In the End

Monkey On Back

He feels nothing but a steady and comforting rhythm. Minutes, hours even, go by.

He wakes before Andy does.

He is still sprawled out across the man's chest from all his previous heavy lifting. He pushes himself upward and away, rolling over and dragging his hands across his face. He should have left hours ago.

But then Andy hums, waking, and as he stirs, the doll sees them. The scars.

He hadn't seen them before, when he had been preoccupied with putting Andy to bed and trying to make a hasty escape. He hadn't been paying attention. But in his sleep, Andy had managed to rumple his clothes just so, and now he sees them, the scars.

They are criss-crossed, just below his palms, every which way: some a bright, irritated red, others an inflamed purple, and some even a recovering brown, but they are all across from left to right- or right to left. He doesn't know. He knows they are there- deep and shallow ones- and that some are old, and some are new, and that some are in between. The tell-tales of a bad habit.

A self-inflictive sort of bad habit.

The man blinks himself awake, and he gets just a glimpse of those eyes again. And it is too late.

Andy turns away and vomits over the side of the bed. Chucky sits there, frozen, and waits as the man dry-heaves for the next few minutes, and slowly sits up and leans against the bed frame, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Andy's hands are trembling as he rests one on the mattress and rubs the other across his temple. He looks over for a second, and his brows furrow.

"You're still here."

It's said as a question more than a fact. There is a soft groan, and a softer sigh.

"I'm still here."

The bed squeaks underneath them as Andy weakly attempts to stand, only to shake against the bed post and fall back down again. Oddly enough, the doll almost feels queasy with him, as if Andy's intoxication is contagious. As if Chucky had drank along with him. His mouth feels dry and there is the most infuriating rushing in between his ears.

When Andy tries to rise again, he finally speaks.

"Don't."

Andy gives him a look of confusion, and stronger than that, repulse. But he sits anyways, clutching his stomach in the crook of his arm and pulling his knees up and his head back. He shuts his eyes, and he's breathing softly, and then he's reaching into the drawer on the side, pulling out a small flask.

Chucky is incredulous. "You really think that's a fucking good idea, after that stunt you just pulled out there?" he snorts.

There's the look again. "And?" the man grunts, trying to unscrew the lid. It takes several tries before Andy seems to realize his hands are not quite coordinated enough to get it open, and he tosses it against the floor, frustrated.

Their eyes meet when Andy turns. "Why are you still here, then?" Andy questions. His eyes appear sharp, calculating. It's the coldest expression the doll has seen on the boy's face. The man doesn't even give him a chance to respond.

Not that he could think of anything to say in the moment, anyways.

"You didn't off me when you had the chance."

"Like I'd let you go that easy, Andy," Chucky leers. "That would be all too good for you, wouldn't it, to just be able to escape like that. Wouldn't it have so fucking nice for you, to leave this poor, suffering life of yours?"

He crosses his arms and gives the man what he thinks is a threatening once-over. "I'll never give you the fucking pleasure."

Andy is not impressed, nor does he appear intimidated. "Huh," he mutters. Then he shrugs, only to groan in pain and lie back again. As he lifts his arms to cover his face, Chucky sees them again. The scars.