In the End

He Fights Like Freud

"They have no idea, Andy, it's terrible," his mother says, and she is blowing her nose. It is red and dry, because she has irritated it from crying so much.

He knows, immediately, what's happened. He does not know how to tell her he knows, nor how to tell her he can only feel relief that the nurse is gone. It is wrong to speak ill of the dead, but no one ever said anything about thinking it. So think it he does, and he does not tell her either of these things.

"That is terrible," he lies, and he tries not to think about how horrible that nurse has made him feel, whenever he came to visit before. He tries not to think about how forced her smile was, or how she would glance his way in an almost disdainful way, so that he nearly lost his courage and ran out of the building to hide in the comfort of his own home. It was terrible. She was terrible. Terrible was a good word to use.

"...don't you think, Andy?"

He has missed what she said, and when he asks and she repeats, he wishes he hadn't. Truth be told, he does not care about what happened to her, as horrid as that is, and had he had the chance, he would allow it to happen again, more horrid as that is. Or perhaps he wouldn't. Maybe he would attempt to save her.

But that would mean opening a Pandora's Box. And he'd kept it locked for years now. No, he probably would have done nothing about it.

"You can always ask to come home, you know," he says, his mind still in another place. He rubs her quaking shoulder and this is genuine, his love for his mother. "You could always come stay with me, if they'd let you."

Karen Barclay's eyes are shining with tears, and she sniffles again. Her crying seems to have calmed. "You know they won't, Andy," she replies softly, a tender hand on his cheek. It is cold and shaking, but he welcomes it all the same.

He knows. He and his mother know the truth, and to the world, it is a crazy declaration. He does not have enough friends to worry about them finding out his past, but as long as his mother continues to fight for him, they will keep her here, locked away equal to a rabid animal. It is unfair, and he wishes he were here instead of her, but he knows it would only cause her more pain to say it. He does not mention what happened in the apartment, knowing that would cause her more pain as well.

"I know," he says, finally, and she leans her head in the crook of his neck. They sit like this for a while, the hospital slowly clearing out the press and the police, and falling back into the routine that it knows and loves. Andy watches them all walk by through the open door, just hearing the voices without the words.

It is hard to leave her when he does. The nurses and the clerk assure him his mother will be safe, but their placations are unnecessary. He knows already, that Chucky will not be back here again, at least not for a while. He is hardly surprised that Chucky had been here in the first place; it was just like him to try and attack the one person Andy held dearly still.

However, it begged the question as to why Chucky did not take his mother's life. Andy shrugs it off as incompetency, and heads for home, his eyes focused only on the path ahead of him.

He is nearly home when his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He pulls it out after it rings for a third time, hastily sliding open the lock screen. He doesn't bother to see who it is.

"It's Andy," he says, still making his way to the door.

"Andy, hey- I just heard what happened. Are you both alright?" It's Kristen. She doesn't even have to say. He hasn't saved her number, even though he should. But it isn't as if he would ever call. He does not need to anyways; she is always there to initiate conversation, rendezvous, and the like.