He doesn't end the man.
He simply cannot do it. Just before Andy had shut his eyes, his body still shaking in pain, the doll had seen a flash of it. Just a glimpse, but it had been enough to sway his intentions in this very moment. It had only lasted one mere second, but it has left him starving for more. There is a sudden insatiable thirst burning inside him, and he tosses the knife from him and screams. He curls himself against the floor and beats it with small and frustrated fists.
He had seen Andy Barclay, pure and unscathed, in those eyes, just before he was cut off from it again. It is as if he has been wandering in a dark room and for a brief moment, could see an open door ahead of him, only to have it shut again just as he reached the frame.
Time can't have what I didn't give, time can't take away what is fucking mine, he can hear his anger erupting; he can feel the seething heat spreading inside him. Mine, mine mine, he is screaming.
Ashamedly, he is screaming it aloud in the otherwise mum apartment. Something is wrong with him.
Now, it is he who is laughing, on his knees and clutching his hair in a dazed and confused manner. "Fuck," he croaks, hoarse from his earlier unexplained tantrum. "I am so fucked, I am so, so very fucked..."
What is his, at any rate?
Andy?
Andy has never belonged to him, he knows this now. Suddenly, he comes to the epiphany that it is he who has belonged to Andy all along, and that is why he is still here, unable to end the man's life and rid himself of him for good. Suddenly, he realizes. But suddenly comes often too late. He has already done the damage now. Whether he killed Andy or not, he would never truly be rid of the boy. And that is the penance for his crime.
And while he suffers, Andy sleeps beside him, unaware and in a state of bliss.
He ought to kill him that very minute for the audacity. But he recalls that the only reason for Andy's comatose state is the fact that the man had overdosed and intoxicated himself just minutes before their reunion. So it is not entirely true that Andy is such a lucky state. Any minute he could wake again, retching and quivering on the floor, praying that the miserable effect of his poor choice will end soon. Ah, but if he'd beg for death. The doll could give it to him then, and then it would be the right sort of ending.
For now, however, he would let Andy sleep.
Now that his own life was not hanging on the line, and Andy was not a present threat, he had the time to contemplate just how he had arrived here. He had not thought of the boy for a long time now, although he had mentioned him many times to his ex-wife. During the days they had been together, in between the constant struggle and spat between them, he had told her of him, of the boy Andy Barclay, and how this small child had momentarily destroyed his life time and time again.
"Sounds a little more than momentarily to me." She'd given him lip, as she always did. "Sounds like you're still a little fucked up over it, to be bitching to me about it so much."
"Shut up," he'd growled at her, and she'd laughed. Then they'd kissed, and in the throes of passion, he had momentarily forgotten.
That was when he had thought he'd loved her. Momentarily, he could have seen himself with her for a lifetime. But, as had always been done before, they'd fallen into a rut. They would fight and separate, then run into each other again and try to work some sort of situation out between them, only to repeat it again. Each time, a disaster.
The very last time they'd fought, it had been about Andy.
"We have a family, Chucky, in case you hadn't fucking noticed," she had hissed at him. The kids were out in the backyard. He'd left her before, and he was back at her door again. This time he'd ruined the twins' birthday party by showing up as one of their presents. The son's, Glen's, in particular. "Your obsession with killing is too much for them. It's too much for me. How many times are you going to pick that over us?"
He made a gesture to the maid on the floor. There was a small paring knife hitched into her side. "And I suppose she's just lying there for a goddamn nap?"
"I'm trying!" she'd cried. She'd pointed a long finger at him. "You did this to me! You ruined me!" Her mascara had been running, and momentarily, he thought he could love her again.
"Babe, it's gonna end, I promise," he'd said. Empty words, empty phrases. He was just so used to the idea of her that he hadn't known what else to do, or where else to go. "Just let me have one more. Let me get Andy..."
"Andy, Andy, Andy, when is that going to end with you?" she'd screamed then. The girl, Glenda, had looked up for a second from her vicious romp with her brother. He caught a flash of her green eyes, and saw her mother in them.
"That's all you ever talk about. You're going to get Andy, you're going to kill Andy, you're going to make Andy pay for what he did to you. You know what I think? I think maybe you don't want to kill him anymore. I think you just like the thrill of the chase with him."
He'd opened his mouth to argue. His hands had curled into fists, and he would have tried to hit her, but her hands caught his first.
"I think," she'd whispered then, and her voice had turned from a boiling heat to an icy cold so quickly he struggled to catch his breath again. "Whether you like it or not, you've become his little bitch. That's what I think."
"Say that again, you stupid whore!" he'd spat. He hadn't meant it. He didn't think he did. He was just so angry at her for daring to make such an accusation. What was worse was that, looking back, he realized he was angry at how dangerously right she had been.
That's when she'd packed him in the box.
"The next time you show your ugly face here again, I'll blow it clear off," she'd threatened, even through her tears. She'd stuffed the packing peanuts into the box around him, pushing back into it anytime he began to try to fight his way out. Just before she'd taped the box shut, he'd felt the cool of the metal from the sharp end of the knife rub against his skin.
"I'm doing this because even after all this, I still fucking love you," she'd said, just as she closed the flaps over him. "Love is a strange phenomenon, isn't it?"
