Charles Lee Ray: Metamorphosis of a Killer
By Nathander
Yay! I've finally gotten around to doing a fic that's been on my mind for quite awhile. This is a Child's Play fanfic, but it takes place before the movies, chronicling the earlier life of Charles Lee Ray. This is only the first chapter of a (possible) multi-chapter ficcy, and this is my first CP fic, so just give me any advice you have. Anyhoo, enjoy the ficcy!
Chapter 1: Spoiled Innocence
"You FUCKING IDIOT!! Admire me?!! You shit!!! I'm the villain in this fucking story!" Johnny C., Johnny the Homicidal Maniac #7
The boy, only 10 years old, rested his head on the open palm of his hand, kicking the leather chair of the police car in front of him. He was tall for his age, about 4'10", his black hair long and unkept, and his blue eyes flickering around the car. He sighed; God, this was getting redundant.
The police officer hated this just as much as the boy did. This was the third time this week the kid had run away from home, and at twelve thirty AM, of course. He had even memorized the kid's name by now, and the answers he'd give him if he would ask why he did this, though the answers were usually just strings of obscenities he would hurl at him. He finally began to speak to the child as the headed back towards the apartment complex the child lived in. "You've got to stop doing this Charles."
"Chucky." The boy said lazily, no real emotion in his voice.
"What is your fascination with being called that?" the officer asked, annoyed how some little runaway would actually contradict an officer.
"I just love the sound. You know: Chuck-y, like knife slashes." The child replied, his voice still emotionless.
The cop shivered; he knew it was wrong, but sometimes he actually wanted to shoot the kid in the head. During his conversations with the kid, he could tell he was disturbed. Not insane; just disturbed. The other thing was the incredible amount of cunning he possessed. If he were to grow up and become a killer, just like the cop thought he would, he wouldn't have any problems with shooting the kid right there and saving the world from having any more trouble. But he didn't know for sure, so he couldn't justify his actions.
They soon arrived at the small apartment building, which was almost totally run down and deserted, except for a few patrons, like Charles' dad. Charles silently and quickly exited the police cruiser, and entered the door of the building to take his trip up the flight of stairs to his room. The officer just drove away as quickly as he could, not bothering to see if the child would be all right.
Personally, he couldn't care less about Charles Lee Ray. ........................................... "Where in the blue FUCK have you been, Charles?" James Lee Ray asked angrily at his son.
Charles just went by him, not bothering to answer. He had no love at all for his father.
His mother had skipped town with some shit she had been seeing since her 'husband' was so abusive. In actuality, no marriage had ever taken place, so she was free to do as she chose, though that didn't exemplify her from Charles' hate. But Charles' hated his father the most. More then the pricks he knew at school, more then the dipshit thugs on the street who'd try to jump him, shit, even more then those fuckin' grapes they put in Jell-O. His father was a wiry little man who wore an old white wifebeater and ragged blue jeans. His father didn't have a job and refused to do the slightest of tasks (except for getting drunk or fucking some sluts if he had the money).
His father soon grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to twirl around. Charles felt a sharp, stinging pain to his right cheek, and his body fell to the ground, him clutching the right side of his mouth. He swished his mouth a bit, feeling the syrupy liquid in his mouth, and spat onto his father's shoe, the blood staining the already worn white sneakers. Charles turned his head up towards his father and smiled viciously, as if saying 'there, you stupid sonofabitch, gotcha' again'.
"You best wipe that smile off your face boy." His father growled, making a sound similar to a sick bulldog still trying to seem fully healthy and fit for fighting. Charles wanted, oh Lord how he wanted, to laugh in his father's face, but he denied himself that pleasure and got back up and headed towards his room.
He flung himself on the dirty sheets that were used as his bed, his head landing on a pillow that was seemingly only the cover with some of the stuffing still in it. He thought to himself, thought long and hard. He couldn't go on living like this or he'd be suffocated, maybe even consider the possibility of suicide.
'NO' his mind screamed out at him. He was a survivor, and he would out last him. He would out last his father, the old fuck would see that.
Charles closed his eyes momentarily, and then snapped them back open, a vicious grin coming onto his face.
If he was going to make sure he out lasted his father, he had work to do. ........................................... It was sort of funny how James Lee Ray was murdered.
James Lee Ray quickly snapped his eyes open as he heard soft footsteps coming towards him. Over the years, he had trained himself to pick such things up, to listen for things others couldn't hear, to look for things others couldn't see.
