AN: I hope you are all enjoying this still!

Disclaimer: I do not own Friends.
Even though I wish I did.

Why did this happen?

Why did she do this?

Monica didn't know, let alone care; she wasn't supposed to be alive.

It was just an impulse. An urge. A thought that had lingered in her mind for years. Her morbid curiosity for what it would feel like outweighed her fear of consequence. She wouldn't have been much of a loss, either. A twenty-something living in New York trying to be successful? As if there weren't millions of those already. Just another person put on this earth. No purpose, no direction. She was living a life that had been lived so many times before. She was a zombie.

A cog in the machine, infinitely turning.

Fueled by the deepest darkness.

And after years of rust, Monica finally broke, and fell into her bloodied slumber.

She remembered how warm it felt at first; it was like tripping into a bath of amaretto. Her entire body tingled, sizzling like a steak on a grill. The shock had isolated each thought she had into their own sanctuaries. Monica raised her gashed arm, the moonlight bouncing off of the sanguine elixir that rapidly made it's way toward her pallid fingertips. To her, it was fascinating. How did it gush out so fast? How much would come out? Why did it feel so good? These questions flared through her mind much too fast. The euphoria was liberating. It was a release that surprised her in every way possible. It was exciting, thrilling, titillating even.

Until she began breathing.

The oxygen that circulated within her gave a damage report; a serious one. The nerves in her arm collaborated with every other sensor in her body, sending signals to her brain that told her that this was the biggest blunder she had ever made. Monica exhaled, and the pain had come in a constant stream, which stung her like a thousand steely knives raining from the heavens. She could feel her skin tearing apart, literally. Like a virus, the numbness began spreading, and she fell onto the couch in the fetal position. Her breaths were in short gasps, and she could swear that her entire arm was coated red. Everything began turning dark, but, like a tunnel, there was a light at the end. One that she kept going for.

As the bright redemption consumed her, Monica's groans turned into screams, which she believed to be her final.

All of this blood would ruin the furniture.

So, she wandered around the endless space of her dreams now, every step holding the beginning of a new journey. It was a large and open plain, surrounded by blue snow-tipped mountains that faded into the night sky. Trees dotted the landscape, shading the grass from the effulgence above. Each star in the sky flickered in their own individual brilliance, encompassing the moon that stared at her, craters and all. There was no wind, but it was chilly. Monica folded her arms to combat this, and began walking inside her own imagination. She wore her favorite nightgown, but nothing more: Lavender, silk, and spaghetti straps. She took in the scene before her; it was a beautiful place, countering the hustle and bustle of New York. She was missing one thing, however: Company. If this truly was a dream, she could just conjure someone up, right? Yet no matter how much she pictured someone- anyone- nothing came. So much for doing her best.

Alone again.

Monica decided to casually stroll over to a lone oak tree, and drag herself down the bark to sit. Her elbows rested capriciously on her huddled knees as she looked on the peaceful horizon. Any sign of life would be welcome, but at the same time, nothing could compare to the solitude this magical place had brought her. The hues of blue gently flowed with the malachite that colored the soil. It was stunning; if only she could capture it. It was strange, how the mind itself was both a blank canvas and a paintbrush. Or, in Monica's case, a pot and a wooden spoon.

She could imagine her friends; but couldn't create them yet, despite having the power to create anything she wanted with a little willpower. The things she could do, if she had done things differently...

The sound of rustling grass behind her pulled her from her reverie.

"Chandler?" Like a reflex, she twisted her body to the right, unsure of why she yelled his name. To think of how much she had scared him that day: The way he had trouble even looking at her, the way he bit his tongue in order to stop from saying how stupid she was, and the way his fingers ran through his hair, made her nauseous. Of course it was stupid to believe that he'd feel the same way she did. It'd be much too easy. God forbid she'd have a fling, or even a last-minute boyfriend in her time of trouble. Someone to cry on. Someone to share the pain. Someone to absorb her tears for her. But alas, there was nothing.

Nothing but Ross and Rachel, lying down in the grass together, hands interlaced like the lovebirds they are.

"Look, Rach!" Ross pointed toward the sky, at the shooting star that was now propelling itself through the ocean of time. It left a rainbow that gently drizzled its way toward the mountains below, covering it like a blanket.

