He was human again, alive and human and drinking, when Andy came. Chucky had been on the floor in the semi dark and he couldn't remember why, though he suspected the scotch had something to do with it, when Andy slipped through the crack in the door and leaned against it.
"Hi," he said, in his little-kid voice, and it was then that Chucky knew he had lost his mind.
"Hey," he returned easily, relaxing into this new bout of insanity. Must be last night's acid. Must be more screws coming loose over the years.
Andy's hair shone the way that only little kids' do, flopping into large eyes, and he wore jeans and 80s sneakers and a sweater with an aeroplane on it. Chucky did some quick Math. "You're 31," he told him. And just like that he knew that Andy was dead.
"In real life," he agreed.
"The fuck does that mean?"
Andy just looked at him, worried. Chucky took a mental step from his own eyes into the kid's and laughed.
"Want some?" he held out the bottle and cackled some more, finishing it.
Andy said nothing. He started playing with the doorknob, turning it back and forth like he'd never seen one before.
"So you're dead," Chucky prompted, when he'd finished. They might as well have a conversation, if it was going to be their last.
Andy frowned, as if he didn't know the term. "Will you help me?"
"I can't if you're dead. And what makes you think I would if you weren't?"
Andy just kept looking at him, so he opened his hands in an exaggerated shrug.
"What do you want from me, Andy? To say I'm sorry? What difference does it make?" He finished the bottle and took a lazy swing at Andy's head. As he expected, it passed right through him. He didn't even blink. When it smashed against the door, he instantly wanted another one.
"You're dead, Andy," Chucky told him, in a nicer tone. Well, as nice as he got. "I can't do anything to you anymore. No-one can."
No reply. The kid had never been much of a talker, after the first time.
"How'd you die?"
That got a shrug. Chucky shook his head at his own idiocy. He's a figment of my imagination. He won't know how he died if I don't.
"Will you help me?" he asked again.
"Help you what?" he said, irritated now. "Look, it was nothing personal, at least, not in the beginning. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. OK? Happy now? And you're not dead because of me. You were sixteen the last time I saw you. Not dead." He went for another drink and remembered it was gone, hand curling around nothing.
Andy was still playing with the door, looking sad.
"Stop doing that," he snarled, and Andy let go of the door as if it burned him. Even in death he was an obedient kid. "You're dead. End of. I'm not bringing you back. I have nothing to feel bad about. Now get the hell out. Go play with your daddy in heaven," he started laughing, shrill in the silent house.
Andy said something else that he didn't catch.
"What?" he said, calming down.
Ansy just looked at him, and then he was gone, and Chucky was alone. Good, he thought. He said it out loud, just to be sure. He dragged himself up and into the kitchen, needing another drink just to not feel crazy, never mind alone. Never mind guilty. He'd have to google the kid. He didn't want to think about it. He raised the bottle to the empty kitchen.
"G'night, Andy."