He quickly, yet quietly, opened the drawer next to his bed, pulling out a silenced handgun from it. He had been expecting this confrontation for the last month; he had known he had gotten so in debt to them, he wasn't surprised they had finally sent some one to kill his ass.
Finally, the footsteps stopped, and the door flew upon....and James fired three consecutive shots, one at the groin, one at the chest, and one at the head, closing his eyes as he fired and relying upon the positions of his hands to aim the gun straight and true.
When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to find that nothing was there. Swiftly and quietly, he got out of bed, standing still for a moment, and then quickly reopening the drawer from which he had produced the gun with a lighting quick motion, and took out the extra bullets he had, reloaded the three cartridges he had used, and put the extras in his pocket. Believing himself ready, he began to slowly and silently move, hoping to possibly catch the intruder off guard.
As soon as he got out the door, he screamed in pain as a knife struck him expertly in the shin of his left leg. He fell to the floor, clutching at the wounded leg. He immediately looked upward as he heard the soft laughter.
The laugher of a child. Of a boy.
"Charles, you little fucker." He cursed in the direction of the laughter.
Soon, the form of his son came into shape, Charles standing up from his original crouching position, his smile almost inhumanly wide, and his eyes seeming to flicker and dance with malicious glee, a bloody knife in his right hand. "You know, I prefer 'Chucky' much better, old man. Makes me feel like I'm a real human being and not the son of some worthless shit like yourself." He said, his smile still on his face, taunting him, even going so far as to lick some of the blood off the blade.
His father kept the sneer on his face for a little bit longer before he smiled and raised the handgun towards his son's head.
He was barely able to conceive what happened next. He saw Chucky's arm move quickly, and felt a very sharp, VERY painful sting in the hand that held the handgun.
Or, at least, the hand which WAS holding the handgun, as the handgun was now lying at James' side.
As well as the hand.
James' opened his mouth to scream, but it never entered his mind to do so as Chucky thrust the knife straight into the top of his skull, James' dying instantly.
Chucky smiled a little. In retrospect, he was almost sorry for this man who didn't even have a fighting chance. His father. And now his father was dead, lying right at his feet.
"Oh well." Chucky said, smirking. "At least that's one less waste of life."
Stepping on his father's body, Chucky entered his father's room and quickly opened another of the drawers, and pulled out a battered, leather bound book.
The book where his father kept all his gambling debts. He placed it on the mantle besides his father's bed, and then headed towards the kitchen.
There, he tore some of his thin t-shirt, and then cut the exposed skin underneath, not even flinching as he did so. Fresh blood flowed from the wound. He then quickly washed the blood off of the knife, and made sure none of the blood stayed on the sink. He then proceeded to wipe the blade dry before putting it back in the cupboard.
Finally, he picked the phone up and dialed the police. The voice of a friendly sounding woman came from the other side. "Hello, Chicago Police Station. What is it that you wish to report?"
Chucky quickly brought fake tears to his eyes, and made his voice seemingly hurt and frightened. "My.my daddy! Daddy's dead!"
Immediately, the woman's voice became urgent, almost frantic. "Little boy, is the intruder still in the house?"
"No." Chucky said, sniffing a little. "He was scary. I just saw his back as he left. He hurt daddy really bad!" he shouted lightly, his voice almost a sob. 'Damn' Chucky thought. 'If I go into acting, I'm sure to win one o' those Oscars.'
"Okay, please be calm." The lady on the other side of the phone said. "What's your address?"
Chucky told her quickly yet carefully and accurately. The woman on the other side said something lightly under her breath, which Chucky could tell as her saying "Fuck." "Okay, we'll be there as soon as we can in just thirty minutes. Just stay there and stay calm little boy, okay?"
"Okay." Chucky said, sniffing a little again. He was almost afraid he was hamming it up too much. The lady said goodbye and to stay put, and Chucky hung up after she did.
With the silence and reflexes of a cat, Chucky left his apartment. He had to make it look like someone had broken into the apartment.
There was an emergency fire-axe encased in glass just a few feet away. It should suffice nicely. ........................................... "I'm telling ya'." Timothy Weissman said as he gripped the steering wheel of the cop car, his knuckles turning white from the pressure he put upon them. "I know the damn kid, and I know he's a cruel, godless, little motherfu.."
"Can you please stop?" Tess Reshmen, his partner, growled at him. "For the last ten minutes, you've been giving me a bunch of bullshit about how some kid, A TEN-YEAR OLD KID, killed his father. Methinks you watch to many B- Horror movies."