Rachel looked at it, mesmerized. "Make a wish, honey..."

He sighed, turning his head to face her. "You already came true."

Monica's mouth opened in disgust, ready to vomit. Did he really just say that to her? How much cheesier could that have been? It was like reading a romance novel, and comparing it to real life; which meant that it was contrived and unrealistic. But once you finished it, you felt nice and warm inside.

But only Ross would say something like that.

He was the biggest dork in the world; but, he was her dork. As she told Monica one evening after a date, he was the greatest boyfriend she ever had. He cared about her. Ross didn't care about looks, or money, or social status. He liked Rachel for her heart.

Both of them appreciated that.

In all truth, however, he was also the greatest brother anyone could ask for. He defended Monica from whomever would pick on her, even go so far as to put his hands up like he was ready to fight. He'd get food for her when she was bored. He'd tutor her in whatever she needed help with in school. But for some reason, Monica couldn't shake the feeling of illness when she looked at the perfect couple, who now leaned in and gave each other a long, passionate kiss.

They looked so cute.

If only she had a relationship like that. Guaranteed, she had Richard, but that was doomed from the start. He was so much older than her, and he didn't want the same things she did. Even that little thing they had a month ago was a folly, albeit a very pleasuring one.

If there was one word to describe her life, it would be unlucky.

She'd still recall those moments where her life could have gone a better direction. If she could go back, she would. The decisions she made were not at all smart or well-thought out; Monica was more of an in-the-moment person, unless it came to weddings or children. Although, she did see that part of being human was living with your choices; something she didn't want to do, which was one of the many reasons she tried to kill herself. When it failed, not only did she lose more faith in the world, but she was irritated by everything.

Monica gave the lobsters the dirtiest of looks; Joey dirty, in fact, but they didn't see her. So she decided to crawl over to them, reaching her hand out to grab Ross's gelled hair. It was no surprise her heart stopped as it fell right through him and crashed against the loam, now soaked by tiny water droplets. This was weird. Her arm was inside his head, but it became evident that he really wasn't there; he was a figment of Monica's wild imagination. She waved once again, with the same results. Once more, and Monica overextended herself, falling into the wet pasture due to lack of balance. She hesitantly looked back up, skin glistening with Adam's ale, and there was nothing.

Spirit shaken, she carefully stood up and wiped away what little dirt was on her. If she was going to see hallucinations in this twisted little meadow, she might as well be clean. She was good at being clean, right? And obsessive? Fanatical?

Good. It would come in handy as she cleaned the apartment constantly, not questioning as to why her life was falling apart before her eyes. When she'd go to the diner, she'd hop up onto that table and be the best dancer she could. That's all she knew how to be. The best.

Monica sauntered forward, going in whatever direction the wind breezed her. After watching her bare feet for perhaps an hour, her fragile soul snapped from reliving the experience, and she fell to the ground, her chimera turning dark.

Once she'd awoken, dozens of flashing lights, the clicking of cameras, and heavy applause attacked her senses. Monica's eyes fluttered open to see the dull brown carpet below her black pumps, and the legs of the gray folding chairs in front of her. Her chin rested heavily in her hand. The light that beamed from outside told her she was now on an island, which was not too shabby. Looking forward to see the commotion, her brain began functioning again, as she hurriedly forged a backstory for this particular dream. The three hour speech Ross had made would put any sane person to sleep; but it felt like she was the only one who was even bored. Thankfully, it was over. Ross stood at his podium, shaking the hand of some old geezer. He smiled at her, and all around her, at his friends, family, and colleagues. Must've been proud of himself, she thought. No one can ramble on about dinosaurs or tectonic plates like he could.

He smiled as half the room took his picture holding a very large check.

Nine hundred thousand dollars.

For discovering a bone? In Who-The-Hell-Cares, Timbuktu?

Turning left to right, Rachel, Chandler, Joey, and Phoebe were all cheering for him, so she decided it was best to be happy for her brother as well; even though she was more envious than happy. No one would give her almost a million dollars for cooking authentic Maine lobster, because that's not a world-changing discovery or an explanation of how something works. It didn't matter.

