SUICIDE
Chandler pushed his hand underneath Lucas's mattress, fishing for the shard of glass Lucas had pressed against Chandler's neck on the night of the rape. Finding it, Chandler sat on his bed, staring at it. Taking a deep breath, he pressed it into his wrist. The sharp sting felt soothing. It was nice to feel a pain other than emotional pain. He ran the glass down from the top of his wrist, to above his elbow, tracing the vein, opening up his skin.
The sharp pain was excruciatingly satisfying. Chandler felt pleased to see the blood gushing out of his arm. Soon it would all be over, this emotional pain. The gang-rape, the prison, the false accusations from his goddaughter. Chandler felt himself slipping away. His mind was getting heavy, his thoughts were getting cloudy; the fluorescent prison lights were growing dimmer. His life flashed before him. He saw everyone near and dear to his heart. Ross, Rachel, Joey, Phoebe, his parents, Monica, Erica, Jack.
Monica. Erica. Jack.
This would destroy them. He couldn't leave Monica a widow; and he couldn't leave his children fatherless. They would never recover from this. It would be a cruel and horrible thing for him to leave them behind. He loved them so much.
Just like that, he changed his mind. What the hell had he been thinking, betraying them like that?
Fighting against the fog of unconsciousness closing in on him, he rummaged through his cell, blood pouring out of his wound. He snatched up an orange jacket and bandaged it over his wound. He stumbled out of the cell, desperate to find a guard to take him to the prison hospital. He called out dizzily to the people around him, and collapsed on the cement floor, blacking out, in a pool of his own blood.
On top of shifts as an Ophthalmologist at the state hospital, Dr Richard Burke spent his free time volunteering as a General Practitioner at the prison hospital. He had plenty of free time, given that he was still a single man. The prison guards wheeled an unconscious prisoner into the room. Richard did a double-take of utter shock as he recognised the familiar face before him.
Good God, Chandler Bing? What's he doing in prison? What the hell has happened to the poor bastard?
It had been years since Richard had spoken to Monica. She had always been the one that got away. After all these years, and an endless stream of girlfriends, in his eyes, none ever matched up to Monica. After all these years, he still held a candle up to Monica. Richard knew Monica had married Chandler, but any subsequent events in her life, he knew nothing about.
Snapping out of his private reverie, Richard hastily got to work. He removed the blood-soaked jacket from Chandler's arm, cleaned the wound with iodine solution, injected the arm with painkillers, sewed the wound with dissolvable thread, and wrapped the arm with gauze bandage. Richard tended to other patients, while he waited for Chandler to come to.
Chandler's eyes fluttered open. He squinted against the bright hospital lights. Glancing around the room, he felt utterly relieved to realise he was still alive. What a stupid, foolish, selfish thing he had done, he chided himself. He thanked God he had survived, and hadn't left his wife and kids alone in the world.
He saw a tall, handsome man with ashy black hair, and a prominent moustache walk towards him. My God, was it really him? Richard Burke, the love of Monica's life? Richard squeezed Chandler's hand warmly.
"Chandler, how are you feeling?" he asked sympathetically.
"Richard? Is that you?"
"Yes it is. I didn't think we'd ever see each other again. Are you still married to that beautiful wife of yours?"
Chandler nodded. Knowing Chandler had attempted suicide; Richard was keen on highlighting the positives of Chandler's life, so Chandler would know he had something to live for.
"Well, you're a lucky man, Chandler. She's always been the one that got away. I've never stopped loving her, and she's never stopped loving you. In fact, almost touching pensioners age, I'm still a bachelor, so it looks like I'm the one who's choking on his own moustache," Richard spoke kindly, jokingly reiterating the amusing phrase he'd heard Chandler use often, so many years ago.
"Yes, I'm a lucky man," Chandler whispered.
"Would you like to see her? I haven't notified her yet; as I wasn't sure what you wanted me to do." If Monica found out Chandler had attempted suicide, it would emotionally shatter her. No, for her sake, she could never know.
"No, don't call her; I don't want her to know I did this to myself, it would tear her up."
"I understand. But is there anyone else close to you that you'd like to call? I really think you could use some emotional support right now."
Chandler thought about it. From what he knew, it seemed Phoebe had some personal experience with sexual assault, having been spit in the mouth by a pimp. She was also probably, emotionally the toughest of them all, what with all her street-life experience. She seemed like the perfect person to confide in.
"Call Phoebe Buffay."