"Hey, YOU haven't met him. I have. In fact, earlier this morning, I caught the kid when he was trying to run away from home." Tim said, growling. "He hates his father, and I wouldn't put murder past him."
Tess gave off a little laugh of amusement. "You know, maybe just cause he talks tough doesn't mean he's some cold-blooded killer. Marge even told me that he was sobbing over the phone."
"And the reason you know he wasn't acting is.....?"
"Oh, will you please just shut up!?" Tess finally screamed. "My God, next you'll be talking about how he has an army of possessed dolls with him!"
The next twenty minutes of the drive were spent in complete silence, Timothy severely considering the doll theory Tess had come up with.
Tess paid as little attention as she could to Timothy, focusing more on getting her job done and making sure the kid was okay. Though the elevator ride to the fifth floor felt like an eternity, she supposed it would have to be necessary sometimes. .
The first thing they noticed were the splinters of wood in the far corner of the hallway. "Shit..." Tess muttered to herself. She was truly surprised however had done this would leave any survivors if he was desperate enough to not even clean up the evidence. She quickly ran to the door, though Timothy just walked at a slow pace, sinking it all in.
It was so.illogical. He was thinking the same thing as Tess, but trying to be more logical. He looked along the walls and let off a small smirk.
One of the emergency fire axes was missing. "Charles, you little sneaky bastard." He said through gritted teeth, though his smirk remained. It had to be Chucky, it just had to be. It would take him awhile to prove it, but by God, some day he would prove it.
Tess slammed what was left of the door open, and looked around as quickly as she could. Most of the apartment seemed to be intact. She narrowed her eyes; why would however had done this left evidence on the outside, but none on the inside. The only thing that made sense was if the guy was either who did this was either a new assassin, or just not a logical one. She quickly turned her head towards the sofa as she heard a small voice. "H..hello?" the voice said.
"Hello, this is Tess Reshmen, and I'm a member of the Chicago Police Force. We've come to get you."
Slowly, the little boy came up from hiding behind the couch. His eyes were red, more then likely from crying and lack of sleep. 'Poor kid must have been awake all night.' Tess thought to herself. Her eyes went wide yet again when se noticed the cut on his shoulder. "Oh Jesus." she muttered to herself lightly as she walked over slowly to the child, her arms wide open to show she wasn't going to hurt him. Nervously, he came to her, and she touched his shoulder for just a minute, removing her hand when he flinched. The cut was no longer bleeding, so that was good, though she supposed she'd still need to get him medical attention.
Sensing what she was thinking, the child said lightly "I washed it with water and soap." Tess sighed, and, in an attempt to comfort the child, embraced him.
Though he didn't outwardly, inside, Chucky was smiling as wide as possible. He was home free. He killed his dad and had gotten away with it.
His inward smile diminished as he noticed the other officer with her. He knew him very well, as seemingly, every time he ran away, it was this officer they sent. He gritted his teeth, and lightly, he said "Shit."
"Did you say something?" Tess asked.
"No, I didn't say anything." He said, his eyes glaring at Timothy.
Timothy exchanged his glare with vengeance.
Police Chief McCullan placed a hand to his brow in frustration. This was the third time Weissman had come in here to try to change his mind. "Timothy, give it a rest."
Gritting his teeth, Timothy tried to control his anger. "I'm telling you, it was him."
"Do you truly think that I could believe a ten-year old child capable of brutally murdering his father?" McCullan said, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't know..." Timothy began, but was cut off as McCullan stood up and slammed his fist onto his desk.
"I don't care Timothy!" he shouted angrily. "I don't know him, and I don't NEED to know him! What I DO know is that you seem to believe that this child is.is a criminal mastermind who's outwitting the police!"
"And you're letting him win!" Timothy shot back, ignoring the fact that he was now screaming at the highest-ranking member of the police force.
Glaring, but keeping his voice down, McCullan responded. "You will quit this nonsense at once. I don't want to hear anymore of this, or I'll seriously take the idea of having you thrown off this force into consideration. Do you understand?" Timothy didn't respond. "Do.you.understand?" McCullan said, more aggravated then before.
Timothy slowly nodded. "I do." He said, leaving the office and shaking his head as he left. "Unfortunately, I understand perfectly."