It reminded her as to why she became a chef in the first place: Her salary was pitiful, she dealt with incompetent chefs and waiters, and while she worked at Moondance, she had to dance on the counter like some floozy. Her previous thoughts about being 'the best' had escaped her. Fake breasts and a wig were part of her routine. It was more than degrading, and it barely paid the bills. She's just lucky that she loved food more than anything else.

However, this was not the time to hate her life. This was the time to congratulate Ross on his.

As she stood up from the aluminum trap, Monica nearly fell over from a head rush. She staggered into the aisle with the rest of her friends, and walked up to a bouncing Ross. He had more than a grin on his face, like he had just won the lottery. Monica pecked him on the cheek and flatly congratulated him, and gazed at the hypnotizing peach cream wall in front of her. Rachel was behind her. She knew that she was going to give him the most romantic kiss in the world; Monica couldn't watch.

But she couldn't resist. Taking a deep breath, Monica turned around. Like she thought, Ross held Rachel in his arms, the check seemingly vanished, like this was some sort of dream. His lips collided with hers in what could only be described as complete ecstasy.

It was at that moment that it hit her; she was seeing exactly what she wanted to see. Monica was jealous. She wanted to be kissed like that. Not by Ross, of course, but by anyone. It looked so wonderful, so pleasing, and so... gross. It drove Monica to her breaking point. She hadn't been kissed like that since Julio; and he definitely wasn't worth it.

Her body shivered at the sight. With all of her will, she wished it away. She implored it to go and leave her to suffer in silence. It did what she wanted. The room melted away, everyone inside with it. It was just darkness that surrounded her now, as she was finally in control of her own thoughts; something she took great joy in, as this was usually the case.

Monica then created a mental of herself, at her wedding. To whomever; she didn't care. Maybe this would work. And it did. It was her time to shine, her time to be the blushing bride.

The man before her was a little taller than her, dressed in a black tuxedo with a lightly striped golden polyester jacquard vest. His bow tie hung somewhat loosely around his neck, and his pants were unhitched, hovering just above his black wingtips. Unfortunately, that was all she could see of him; his face was blank and he had no hair. But that didn't matter. This was about her. This was her day, even if it wasn't real.

Monica's shimmering chiffon milky-white dress clung to her like dust on a vase. Her bare shoulders scintillated in the torchlight, and her cardinal lips went well with the ivory teeth that concealed them until she smiled at her soon-to-be husband. She glimpsed at the rows of empty chairs, pretending people are looking at her. They were green with envy.

Her eyes leered at the gentleman before her. He was so handsome as he placed the golden sapphire ring upon her finger, declaring his eternal love, in this life and the next.

You may now kiss the bride.

With that, he leaned in, and planted a tender kiss on her lips. She closed her eyes, reveling in the moment. The applause in her head smothered her, and the violins' tune reverberated throughout the depths of her psyche, sending a surge of warmth through her entire body, down to her heels. The jubilation she felt was mimicked as her delicate hands rested on the man's firm chest, like a dandelion hitting a pillow. His rough and strong hands laid mildly on the diamond studded waist of her dress, deliberately holding her against him. It felt so right, and she couldn't believe that she was getting married. Despite this not being her dream wedding, even though it was her dream, Monica could not be happier. This was something she'd gladly not wake from.

As her spouse pulled away, Monica's eyes still remained closed. But soon, her head rested against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, slow yet loud. She nearly collapsed from the heat, and it seemed that he noticed this as well. He pulled away yet again, but this time, it only became hotter. It was burning up. Dangerously so. Once again, she had to abort the phantasm, escaping the torridity for good. As the final shred of the man who married her disintegrated, she caught a faint whiff of something.

Tobacco.

Her eyes shot open, hoping to see him.

However, the only thing she saw the pale orange wall she was staring at earlier- and the subsequent hole she had just made through it.

The beautiful wedding gown she was wearing had disappeared, along with her wedding band. Hoping that she wasn't correct, Monica slowly looked down; she was naked. This didn't help her at all. She turned around, hoping to have a good dream for once, only to see Ross, Rachel, and two hundred other people staring at her. She was embarrassed beyond belief, but the shock had concealed her true color: Anger.