"Tiffany!" he howls suddenly. There was no other explanation. She had sent him here. Somehow, she had found Andy's address, and she had sent him here, to be killed. She had hoped that the man would kill him for her.
No, that wasn't quite right. She had said she'd loved him, after all. Tiffany was vicious and could be wildly independent when she needed to be, but if she was planning anything close to that, she would have told him. She would have flaunted it in his face if that had been her plan. In fact, she would have killed him herself.
She'd wanted him to face the fact. He was a prisoner to his nostalgia.
"Well, I'm fucking facing it, Tiff!" he screams to no one in particular. "He's right here! You happy? You were right, and I was wrong. I can't do it. I can't kill him. I'm not ready for it to end."
The only response is Andy groaning softly against the floor.
"Shit," Chucky mutters.
But now what was he to do? He'd come to terms with it; there was just no other way around it. It would never matter what the timing or the mood was, he would never be able to kill Andy. He begrudgingly admitted he looked forward to his routinely bout with the boy-now man. So what was he to do instead?
He could always just leave.
No, he realizes. Andy is in a critical condition as of now. He could die here, on the floor. There had to be a way to stop that without putting in too much of a physical effort. Chucky glances at the phone, his mind reeling. But who could he call that he knew would come? Andy's mother? She'd recognize his voice, along with that nosy son of a bitch, Mike Norris. Tiffany?
No. His pride wouldn't allow himself to let her come sauntering back in just now, to wave around I told you so's in his face. Besides, the amount of time it'd take for him to find out where she'd relocated herself to would take entirely too long. It could be much too late by then.
Andy's body begins to twitch.
He'd poisoned himself, the idiot. Somehow, he needs to get Andy to regurgitate what he'd violated himself with. He re-positions himself at Andy's side again. He opens the man's mouth, clenching his jaw open in his hand.
"Sorry," he apologizes, completely insincere, before jamming his fingers down the man's throat. He feels a tightening around them, and then Andy's breath hitches.
He removes his hand just in time.
The sounds of Andy vomiting would, in normal circumstances, be a thrilling sound. But now he is only repulsed and impatient for it to end.
"I'm not fucking cleaning you up," he says.
He cleans him up anyways.
He doesn't really know why he does it. It isn't necessary for him to do this; the man should be completely fine and on his way to some rough sort of recovery, unless there is more for him to expel out of his body. Yet he is here- after digging through piles of clothes scattered all over the apartment and scraping stools across the floor to reach the kitchen sink to dampen an old t-shirt in lukewarm water- wiping Andy Barclay's mouth and neck, cursing the entire process.
He tosses the t-shirt aside. It was dirty to start with, so in his mind, it is still not his responsibility to clean. None of this is his responsibility to begin with.
Somehow, he can't convince himself this enough to stop himself from continuing as if it were.
He can cover him with a blanket, perhaps. No. The floor beneath them is chilled, and he doesn't want to go through the humiliating process of finding something to climb on again to reach the thermostat. It taunts him, just close enough to the counter top that it is still just out of his reach. He tries anyways, only to fail. There's only one thing to do.
"Damnit."
He's becoming one-worded.
But that doesn't matter presently. What matters is that he needs to move the man from the floor to the couch somehow, or the bed. Either place means he has to drag him.
He decides on the bedroom. He can fulfill his debt and leave in peace and let the cycle continue on, just after he finishes this final task. That's all that whirs in his mind as he inhales deeply and tugs at the man from beneath his armpits. He will finally be at peace after this final task.
Dragging Andy Barclay is more work than he'd expected. He pulls for what feels like hours, only to drop the man and see he's only moved his unconscious body an inch, give or take. By the time he has reached the doorway of what appears to be Andy's room, he is out of breath and more than a little frustrated.
"How is it," he's huffing between drags, "that you manage to be such a fucking inconvenience to me even when you're passed out you little..."
He doesn't finish his insult, because the top of his spine that connects to his skull bangs against a sharp cold frame. His irritation inflames, and then cools when he realizes he has reached the bed. This is the most difficult part.
He climbs up onto the bed first. Then, hanging off of the edge, he grabs ahold of the man's head to gather some leverage, and slides his hands beneath his arms again. His breathing becomes labored just from holding him there; he knows if he doesn't pull now he will run out of strength and have to regain himself.
He hoists him up. The hardest part is over. The top of half of the man is on the mattress; now he must muster one last portion of brute force to push the other half. It is easier to do than pulling the first half up.
He fixes the man's position, settles his head against the pillows. "It's over," he pants, watching as the man sleeps on, oblivious still. "But I'll be back, you little shit. And this time, we'll be ready to tango, what do you say?"
He watches for much longer than he plans, much longer after he has recovered his breath. He feels his eyes begin to droop, closing.
And, frightening and terrible as it seems to him, the idea of leaving now strikes a pain into his chest.
He does not need sleep. He does not long for sleep. But there is indeed some sort of longing inside of him, and it pulls at him so heavily that before any other thought can penetrate his mind, his mind is clouded; he can only feel the need for warmth, for rest. He feels sluggish and dizzy, and then, he sees nothing but black.