The rest of the night went smoother, smoother then Charles had thought it would. He was allowed to bunk down in one of the offices, and the leather chair was quite a bit more comfortable then his bed at home. From what he had heard he was going to be placed under the care of Adrian and Brittany Caputo, his best friend Eddie's parents. Sometimes he wondered why he liked Eddie so much as, personality wise, he was radically different then him. Chucky looked for trouble and greeted it with open arms whenever it came, whereas Eddy would haul ass and run at his own shadow. Still, Eddie was fun to be around with, for some bizarre reason he couldn't understand.
He chuckled lightly to himself; he still couldn't get over the fact that he had successfully outsmarted the police. He kept replaying the whole encounter over and over again in his mind. Over and over...over and over..over and ov..
He yawned lightly and fell asleep.
It was a Saturday morning, about 8:00 AM, and a light blue car went at a steady pace down the road towards the Chicago Police Station. The woman driving it was about in her thirties, and she seemed calm and beautiful outside. She always found that these traits quite easily covered what was inside her.
The boy in the backseat was about 10 years of age. His light brown hair was naturally curly and he currently had quite a bit of it. He was dressed in a nice pair of black pants and a red t-shirt, two colors that ended up having an interesting relationship with each other upon his body. His green eyes flickered nervously from his mother to the window. Finally, he settled his eyes upon his mother. "Mom, who do you think hurt Chucky's dad?" he asked in a quiet voice, as if he had been taught to speak in this fashion.
"I don't know Eddie." His mother said, her voice somewhat similar to his own in pitch. Eddie looked out of the window again, wondering WHY in the hell he had asked that. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, dark fantasies began to play themselves inside of his mind about what could have happened. Of a man clad totally in black, the stereotypical serial killer with an axe, came in through one of the windows and chopped up Chuck's father. This, of course, was just a fantasy, and Eddie knew that. However, he couldn't help but keeping thinking of another one...
Chucky would, after school, take him off to God knows where, as he could never totally know the location of the alley he'd take him too. He'd usually bring a few cigarettes with him that he'd been able to smuggle from his dad, or sometimes even a beer. Eddie would never accept the liquor, though he didn't have much of a problem with the cigs. And so, they would just sit there in that alleyway, talking about whatever would come to their minds.
"My dad is such an asshole." Charles had said, though this wasn't insane uncommon. Chucky usually started off their conversations this way.
"Why do you say that?" he would always ask Chucky. Chucky would then go into a long ramble about his asshole father and all his asshole deeds. After doing this, Chucky would take a long drag and settle down, letting Eddie talk. However, one time, not so recently, Chucky had finished in an interesting way.
"I'm telling you Eddie, some day, I swear, I'll kill the bastard."
While Eddie knew Chucky had a temper, he never really expected this.
"Ah, he isn't that bad Chucky." Eddie had responded.
"That's where you're wrong." He said, his eyes twirling. Within them, Eddie saw a mix of emotions: anger, hate, greed...and was that jealousy Eddie spotted? "You're parents at least care Eddie. My mom's a fuckin' whore who left me, and my father..." Chucky took his half-finished cigarette, flung it to the ground, and stomped it out angrily. When he looked back up at Eddie, that light in his eyes was twirling even fiercer.
Eddie decided that was enough of that and quickly turned his thoughts elsewhere as they got to the police station. Eddie hopped out of the car right when it came to a stop. He, personally, wanted to be the first to greet his friend Charles to his new home. He was, after all, his best friend.
And, he supposed, after all, his only friend. ........................................... Chucky's eyes swept through his new bedroom, somewhat interested.
He'd be sharing a room with Eddie, and from what he could tell, Eddie wasn't much of a decorator. A bed with plain blue sheets, nice fluffy pillows, a few posters here and there on the (gasp!) CLEAN white bedroom walls, and some toys on the floor covering up the gray shag carpeting. Not much, no, not much at all.
But still better then before.
"So, what do you think?" Eddie asked, somewhat nervously.
Chucky let off a small smile at the corner of his lip as he turned his head towards Eddie. NOW he knew one of the reasons he really liked Eddie: he was loyal like a watchdog and always wanting to please like some sort of servant. He gently clamped his hand over Eddie's shoulder before saying "You got one nice room here, Eddie. One hell of a nice room."
...........................................
And THAT is the end of chapter one. More then likely, quite a few of you are going to cry foul about how quickly it ended and how short it was. Well, don't worry. This chapter was more of an introductory for myself to writing a CP fic, and you can be guaranteed that the next chapter will be MUCH longer. Until then.