Rachel was wearing the dress- the dress- the one she was wearing just a second ago. This wasn't supposed to be happening. She was supposed to be in control. Now, however, her imagination was slipping from her hands, like sand beneath the sea. She would not take this anymore. Monica lashed at her best friend in rage, ready to claw the gown off of her by any means necessary. But like in the dreamland earlier, she fell right through the apparition of Rachel, crashing to the cold, unforgiving floor, laced with cherry blossoms that taunted her barren frame.

She slammed her fist into the ground, which destroyed the shameful mirage.

The darkness had come around her again, ready to form what she wanted; within it's own reason, of course.

But all she wanted to do was wake up.

She closed her eyes one last time, and felt a somewhat heavy weight in her arms. A disarming sound cut the tension for her; a baby cooing. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard in her life. As she cracked her eyes open, the big black pupils that stared back at were brimming with live. The toothless smile that was showing shut the world out. Nothing was ever as good as taking care of a child. It was wrapped in a white linen cloth, which smelled fresher than her own sock drawer. The tiny strands of hair that laid upon this baby- presumably a girl- hovered close to her eyes, dangling soothingly over her long and beautiful eyelashes. It had to have been Monica's. The black hair, the black eyes, the smooth skin... It was Monica's. Definitely. The hatred she carried disappeared like a dust bunny.

She gave her daughter a soft kiss on the forehead as she laid down on the couch, holding her gorgeous gift to the world up. She was an angel, sent from the heavens to fulfill the only thing Monica ever wanted. She didn't need a husband, not when she had a child whom she could protect, coddle, and love forever.

It was perfect.

The door to the apartment swung open, revealing a very tired Ross. He walked over to Monica, who had sat up when he entered, pulling out his wallet. Handing her a hundred dollar bill, Ross closed his wallet and stuffed it back into his pocket before taking the baby from her arms into his own.

"Thanks, Mon. See you tomorrow."

She blinked, unaware if what just happened actually happened. "U-Uh... What?"

Ross replied, taking out a bottle from a bag behind them. "Yeah, Rachel and I have Monday off, so we're going shopping, remember?"

Monica's heart sank with denial, not wanting to see what her eyes could. "N-No..."

Ross fed the sweet child bottled breast milk, before glancing back at her. "Well, we are. Here's a little extra, just in case." He took out his wallet again, and handed her a twenty. Waving goodbye, he left, baby in tow.

Monica froze, like she had been dipped in carbonite. That was not her child. That was their child. She was just babysitting. Babysitting.

Her teeth began grinding as her fists clenched. What kind of sick game is this? Why does her mind play with her like she's a chew toy that will just be tossed into the trash when it's on the ground in pieces? Monica wanted to cry, but she wouldn't let herself show weakness.

Not even to herself.

She didn't deserve this. She really didn't. Why was this happening to her? Who did she slaughter in a past life?

Monica just wished her heart would stop beating. She could dream forever, and they would all be good dreams. Because she wouldn't be on this earth, having emotions that kept her crushed underneath the yolk of society. She wanted her freedom. She didn't care how she got it. All the jealousy, pain, greed, etc. would just disappear from her life.

Nothing was easy, it seemed.

The harder she ran from everything, the faster everything chased her.

Maybe, there was another way.

It would be harder than anything, and she knew she would regret it.

But anything was better than this.

So when she told her arm to roll over, it did. When she told her lips to part, they did. If she was going down, it would be on her feet, fighting, not laying in a dingy hospital bed, crying for help. Monica chose to resist herself.

Her worst enemy.

Once the chains had been loosened, she saw the mistake for what it truly was: A mistake. She was tough; that much was sure. Besides, if she was going to commit suicide again, she'd say good-bye to her friends this time. She'd tell them she loved them, cared about them, and would die for them. She'd cook one last meal, and hug them with all the love she could give.

That would be a final test of her strength.

So when the pain in her arm halted her movement, she struck it down like a true warrior would when faced with adversity. When she felt the familiar hand of her brother hold her back, she kicked at him like a stubborn girl who didn't get what she wanted.

When she heard her mother's voice, she opened her eyes, and locked on to her newest target.

Her weapon of choice?

A crooked smile.