In the End

The Way the Ball Bounces

"Play with this," Andy Barclay says.

It's been years since he's seen the boy, and he's no longer little, nor innocent.

He's full grown, a beard on his face, giving away the years that have gone by. There is a different sort of spark in his eyes; when he had first met him those eyes were full of hopes and sweet dreams. They looked down at him now with an angry fire snapping across the irises. There are bags beneath them, tale-telling of many lost nights of sleep. There are frown lines between his brows. His mouth is turned down at the corners, and his jaw is twitching. His voice is much deeper, much rougher; the way he says his name sounds more like a bark than of another human calling to him. He doesn't know why, but something suddenly causes his stomach to churn at the way the man says his name.

He is surprised at himself for what is going on within him in this very moment. He is shocked, surely, but he cannot seem to place just how disorienting this is for him. The fact that tiny Andy Barclay is now grown and in front of him, with a shotgun aimed right at him, and not even a flicker or question on his soon to be made decision in any part of his body, is alarming. It is almost frightening.

He isn't sure how he feels about it.

When Andy had been young, they had played cops and robbers once before. There hadn't been any space to do it outdoors, so they had done it in the apartment that Andy and his mother had lived in. They'd only played it when Andy's mother wasn't around to scold Andy for running indoors, and when she could not see the boy's little playmate come to life. Andy had always been the cop, and they would run through the little hallways and into the bedrooms and around the kitchen counters. Chucky would hide behind the couch or the doors and jump out just as Andy would run past, calling out to him that he had gone the wrong direction. Andy would be breathless with laughter by the time the doll would relent and let him win, but when it had come time for him to "shoot" Chucky, he could not bring himself to do it, even though the doll had explained to him that it was only pretend. He'd put up shaky little hands in the form of a gun, but he'd never make the sound of a gunshot. He'd just stand there and hold his hands out, staring wide-eyed at the doll.

"Can't do it, Chucky," he'd whimpered out then, much to the doll's bewilderment. "Can't hurt you, you're my friend."

Hadn't he called Andy a pussy then, or something equally as cruel?

Hadn't he always pushed the boy around, as much as the boy had pulled him close and made his yearning for his friendship known? Hadn't he not needed the boy's attention to the point that he wanted to end himself whenever the boy held on tighter to him? Hadn't he always used the boy, tore him down, broken him, done everything that would be done to keep the boy away from his heart?

Small Andy Barclay had always worn his own heart on his sleeve, and he had taken that into his clutches and maimed it underneath his selfish claws, and he could see the scars in the way the man's eyes wavered with anger and- or so he selfishly hoped- hurt.

The apartment is spinning to him. He had seen the pictures, had slowly begun to place where he was before the man had arrived on the scene. He had heard a voice on the phone as he had fought his way out of the box he had been packaged into. But he hadn't recognized it, the voice of this man now. He only realized who was there in front of him when he looked up and saw his eyes.

He had always tried to keep away from him, and yet he had always chased after him. What an ironic situation he had always put himself in, shoving the boy away but appearing in every moment of his life. Time had proven, again and again, that somehow, and for some reason, they were undoubtedly intertwined now, and he could not escape it anymore.

He isn't even sure he quite wanted to escape it anymore, from the way he can only stand there, dumbfounded, at how much Andy had changed. It is such a stupid and infuriating thing, but suddenly he cannot think of anywhere else he'd rather be than right here with Andy, even as his life is on the brink of being terminated in just a fleeting moment. Even with all the differences, he can see the little boy in the man now, and he wants to live in that memory again, wants to be with that boy again. He feels cheated, as if he should have been there to watch the transformation from boy to man, and he wants to make someone pay for his absence, but there is no one to blame but himself. Nostalgia hits him suddenly like a wave, and he cannot not push out the memories of being with the boy from his mind, and he cannot not stop the realized need for this moment to freeze and stay this way, even if just for a mere second. He cannot stop his head from spinning, or his eyes from prickling. He cannot stop the panic rising from his throat, a scream forming deep in his larynx. He cannot not stop his heart from tearing open underneath his ribcage and bleed beneath his flesh. He cannot stop the heat from leaving his body, and he feels so terribly cold, and he aches so violently, and suddenly a familiar embrace has never been so wanted, and suddenly he feels so desperate-

"Andy..." he chokes out so suddenly, so pleadingly, feeling as if he cannot breathe, and the man has not even pulled the trigger yet.