~Nathander
By Nathander
Yay! I've finally gotten around to doing a fic that's been on my mind for quite awhile. This is a Child's Play fanfic, but it takes place before the movies, chronicling the earlier life of Charles Lee Ray. This is only the first chapter of a (possible) multi-chapter ficcy, and this is my first CP fic, so just give me any advice you have. Anyhoo, enjoy the ficcy!
Chapter 1: Spoiled Innocence
"You FUCKING IDIOT!! Admire me?!! You shit!!! I'm the villain in this fucking story!" Johnny C., Johnny the Homicidal Maniac #7
The boy, only 10 years old, rested his head on the open palm of his hand, kicking the leather chair of the police car in front of him. He was tall for his age, about 4'10", his black hair long and unkept, and his blue eyes flickering around the car. He sighed; God, this was getting redundant.
The police officer hated this just as much as the boy did. This was the third time this week the kid had run away from home, and at twelve thirty AM, of course. He had even memorized the kid's name by now, and the answers he'd give him if he would ask why he did this, though the answers were usually just strings of obscenities he would hurl at him. He finally began to speak to the child as the headed back towards the apartment complex the child lived in. "You've got to stop doing this Charles."
"Chucky." The boy said lazily, no real emotion in his voice.
"What is your fascination with being called that?" the officer asked, annoyed how some little runaway would actually contradict an officer.
"I just love the sound. You know: Chuck-y, like knife slashes." The child replied, his voice still emotionless.
The cop shivered; he knew it was wrong, but sometimes he actually wanted to shoot the kid in the head. During his conversations with the kid, he could tell he was disturbed. Not insane; just disturbed. The other thing was the incredible amount of cunning he possessed. If he were to grow up and become a killer, just like the cop thought he would, he wouldn't have any problems with shooting the kid right there and saving the world from having any more trouble. But he didn't know for sure, so he couldn't justify his actions.
They soon arrived at the small apartment building, which was almost totally run down and deserted, except for a few patrons, like Charles' dad. Charles silently and quickly exited the police cruiser, and entered the door of the building to take his trip up the flight of stairs to his room. The officer just drove away as quickly as he could, not bothering to see if the child would be all right.
Personally, he couldn't care less about Charles Lee Ray. ........................................... "Where in the blue FUCK have you been, Charles?" James Lee Ray asked angrily at his son.
Charles just went by him, not bothering to answer. He had no love at all for his father.
His mother had skipped town with some shit she had been seeing since her 'husband' was so abusive. In actuality, no marriage had ever taken place, so she was free to do as she chose, though that didn't exemplify her from Charles' hate. But Charles' hated his father the most. More then the pricks he knew at school, more then the dipshit thugs on the street who'd try to jump him, shit, even more then those fuckin' grapes they put in Jell-O. His father was a wiry little man who wore an old white wifebeater and ragged blue jeans. His father didn't have a job and refused to do the slightest of tasks (except for getting drunk or fucking some sluts if he had the money).
His father soon grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to twirl around. Charles felt a sharp, stinging pain to his right cheek, and his body fell to the ground, him clutching the right side of his mouth. He swished his mouth a bit, feeling the syrupy liquid in his mouth, and spat onto his father's shoe, the blood staining the already worn white sneakers. Charles turned his head up towards his father and smiled viciously, as if saying 'there, you stupid sonofabitch, gotcha' again'.
"You best wipe that smile off your face boy." His father growled, making a sound similar to a sick bulldog still trying to seem fully healthy and fit for fighting. Charles wanted, oh Lord how he wanted, to laugh in his father's face, but he denied himself that pleasure and got back up and headed towards his room.
He flung himself on the dirty sheets that were used as his bed, his head landing on a pillow that was seemingly only the cover with some of the stuffing still in it. He thought to himself, thought long and hard. He couldn't go on living like this or he'd be suffocated, maybe even consider the possibility of suicide.
'NO' his mind screamed out at him. He was a survivor, and he would out last him. He would out last his father, the old fuck would see that.
Charles closed his eyes momentarily, and then snapped them back open, a vicious grin coming onto his face.
If he was going to make sure he out lasted his father, he had work to do. ........................................... It was sort of funny how James Lee Ray was murdered.
James Lee Ray quickly snapped his eyes open as he heard soft footsteps coming towards him. Over the years, he had trained himself to pick such things up, to listen for things others couldn't hear, to look for things others couldn't see.
