his shirt and pulled it closer so that they were centimeters away from each others faces. Her breath felt cold against his skin. He gulped, his now numb arm unable to help protect him against her. He bit his lip so hard that blood started oozing from it. The metallic taste made him shudder.
"I want to see you suffer." she whispered, dangerously close to his ear.
The vase shattered when it hit the floor. He couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't think. And just when he thought he'd lost his senses, he bawled for help, for a God that may or may not have existed. His friends ran in and saw him pressed against the wall, tears streaming down his face and his skin a shade of white that was beyond unhealthy. Bits of smashed, broken pottery lay at his feet. He was shaking like a leaf. His heart wasn't hammering, it was vibrating.

(A/N): Please review, it would really help me. Thanks for reading.