Brett Shelton's hospital admittance was the last straw for her.

She has tried to give him patience. She has tried to give them both patience. But she cannot take this any longer. Worst of all, she cannot take the way they continue to hurt each other like this. She knows that this only has come to pass because either Chucky has finally confronted Andy and Andy has rejected his proposal, or because Chucky has not confronted Andy and has become frustrated. Either way, now she is frustrated.

Glen notices when she picks the twins up from school, her finger tapping the wheel and her impatience with the other drivers a clear giveaway. She sees him looking at her through the rearview mirror, and she gives a soft smile, but she knows he can see it in her eyes. Glenda doesn't seem to be phased in the least, prattling on as usual and digging through her backpack for some gum or candy or a toy she most likely pick pocketed from a classmate.

She doesn't talk much, driving them home, but Glenda does most of the talking for them anyways, as she always does. Tiffany listens, but she mostly hopes to herself that Glenda never loses this passion, and this vivacity in life. She hopes that the spark stays for the rest of her little girl's life.

She also hopes that she can find Charles quickly, if only to smack him hard enough to knock the stupidity and stubbornness out of it.

It's a Friday, which means the kids will want to put off homework until Sunday. She'll order pizza for them to eat for dinner. The girl down the road has offered to babysit before, and she seems like a nice enough person, and strong minded enough to manage twins. She can leave money for anything they'd need, and then she can take the road trip she needs.

Glenda jumps out of the car, already ready to play and feel the freedom of the weekend, but Glen stays behind. Tiffany feels his hand slowly snake into hers, clutching onto it in his usual vice-like grip.

"Why are you leaving, Mommy?" he asks, not even doubting the idea that she was thinking of leaving. His hand squeezes tighter when he says her name.

She squeezes back. "It's time to go see Daddy, that's why," she responds. "He needs a little help."

She feels Glen shrink inside, and she knows that he hates it. She doesn't know if Glen will ever love or trust his father again, after what he put them through. She will never blame him for feeling the way he does, but it still hurts sometimes, when she thinks of what they could have been.

She can only pity Andy Barclay. It's a sad life for him, being the only one who can undo Charles- and so, is the only one who must.

She knows she needs to go now. That man probably resists, even as he is compelled to stay close. Just from observing from afar, she already knows that Charles is spiraling, and she cannot wait anymore.

"I'll be back soon, baby," she tells Glen, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Glenda is calling for him from inside the house. He doesn't say anything back, but he lets go of her hand and runs towards the door, shouting back at his sister, and she knows that he will be alright. She sighs and follows them into the house.

She digs through her purse on the counter and searches for the girl's name and phone number. She crosses her fingers in hopes that she will not be busy or out of town. The phone rings, once, twice, and she is ready to give up when she hears the familiar click and a voice on the other end.

"Hello? Yes, it's Ms. Valentine. You remember how you said you were willing to watch my little angels for a while? You don't suppose you're still up for it, do you?"

A quick kiss good-bye to her kids and one more expression of immense gratitude to the babysitter, and she is on her way, the engine roaring over the sound of her thoughts and the radio. Traffic is atrocious, as she could only expect it to be, but she tries to keep her patience by consistently reminding herself that she is always one step closer, even if the driver in front of her seems to think that the I-94 is for cruising and enjoying a slow pace.

She knows that it could take a while to find Charles. She also knows that if she makes just the right move, it won't take long for him to know she is here. And he will come, when he knows. She knows he will come almost immediately. He is possibly going to be the angriest she has ever seen him.

She sighs and brushes the growing bangs from her eyes.

She had promised herself she would never dirty her hands again, but she is in a desperate situation and in desperate need of a beacon. And the cake decorator had hit his wife too many times with a dusty rolling pin in the kitchen; she can tell from the bruises on her arm when she stops by a small bakery for a quick snack.

She leaves the body just near where she knows Andy Barclay lives, a limp carcass that is mostly unmarred, save for the fatal and still gushing wound and her trademark lipstick stamped against his brow. She washes her hands in the sink of the bathroom in the bakery, the wife still unknowing.

"I love your shoes," the woman says, just entering the bathroom to run into a stall. Possibly to try and hide the new forming bruises- the last bruises she will ever have, although she does not know it yet.

"Lori's," is all Tiffany says, with a wink. The woman doesn't say thank you, but Tiffany walks out the door shouting, "You're welcome!" and it means more than one thing.

She continues along the sidewalk, waiting. She'll peruse shops and she'll ignore the sudden sirens of police rushing to the scene of the crime, where she will no longer be. They will not find her DNA on the lipstick; her kiss was dry.