He quickly, yet quietly, opened the drawer next to his bed, pulling out a silenced handgun from it. He had been expecting this confrontation for the last month; he had known he had gotten so in debt to them, he wasn't surprised they had finally sent some one to kill his ass.
Finally, the footsteps stopped, and the door flew upon....and James fired three consecutive shots, one at the groin, one at the chest, and one at the head, closing his eyes as he fired and relying upon the positions of his hands to aim the gun straight and true.
When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to find that nothing was there. Swiftly and quietly, he got out of bed, standing still for a moment, and then quickly reopening the drawer from which he had produced the gun with a lighting quick motion, and took out the extra bullets he had, reloaded the three cartridges he had used, and put the extras in his pocket. Believing himself ready, he began to slowly and silently move, hoping to possibly catch the intruder off guard.
As soon as he got out the door, he screamed in pain as a knife struck him expertly in the shin of his left leg. He fell to the floor, clutching at the wounded leg. He immediately looked upward as he heard the soft laughter.
The laugher of a child. Of a boy.
"Charles, you little fucker." He cursed in the direction of the laughter.
Soon, the form of his son came into shape, Charles standing up from his original crouching position, his smile almost inhumanly wide, and his eyes seeming to flicker and dance with malicious glee, a bloody knife in his right hand. "You know, I prefer 'Chucky' much better, old man. Makes me feel like I'm a real human being and not the son of some worthless shit like yourself." He said, his smile still on his face, taunting him, even going so far as to lick some of the blood off the blade.
His father kept the sneer on his face for a little bit longer before he smiled and raised the handgun towards his son's head.
He was barely able to conceive what happened next. He saw Chucky's arm move quickly, and felt a very sharp, VERY painful sting in the hand that held the handgun.
Or, at least, the hand which WAS holding the handgun, as the handgun was now lying at James' side.
As well as the hand.
James' opened his mouth to scream, but it never entered his mind to do so as Chucky thrust the knife straight into the top of his skull, James' dying instantly.
Chucky smiled a little. In retrospect, he was almost sorry for this man who didn't even have a fighting chance. His father. And now his father was dead, lying right at his feet.
"Oh well." Chucky said, smirking. "At least that's one less waste of life."
Stepping on his father's body, Chucky entered his father's room and quickly opened another of the drawers, and pulled out a battered, leather bound book.
The book where his father kept all his gambling debts. He placed it on the mantle besides his father's bed, and then headed towards the kitchen.
There, he tore some of his thin t-shirt, and then cut the exposed skin underneath, not even flinching as he did so. Fresh blood flowed from the wound. He then quickly washed the blood off of the knife, and made sure none of the blood stayed on the sink. He then proceeded to wipe the blade dry before putting it back in the cupboard.
Finally, he picked the phone up and dialed the police. The voice of a friendly sounding woman came from the other side. "Hello, Chicago Police Station. What is it that you wish to report?"
Chucky quickly brought fake tears to his eyes, and made his voice seemingly hurt and frightened. "My.my daddy! Daddy's dead!"
Immediately, the woman's voice became urgent, almost frantic. "Little boy, is the intruder still in the house?"
"No." Chucky said, sniffing a little. "He was scary. I just saw his back as he left. He hurt daddy really bad!" he shouted lightly, his voice almost a sob. 'Damn' Chucky thought. 'If I go into acting, I'm sure to win one o' those Oscars.'
"Okay, please be calm." The lady on the other side of the phone said. "What's your address?"
Chucky told her quickly yet carefully and accurately. The woman on the other side said something lightly under her breath, which Chucky could tell as her saying "Fuck." "Okay, we'll be there as soon as we can in just thirty minutes. Just stay there and stay calm little boy, okay?"
"Okay." Chucky said, sniffing a little again. He was almost afraid he was hamming it up too much. The lady said goodbye and to stay put, and Chucky hung up after she did.
With the silence and reflexes of a cat, Chucky left his apartment. He had to make it look like someone had broken into the apartment.
There was an emergency fire-axe encased in glass just a few feet away. It should suffice nicely. ........................................... "I'm telling ya'." Timothy Weissman said as he gripped the steering wheel of the cop car, his knuckles turning white from the pressure he put upon them. "I know the damn kid, and I know he's a cruel, godless, little motherfu.."
"Can you please stop?" Tess Reshmen, his partner, growled at him. "For the last ten minutes, you've been giving me a bunch of bullshit about how some kid, A TEN-YEAR OLD KID, killed his father. Methinks you watch to many B- Horror movies."
