A/N- I do not own any of these characters. This was written purely for fun. I am making no money off this fic. Thank you.

This is technically how I practice writing. I write little pieces of narrative to show POV and feelings. I wrote this in one shot and did a quick edit. Simply the detached view of life and death after some severe trauma.

Enjoy. Love, Sai-Chan.

She was beautiful in a disastrous sort of way. Her hair was golden blond, pinned back in fluffy curls. That had been her first cardinal sin. The next was her creamy complexion. All her shivering skin was perfect. Perhaps if she had just one scar, one little burn mark, somewhere, she wouldn't have been laying there. Then there was the key, the damning factor. Her bosom. Her shirt and bra were stretched so tightly, for she must of been at least a D cup. Every frightened breath she took shook and bounced those things frantically. Her eyes were blue, crystal and clear. They weren't part of the equation. Normally, they had to be an emerald green, but with a chest like that, the eyes weren't important. She was gorgeous and that was the problem. The problem, of course, was that she was sprawled out on the living room floor, about to be murdered.

She didn't know that yet. She was just waking up from the drug induced coma she had been laying lifeless in for the past half hour. He knew she had been out of it for longer then that; closer to three hours. However, she had been dropped down on the wooden floor only half an hour beforehand. Where she had been before that, he didn't know. Her little black dress was torn around her full hips, so he had a couple guesses. There was bruising on her thighs too, which painted a pretty picture. Still, he didn't know for sure. He didn't want to, either. He had decidedly not asked when her body had been slung onto the floor much like a heavy bag of potatoes. Instead, he had just knelt down and examined her as the shower ran from burning hot to icy cold.

Now she was waking up and the shower was off. He could hear footsteps walking from the bathroom to the bedroom. The apartment was incredibly small, so he could hear everything. A couple thumping steps and a metal clatter. The boots were on, but the belt had been tossed to the side. Some clicking followed by a radio hum. The phone was unplugged and the noise that would drown out the screaming began; tonight it was Guns N Roses 'Sweet Child of Mine' and 'Paradise City'. With the music cranked up, he couldn't hear the footsteps he knew were walking down the hall and into the living room/dining room/kitchen. She, though, seemed to be coming to the present quite quickly. Her eyes widened, a bit distractedly. The buzz was clearly fogging up her mind, which was probably the only reason she hadn't started asking pointless questions that would be obvious to anyone who'd ever seen a decent horror film. Rather, her head rolled around on her shoulders as if her neck was rubber.

Eventually, her eyes locked on his. She stared at where he was crouched down beside her previously lifeless form. He returned the expression favorably. He offered no explanation nor any assistance. He merely gazed down at her blanched cheeks, her pulsing chest, and her shaking hands. She mouthed something that she never got out right. There was a chance she didn't even speak English. Chances were, she continued to float around in the drug induced wonderland that was dulling her panicked reaction. He assumed that's why she didn't jump up and run for the door with it's triple pad lock. If it wasn't, then he just told himself she was dumb enough to deserve what was about to happen. No one was ever really that stupid, but he told himself so to ease the guilt he felt for never aiding the helpless. It allowed him some rest and with everything he had to deal with, he was happier with that then injuries from trying to help women dumb enough to drink a glass of liquor a stranger brought them in a sleazy bar.

That was why she was there, after all. Her ruined dress was skimpy and covered in stains that resembled the wine stains littering the carpet in the bedroom. With the amount of makeup that was smeared all over her face, he knew she had been picked up at a bar. He knew the method. A glass of some cheap beer or wine, depending on her outfit, that had already been spiked with a date rape drug. Some friendly conversation peppered with flirtatious suggestions until the drugs did their thing. She was escorted out to her death under the guise of a 'local gentleman' helping out 'a poor soul' who just 'drank too much too fast'. Two days later, that 'poor soul' would be found in a ditch, her neck black and blue, her eyes wide with fear, dead as dead could be. That's where this number was heading. He knew that as he tilted his head and blinked slowly. She had played right into the trap and the spider was on his way to drain the life out of those creamy cheeks so full of stupidity.