She laughs at how it reflects her so well- a dry kiss for a dried love. Although she supposes it isn't so dry if she still loves, and does so with the same fierceness that she had when she first began to love, even if it is not quite in the way she had thought it would always be.

Her phone has not yet rung, so she assumes that all has gone well with the babysitter and her children so far. She wishes she were home with them now, Glen piled up on her lap and Glenda stealing the entire pantry of snacks away to the living room, where they would argue over what movie to watch until they would rock-paper-scissor for it. Somehow, Glen always managed to win. She laughs at the thought, and wonders if they have dragged the babysitter into the same situation. She wonders, if so, if the babysitter has won and broken the cycle, or if Glen has won again.

She shakes her head, finding that she has been inside a small shop fingering the rough cotton of a jacket sleeve for far too long, having been lost in thought. There is a woman and her friends who are watching her, possibly wondering if there is something wrong. They appear concerned, frantic whispers and furrowed brows.

She smiles. They return the silent greeting, and carry on with their business, the crisis averted.

She has an idea of when Charles will come for her. She doesn't, however, have an idea of what she will say when he does. She is incredibly angry at how stupid and hard-headed he is. One of the qualities that she did like about him sometimes, she admit to herself, but at the moment, it only frustrated her more. She is not altogether sure why she cares. She supposes that it is because she still cares about him, and so wants him to at least try to make decisions that will benefit him.

But when it's come to Andy Barclay, it seems that he's always tripped over himself and made a mess of everything. It seems he's made a mess of everything now. Again.

She steps out into the street again, the wind whipping her hair over her face, cold and merciless. It is only autumn, but today is a particularly cold day. She shivers and buttons her jacket before digging into the pockets for her lighter and a cigarette. The flame warms her face instantly, and she lights the end of the cigarette and takes a long, comforting drag. She's warm inside, like a giant brooding dragoness. Or at least she hopes, as she still cannot seem to control her shaking, which she cannot decide if it is a result of the cold or her frustration.

She remembers the first time they had fought about Andy Barclay. Their last fight had been about him, but it had not been the only fight they'd had about him. The first one they'd had, they had just finished making love, and she had stretched out across the bed, waiting for him to put his arms around her, in the way he did sometimes, when he felt affectionate. She would not have been surprised if he had not held her, but rolled over instead, snoring and muttering into the pillows. But what he had done did take her by surprise.

She can still feel the way he had pulled her arms around him, curling his arms into himself and tucking his head into her chest, as if he were hiding. Her heart still beats so quickly at the thought that for the first time in her life, she had seen a vulnerability she had never seen before.

"Chucky," she remembers gasping, and he had looked up at her, eyes glazed, unaware that something had changed. That something was different. But she had noticed.

"What happened to you?" she'd asked.

"Nothing," he'd said. But she didn't believe it for a moment, and with enough poking and prodding, she put the pieces together.

"What did that boy do to you?"

He'd gotten so angry then. Initially he feigned ignorance as to "what boy" she was talking about, but when she'd only cut through his continuous and ridiculous lying, he'd lost his temper. They hit each other so much; she had bit him particularly hard while he'd had his hand in her hair. Still as passionate as when they'd made love, but in making war instead.

Andy Barclay had changed something in him, and she had known it for a long time. Worse still, she had known it was a good change. Parts of him that she had wished were not there had softened, and became more bearable. If anyone were to ask her now, she knows she would not be able to begin to explain how it was, just that it was good.

She sighs and inhales deep smoke again, turning the corner behind the store, where there's only the garbage and the back of another building. She can still hear his voice, angrily shouting her name, from so many different times that they had fought. It rings in her ears, and worse, it echoes in her heart, and it hurts. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe. She is so incredibly angry.

"Tiffany."

She opens her eyes. She looks over, and sure enough, here he is, almost as if she had conjured him with her thoughts. She'd forgotten how short his new form was; the doll only barely – if even – standing to three feet. He is as malevolent as she remembers. There is poison in the way he talks, and he's only said her name so far.

"I knew it was you, bitch," he growls, and for a moment, she is so angry she cannot see. Even now, he continues to remain so thick, and so disrespectful. The longer she has been away from him, the more she has been able to understand, and now she sees what her love had blinded her to before.

Charles Lee Ray is a piece of work. And she is glad that he is not her chore anymore.

"Manners, Chucky," she says, and silently thanks the fumes in her throat for keeping her voice steady.

He kicks at the rocks, and she watches them fly in all different directions.