"Hey, YOU haven't met him. I have. In fact, earlier this morning, I caught the kid when he was trying to run away from home." Tim said, growling. "He hates his father, and I wouldn't put murder past him."
Tess gave off a little laugh of amusement. "You know, maybe just cause he talks tough doesn't mean he's some cold-blooded killer. Marge even told me that he was sobbing over the phone."
"And the reason you know he wasn't acting is.....?"
"Oh, will you please just shut up!?" Tess finally screamed. "My God, next you'll be talking about how he has an army of possessed dolls with him!"
The next twenty minutes of the drive were spent in complete silence, Timothy severely considering the doll theory Tess had come up with.
Tess paid as little attention as she could to Timothy, focusing more on getting her job done and making sure the kid was okay. Though the elevator ride to the fifth floor felt like an eternity, she supposed it would have to be necessary sometimes. .
The first thing they noticed were the splinters of wood in the far corner of the hallway. "Shit..." Tess muttered to herself. She was truly surprised however had done this would leave any survivors if he was desperate enough to not even clean up the evidence. She quickly ran to the door, though Timothy just walked at a slow pace, sinking it all in.
It was so.illogical. He was thinking the same thing as Tess, but trying to be more logical. He looked along the walls and let off a small smirk.
One of the emergency fire axes was missing. "Charles, you little sneaky bastard." He said through gritted teeth, though his smirk remained. It had to be Chucky, it just had to be. It would take him awhile to prove it, but by God, some day he would prove it.
Tess slammed what was left of the door open, and looked around as quickly as she could. Most of the apartment seemed to be intact. She narrowed her eyes; why would however had done this left evidence on the outside, but none on the inside. The only thing that made sense was if the guy was either who did this was either a new assassin, or just not a logical one. She quickly turned her head towards the sofa as she heard a small voice. "H..hello?" the voice said.
"Hello, this is Tess Reshmen, and I'm a member of the Chicago Police Force. We've come to get you."
Slowly, the little boy came up from hiding behind the couch. His eyes were red, more then likely from crying and lack of sleep. 'Poor kid must have been awake all night.' Tess thought to herself. Her eyes went wide yet again when se noticed the cut on his shoulder. "Oh Jesus." she muttered to herself lightly as she walked over slowly to the child, her arms wide open to show she wasn't going to hurt him. Nervously, he came to her, and she touched his shoulder for just a minute, removing her hand when he flinched. The cut was no longer bleeding, so that was good, though she supposed she'd still need to get him medical attention.
Sensing what she was thinking, the child said lightly "I washed it with water and soap." Tess sighed, and, in an attempt to comfort the child, embraced him.
Though he didn't outwardly, inside, Chucky was smiling as wide as possible. He was home free. He killed his dad and had gotten away with it.
His inward smile diminished as he noticed the other officer with her. He knew him very well, as seemingly, every time he ran away, it was this officer they sent. He gritted his teeth, and lightly, he said "Shit."
"Did you say something?" Tess asked.
"No, I didn't say anything." He said, his eyes glaring at Timothy.
Timothy exchanged his glare with vengeance.
Police Chief McCullan placed a hand to his brow in frustration. This was the third time Weissman had come in here to try to change his mind. "Timothy, give it a rest."
Gritting his teeth, Timothy tried to control his anger. "I'm telling you, it was him."
"Do you truly think that I could believe a ten-year old child capable of brutally murdering his father?" McCullan said, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't know..." Timothy began, but was cut off as McCullan stood up and slammed his fist onto his desk.
"I don't care Timothy!" he shouted angrily. "I don't know him, and I don't NEED to know him! What I DO know is that you seem to believe that this child is.is a criminal mastermind who's outwitting the police!"
"And you're letting him win!" Timothy shot back, ignoring the fact that he was now screaming at the highest-ranking member of the police force.
Glaring, but keeping his voice down, McCullan responded. "You will quit this nonsense at once. I don't want to hear anymore of this, or I'll seriously take the idea of having you thrown off this force into consideration. Do you understand?" Timothy didn't respond. "Do.you.understand?" McCullan said, more aggravated then before.
Timothy slowly nodded. "I do." He said, leaving the office and shaking his head as he left. "Unfortunately, I understand perfectly."
