In the End

Venus in Furs

It's the telephone that wakes Andy up again.

It was the noise that woke him up this morning as well.

He groans and rubs his eyes, sitting up slowly. His back is aching. He can't remember right away, why his entire body seems to move in such slow motion, and then he feels something warm rising up his throat, and he's retching over the edge of the bed again, and then he remembers. He had drank. He had mixed an over the counter drug with strong alcohol.

He is not supposed to be here anymore. The plan was for him to just slip out of existence, to no longer be.

But then- his mind stops. What happened? He rubs his temples and drags his hands over his face, trying to regain enough consciousness to think through his morning. The telephone is still ringing. It seems to grow louder and louder as he tries to recall the events before now. He had been drinking, the television had been on- it is still on, he can hear it- and he had been speaking with his mother on the phone. Then he'd hung up. He'd had a shotgun in his hand; why had he had a shotgun in his hand?

He remembers. The phone goes to voicemail.

"Chucky," he growls. His throat is burning, and the moment he speaks aloud, he is coughing into a clenched and shaking fist, his body rendered helpless to it until it mercifully subsides.

"...we're calling concerning your mother, Karen Barclay. Due to a sudden severe episode, she will be held for further observation until a later date..."

He tries to feel pain. But there is nothing there.

It's happened so many times by now, he expects nothing less, nothing more. It's as mundane as writing his shopping list every week, or showing up at his job every morning. It is another normal occurrence, and he wishes that it still hurt the way it did the first time, but he is so tired of aching all the time, and so instead, never aches for anything.

He will visit her and bring her flowers, and talk to her to try and lift her spirits. She will pat his hand, tell him she loves him, and for him to take care of himself, and he will return the sentiments. They will go on like this, small talks and words thrown carelessly back and forth until they have neither use nor meaning again. Then he will leave, saying he has something to do, somewhere to be- whether he truly does or not. She will act as if she does not know that he just wants to leave the place, the white walls and the white beds and the plain, endless hallways.

She will pretend that she does not yearn for the same freedoms, and he will pretend he does not notice her pretending.

But for now, he stays seated on his bed, tilted forward just enough so that if he does need to vomit again, it will not fall on the sheets.

It hadn't gone the way he'd planned. He had seen Chucky coming, of course, he always did. But he hadn't tried to end his life, or at least, had done a piss-poor job of it. Andy thinks to himself that it has always been this way, that the doll had never really been very competent at such a simple task. He had always spit threats and come with some strange fire in his eyes, but it had always been snuffed out. What a waste that must be.

He is not supposed to be here.

He stands, very slowly. His head is pounding, and now all that he wants is to clear the noise and eat, or drink water from the tap, anything to make it stop. He keeps a firm grip on the bedpost until he is certain that he can maintain his balance, and takes cautious steps out from his bedroom into the kitchen. Where it had all gone askew.

The box is still on the table. He doesn't touch it.

He finds a glass, somewhere in the cabinetry, and runs more than likely lukewarm water into it. Or around it. He isn't entirely too sure, and at this moment, does not care, so long as he can get some small portion of liquid to erase the soreness of his cottonmouth. He lowers his head and slowly pushes the edge of the cup against his lips, taking in the coolness of the smooth rim before slowly, slowly, tipping his head back to drink. There is a surprising amount of water in it, and he sloppily takes it in. Some water dribbles out from the corners of his mouth and down his chin, down his neck, into his shirt.