"What did you kill the baker for? Thought you'd moved on from your little addiction," he sneers. She knows that he is trying to get a rise out of her. It is something inside that she wishes more than anything she could cut out, but the thirst for blood still runs, whether she likes it or not. She had called it an addiction, because it is, and like any other addiction, needs tending and a continuous fighting – even when it leaves her weary at night and playing with the knives in her kitchen drawer, watching the neighbor's house in dark thoughts.

"I had a little slip," she replies, flicking the cigarette butt towards him. He flinches, but only slightly. "Heard you had a little slip too. A slip named Shelton."

She turns her whole body now, and he is shaking. She feels at the advantage now, above him, not even a pinky quaking, and he is already losing his temper. She doesn't know why though; it isn't as if he had ever really tried to leave his own dark habits behind.

Or perhaps Andy Barclay had already changed something in him again, even now.

"I didn't touch him, although I wish I had," Chucky tells her. She laughs.

"I mean it!" Now he is already losing control of his voice. She studies him now, almost more curious than angry. There is something else that is bothering him; it is not just the fact that she is here. She cocks an eyebrow at him, and waits for him to gain his bearings and look at her again, because even now, she decides to be merciful. She doesn't know why.

"What are you so worked up about, anyways?" she questions him. "It isn't as if you wouldn't want to slit someone's throat."

She leans down, just to let him feel how close she is. He will not look her in the eyes, although he looks in her general direction. "Particularly a certain Barlcay's throat, or did I mishear you all those years when you promised me that you would end him and then be a part of our family?"

He's breathing heavily, his arms crossed and his hands clutching his sleeves. He still brandishes the same knife he'd had when she'd packed him away, and she cannot help but find it endearing, the sentimental way he holds onto things.

"Well?" she asks, a little harshly.

"Do you need to fuckin' hear it, huh? Is that what it is?" he snarls suddenly at her. He tosses the knife on the ground, and it clatters, and it is the loudest sound she's ever heard. It's as if he never wants to touch that knife again, from the way he seems to back away from where it lies. She notices now that there is no blood on it. There is no blood anywhere around him.

"I couldn't kill him. I haven't done it. I've failed." He spits out the last word, as if it were a poison. For someone as prideful as he, it very well may have been.

Tiffany stares at him, mouth agape. She is surprised, almost as dumbfounded as when he'd betrayed her for the first time. The idea that he still has no idea is beyond her comprehension She straightens herself, the look of utter shock still evident in her eyes.

"Why, Charles," she gasps, "I never meant for you to kill him."

His knees quiver beneath him, and she is reminded of the ugly truth of his impending mortality. Of how weak he is becoming, the longer he wastes away his time in this body. Wasting away his time, avoiding the things he ought to do. She wonders which parts will fully transform first. She thinks it will be his eyes. They already glaze over as if he is sick or exhausted, the most human trait if she ever knew one.

"What do you mean?" The words come out slowly, carefully. His voice sounds so small.

Her eyes well up with sadness – pity, even – as she lowers herself to his height. She doesn't want to scare him off. Somehow it only alarms him more. She reaches for his hand, but he quickly backs away, angry and confused.

"Don't you see?" she whispers, and even as the tears slip from her eyes, she smiles. She cannot believe that he still does not understand. She is sure that he must understand, but that he denies, and denies. "In all our time together, I've never seen you with such passion."

She cannot let him deny any longer.

"It's the most alive you've ever been."

He laughs then, and she watches as it finally dawns on him, but it's a skittish and frightened laughter. It's the laughter of defeated at the weaning hours of a long and tiring battle. It's the laughter of surrender. She hears her heart breaking for him, the way he cannot accept himself. The way it only destroys him further.

"Well isn't that just fucking great!" he's screaming, and this time Tiffany is the one who does not understand. She stands again, distancing herself.

"What is it?" she asks, even as backs away from him as if he were a rabid dog. She has never seen him like this, and she is more glad than ever that she has left their children at home. She hardly recognizes him. It is as if his ends are fraying, and suddenly the true person within is emerging in front of her for the first time.

"Now it's you who doesn't see. You don't know anything, Tiffany," he barks. She doesn't flinch, but the wide-eyed confusion remains.

"I can't touch him- he doesn't feel anything. There's nothing there." he growls. "It's all too late now.

"Andy doesn't care what I do, Tiffany!" he shouts. "Andy wouldn't beg for death, but he would welcome it. He's a broken, pathetic excuse for a man."

Somehow, someway, Chucky is broken, himself, because of it. She can see it in the way he talks, and the way he moves. He knows that there is nothing he can do. She watches as he falls apart in front of her, and she knows that there is nothing she can do. His voice is hoarse when he speaks again.

"I can't kill him- he's already dead."