The rest of the night went smoother, smoother then Charles had thought it would. He was allowed to bunk down in one of the offices, and the leather chair was quite a bit more comfortable then his bed at home. From what he had heard he was going to be placed under the care of Adrian and Brittany Caputo, his best friend Eddie's parents. Sometimes he wondered why he liked Eddie so much as, personality wise, he was radically different then him. Chucky looked for trouble and greeted it with open arms whenever it came, whereas Eddy would haul ass and run at his own shadow. Still, Eddie was fun to be around with, for some bizarre reason he couldn't understand.
He chuckled lightly to himself; he still couldn't get over the fact that he had successfully outsmarted the police. He kept replaying the whole encounter over and over again in his mind. Over and over...over and over..over and ov..
He yawned lightly and fell asleep.
It was a Saturday morning, about 8:00 AM, and a light blue car went at a steady pace down the road towards the Chicago Police Station. The woman driving it was about in her thirties, and she seemed calm and beautiful outside. She always found that these traits quite easily covered what was inside her.
The boy in the backseat was about 10 years of age. His light brown hair was naturally curly and he currently had quite a bit of it. He was dressed in a nice pair of black pants and a red t-shirt, two colors that ended up having an interesting relationship with each other upon his body. His green eyes flickered nervously from his mother to the window. Finally, he settled his eyes upon his mother. "Mom, who do you think hurt Chucky's dad?" he asked in a quiet voice, as if he had been taught to speak in this fashion.
"I don't know Eddie." His mother said, her voice somewhat similar to his own in pitch. Eddie looked out of the window again, wondering WHY in the hell he had asked that. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, dark fantasies began to play themselves inside of his mind about what could have happened. Of a man clad totally in black, the stereotypical serial killer with an axe, came in through one of the windows and chopped up Chuck's father. This, of course, was just a fantasy, and Eddie knew that. However, he couldn't help but keeping thinking of another one...
Chucky would, after school, take him off to God knows where, as he could never totally know the location of the alley he'd take him too. He'd usually bring a few cigarettes with him that he'd been able to smuggle from his dad, or sometimes even a beer. Eddie would never accept the liquor, though he didn't have much of a problem with the cigs. And so, they would just sit there in that alleyway, talking about whatever would come to their minds.
"My dad is such an asshole." Charles had said, though this wasn't insane uncommon. Chucky usually started off their conversations this way.
"Why do you say that?" he would always ask Chucky. Chucky would then go into a long ramble about his asshole father and all his asshole deeds. After doing this, Chucky would take a long drag and settle down, letting Eddie talk. However, one time, not so recently, Chucky had finished in an interesting way.
"I'm telling you Eddie, some day, I swear, I'll kill the bastard."
While Eddie knew Chucky had a temper, he never really expected this.
"Ah, he isn't that bad Chucky." Eddie had responded.
"That's where you're wrong." He said, his eyes twirling. Within them, Eddie saw a mix of emotions: anger, hate, greed...and was that jealousy Eddie spotted? "You're parents at least care Eddie. My mom's a fuckin' whore who left me, and my father..." Chucky took his half-finished cigarette, flung it to the ground, and stomped it out angrily. When he looked back up at Eddie, that light in his eyes was twirling even fiercer.
Eddie decided that was enough of that and quickly turned his thoughts elsewhere as they got to the police station. Eddie hopped out of the car right when it came to a stop. He, personally, wanted to be the first to greet his friend Charles to his new home. He was, after all, his best friend.
And, he supposed, after all, his only friend. ........................................... Chucky's eyes swept through his new bedroom, somewhat interested.
He'd be sharing a room with Eddie, and from what he could tell, Eddie wasn't much of a decorator. A bed with plain blue sheets, nice fluffy pillows, a few posters here and there on the (gasp!) CLEAN white bedroom walls, and some toys on the floor covering up the gray shag carpeting. Not much, no, not much at all.
But still better then before.
"So, what do you think?" Eddie asked, somewhat nervously.
Chucky let off a small smile at the corner of his lip as he turned his head towards Eddie. NOW he knew one of the reasons he really liked Eddie: he was loyal like a watchdog and always wanting to please like some sort of servant. He gently clamped his hand over Eddie's shoulder before saying "You got one nice room here, Eddie. One hell of a nice room."
...........................................
And THAT is the end of chapter one. More then likely, quite a few of you are going to cry foul about how quickly it ended and how short it was. Well, don't worry. This chapter was more of an introductory for myself to writing a CP fic, and you can be guaranteed that the next chapter will be MUCH longer. Until then.
~Nathander