In the End

In for a Penny, In for a Pound

This is a mistake. That's all Andy can think. He has made a terrible mistake. He feels dark, and dirty, but he is secretly glad this man does not breathe anymore. As many times as he suffocated him while he was stuck behind a customer service smile, it's almost fitting that now, he will never take another breath. It is the worst thing he has ever thought since his dismissal of his mother's nurse's death, and he hates the way it creeps around him almost comfortably.

Five hours later, the deed is done, and Andy's heart is buried just about as deep as the body, thudding in the pit of his stomach. The settling of the sun just outside his window seems fitting to the way the guilt sinks him down.

It is almost ludicrous, what he has done, but Chucky has left him with no choice. He supposes he could take a moral road, call law enforcement, and take the blame. But it would not be honest, and the true criminal would run free again, and more people would be hurt. Or killed. No – it was better to keep outside bars, where he could try his best to keep Chucky reigned in.

He knows that is not the whole truth, but the dark underbelly of it all frightens him. Along with his other emotions he has buried long ago, in order to keep himself safe, there are some that he has kept locked away to keep others safe. As long as he is fixated on fighting everything that Chucky is and stands for, in a way, he is victoriously battling over his own inner demons.

"Take off your clothes, asshole."

Or so he'd like to think.

He whips around in the midst of his reverie, facing his reflection. Chucky has hopped onto the bathroom counter, already in a shirt that is his. The way it hangs off Chucky's knees would be comical, even endearing, if they were two entirely different people in an entirely different situation. That being one that did not include parts of what was once a breathing life now pushing daisies.

"What?" he asks anyways, despite not wanting to talk to Chucky at all. There is a tight tension in his chest, and he feels as if he needs to vomit.

"Your clothes," Chucky reiterates, cocking his head to one side. There is the same scowl set on his face that Andy has always known, and he can never tell if the glint in his eyes is angry, methodical, or defensive. He gestures with a nonchalant head nod, but Andy cannot help but to feel that Chucky is sizing him up. It only sets him on a sharp edge. "Take them off."

Andy scowls at him, that angry rush still deep inside. He can hear it roaring. "Why are you wearing my shirt?" he asks, although he does not care at all about that. It is the least of his worries when concerning Chucky. He sucks in a small breath, trying to count himself down, breathe - breathe - breathe.

"Because I'm erasing evidence, jackass," Chucky says, and now he is staring Andy down, more than likely wondering if Andy has truly lost all signs of intelligence. Andy scoffs, turns away, and exits the bathroom. He does not want to be near the doll-humanoid any more than he can help.

"Throw those clothes away!" Chucky's voice echoes thunderously off the walls of his small apartment. Andy feels his hatred for it and the way it reverberates through the marrow of his bones, and yet, left with his ultimatum, retreats into his bedroom, peeling of his clothes one piece at a time, searching through his overturned room for a fresh outfit.

Kristen would be horrified that he had agreed to this, but he simply cannot think of what else he can do. Anyone would be horrified, but he is stuck. His hands are tied, by none other than a small child's plaything. It is a low and growling humiliation.

He has his shirt half pulled on, bloodied clothes at his feet, when his cell-phone vibrates, electric shocks up his skin. He groans at the caller ID, almost rejecting it entirely.