In the End

Three Sheets to the Wind

And then he does.

There is a loud and terrible noise, and a whistling flying by. The doll is sure this is his temporary end. He had already shut his eyes and, quick as lightning, ducked. But it wouldn't have mattered, even if he hadn't. The man's shot is off by a good several inches, and the bullet flies on its own course into the wall just above the picture frame of the boy and his mother. In the silence, the television blares on without a care in the world.

"Ah," Andy laughs, along with the track on the television. As if he is watching what is on and laughing at the joke. Just a relaxing sort of everyday routine.

That is when Chucky looks up again.

His laugh, Andy's laugh, starts out small, just a short escape of breath. It grows, and it seems to devour the place, but instead of light, the place seems to darken like the shadows that grow long in the evening. There is an empty and dry ringing in the sound. Andy's hands are shaking, and as the rifle clatters to the floor, he leans forward into the table and pounds it once with his fists. His laughter gains on to the point that he is in hysterics, and then he takes one step back, only to collapse to the floor with his weapon of choice, his knees to his elbows and his hands to his face.

"So you're here," he's saying now, breathless. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are crazed. "After all this time. I always knew."

Chucky continues to find himself at a loss for a response.

Andy has laid his head into his knees now, groaning, "I'm so dizzy," he whispers, as if they are still friends, and he is merely sharing a secret. A fraternity brother speaking of a wild deed he's done in confidence. He is still laughing, but it is broken up by sudden and violent coughing. His hands reach for his mouth to stifle it, but his body still quakes with the intensity of it.

There, on the counter. Chucky sees it now, the culprit of the man's insane behavior. A bottle of four roses lies at the edge, opened and empty, the lid nowhere to be seen. Next to it stands generic cough syrup, also showing signs of being consumed. It is a recipe for disaster.

He is still clutching the knife in his hand.

This is his moment, it dawns on him suddenly. He has dreamed of this before, of finally finding himself in a position where he held the upper hand, and Andy was utterly at his mercy. The time is now, and he becomes aware that it is now he must strike. He steps out of the box, the package insulation crackling against his thigh as he climbs over the side. He walks across the table and hops down, relieved to see that the man is too inebriated to notice the effort it took him to make the jump.

And then he crosses to Andy's side, and the man still does not move.

The doll is annoyed to hear the television continue with its fanfare, as if nothing is wrong. He is annoyed with Andy's laissez-faire behavior. Something is wrong. Everything is wrong. The setting, the timing, the moments leading to this one- there is a cog missing in the machine. There is something leaving him unsatisfied with what is presented to him. He cannot simply do away with the man while he is feeling so unsettled with the picture before him.

Andy must have known what he was doing. He must have known the danger of mixed medication and alcohol. He has known Andy for a while by now, and he knows with a certainty that Andy Barclay is not an idiot. The state he is currently in was premeditated. But the why is not there; he can't seem to fathom what would make the man want to put himself at such a risk just before a showdown he was anticipating. Had he planned to take down the both of them in one melodramatic blow?

Nonsense. It could not be. Andy would have wanted the last word, the final blow. Chucky thinks to himself that somehow, Andy has merely miscalculated the effects of his erratic consumption in an attempt to brave this moment. Perhaps he had thought that the intoxication would assist him in racking up the courage to end it all, once and for all. "Well, well, well, Andy, it seems that this is the end, friend," he mocks, repeating the boy's words from so long ago.

He had hoped it would have awoken the right sort of feeling in him. A good ending to the cycle between them. But it feels hollow coming from his chest. He blames it on his vessel.

Andy laughs again, and it startles him. It alarms him. It seems to echo the empty feeling he feels inside, and this is a disturbing connection. His grip on the knife tightens as he tries to steady his hand.

Slow or quick, how should Andy go? The years of torment he had been through because of this boy- this man- deserved a proper vengeance, so perhaps a slow and torturous death equal to his own suffering would suffice. But on the other hand, he had lingered in finishing the boy off before, and it had never gotten him anywhere at all. It had only continued the cycle. A quick death would get the job done. He cannot decide, there are pros and cons to either way, and even as his mind screams that he wants Andy dead, somewhere he feels a persistent not yet! screeching in his ears. His hand hesitates, uncertain which sound he should heed.

The man drops completely to the floor, hands to his head, his fingers completely intertwined in his hair. His forehead is damp, and his breath is rattled and labored. He coughs, and coughs, and coughs, and blood spatters out. For the first time, the sight of it leaves the murderer nauseous, and Chucky has to look away in the attempt to regain himself. He knows this is highly unlike him.

There is not a doubt about it now. There is something terribly wrong, and he does not know how to fix it. He only knows that he must.

The empty bottle's mouth is still wet, but just one drop hangs at the edge. Chucky stares at it for the longest time in a deep concentration before realizing he is hoping it does not fall. He is almost praying that it stays there, and somehow miraculously fights it way back into the mouth and slides down the neck, where it will remain until someone drinks it and enjoys the lingering warmth it gives.

"If you want me so much, why don't you just take me already?" Andy sputters just as his eyes slip shut.

The drop of whiskey hits the floor with a silent splash, but to the doll, it is the loudest sound in the room.