Just as she was beginning to perhaps realize that was the situation, he turned his head as cautiously as he could. Her rapidly blinking eyes went to the same central location. In the doorway was the spider, the man that would kill her. A tall, dashing man with tones of sinister handsomeness to his slender face. His hair was lightly red with a bit of curl to the long ends. Eyes cut from frozen waters looked out from the shadows, framed by his red hair and pale skin. His hands were cut up from years of work he had never done. The scars that were supposed to be there weren't, but they were meant to slice his face in half. His own traumas and battles couldn't be seen by that drunken woman starting to sit up. The eyes that looked at him, though, saw them. He knew the scars, he knew the anger, he knew the face. That was the face of his father, the one and only Charles Lee Ray, even if it was a face stolen in many ways.

Chucky, for that was his chosen name, stepped forward with a definite confidence to his stride. He was dressed in anything but what was portrayed in the movies. There was nothing scary about blue jeans and a black T-shirt. However, he knew that this vixen would come to fear that outfit for as long as she lived. Granted, that wouldn't be long, but she would. He watched as the killer stood over that woman. She was quivering harder, a hand groping the floor for something that wasn't there. There was fear rising up, tears starting to crawl down her cheeks. He knew that she had figured out what was going on. He knew that she could feel the burning between her legs and taste the drugs lingering on her tongue. She would never remember what had happened, but she wouldn't live long enough to dwell on it. She just broke down in hysterical sobs, her ample breasts bouncing heartily. They were her downfall. They tore her last chance for survival right out of her hands, although she would never know it.

His father knelt down in front of her. She croaked out a plead for mercy that was barely audible over her shrill gasps and sniffing tears. Chucky didn't hear the cries, didn't see the tears. If he had, he wouldn't of cared. He just reached out, his hand moving slowly, as if heading towards a loved one. When his fingers stroked up the side of her throat, his son licked his lips. He knew that expression. A primal lust had overtaken the man who had raised him. She didn't see it. She couldn't. She was too busy trying to save herself to actually do it. Her hands pushed up into her face, then jerked down to claw at the floorboards. A shriek was released. All it did was stretch the skin at her throat. Every second she cried, she dug another inch of her grave. She was six feet under long before she was dead. He knew this as he dryly swallowed, moving carefully to his bare feet.

" Go to your room, Glenn. . ."

The voice used wasn't commanding, wasn't strict, and wasn't even particularly wicked. It was airy and distracted. He saw those icy eyes narrowing while that malicious smile unfurled on that hard face, however. He knew what was coming and it wasn't something he was keen to witness again. Nodding, then, he turned away from where she had started to bellow for help. She had finally figured out that she was done for and had entered the final stage of terror. Like the rest of them, she was dumb enough to let it come too late to help anything. He thus just slipped around the couch and faced the skinny hallway that would take him to the bedroom where he would wait. He would sit on his bed, maybe curl up for a cat nap, and he would wait for the music to turn off. That wouldn't be for another hour. By then, the girl would be dead, cut apart at the limbs, and Chucky would lean in, drenched in the red, sticky stuff. He would light a cigarette and tell his baby boy that he was stepping out to dump the corpse. Glenn would say good night and go to sleep. His father would return in an hour or so and slip into his bed with him. They would sleep the rest of the night together, Glenn waking up frequently and Chucky snoring into the pillows. By the morning light, she would be gone and life would go on until some other tragically beautiful blond was thrown down onto the living room floor.

Knowing that, he started walking to his room. His head swayed to the sound of Guns N Roses. Faintly over the chorus line, he heard that woman shrieking. Then he heard a gagging desperate sound that was quickly drowned in crazed laughter that resounded in the tiny apartment. Her voice jerked, splattered in the air, before there was something like a cracking. He heard a wet noise before his father was lost in his own version of hysterics. Nodding faintly, Glenn continued down that hallway, snapping his fingers to the chorus of one of his favorite oldies songs. By the time he reached the room, he could barely hear the awful noise murder made. He blocked it out entirely by shutting the door on the woman who had been dumb enough to take a drink from a complete stranger. She had gotten what she was asking for, even if she didn't know it. Anyone that stupid deserved to die like that.

At least, that's how he saw it.

-

Fin.