AN: WOWZA! It surely has been the hottest of minutes! I've been going through a bit of an intense writers block BUT HEY! Here's something! Hope you enjoy!

15 minutes

That's how long it had been. Fifteen dull minutes he had been beating the brick. Each vicious swing sharply followed by an animalistic growl. Liquid crimson knuckles stamping each brick till they fell wet. However Charles hadn't ceased. All he could do was swing, his knuckles numb and sliced raw. He couldn't tell if the heat on his cheeks were from loose tears or from the blood splatting across his flushed face. Either way he couldn't bother to care all that mattered was crushing those damn bricks. He could feel the sulking fatigue plague him as his strikes had grown tired and ached, but there was no stopping. Not anytime soon. He just needed to keep hitting. Each swing deliberately clipped the corners with his knuckles, scraping away each layer of skin till his red juices ran black from debris. Till it split. As if a burning blade had sliced right through his index knuckle. Dead skin on the ground or remnants filed away by the chips of brick, leaving it exposed and fleshy. Hot ooze gushed out leaves all over his hand and forearm, however he couldn't bring himself to grasp it, to try and stop the bleeding. He just let it run down his arm. The heat of the crimson granted little warmth, but enough to calm the shivers that snaked down his spine. All he could do was stare at the wound seeing small fragments of white within.

"What the fuck Charles"

He knew that voice. How couldn't he know it? That same raspy high pitched chim that followed him since the 4th grade. Tiffany. It was always Tiffany. He didn't answer, his iceberg eyes still fixated in his gushing knucks now tenderly grasped by Tiffany.

"What the hell did you do to yourself!?"

"..."

Her grip slightly tightened around his hand, saddened but not surprised. "Come on, we can't have this getting infected" she spoke, gently pulling him towards her. Limply he followed, still silent. Back at their home he sat on a table chair, his hand still in her grip as she lightly wiped the blood away. She didn't bother to ask if he wanted to go to the doctor or talk to him for that matter, for she was always met with silence. She'd lost him to his own mind. Once the wound was clean she grabbed a needle and thread from her sewing kit tucked under the dresser, disinfecting the needle before she made any sort of contact. Tiffany stared at him through her peripheral, sighing at the sight. Chucky's eyes wide, body stiff, and jaw locked, if it weren't for the subtle rise in his shoulders she'd doubt he was even breathing at all.

…

Breathing. That's all that told him he was alive. Breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Simple routine to existing. Something his twin could no longer follow. Breathings are rather difficult then two large hands wrapped around your feeble neck. It only grows harder till you can't breathe anymore. Happens to everyone. Some sooner than others. Charles Lee Loman Reinhardt Ray found that out the hard way. Now all he could do was stare at an empty bed. An empty room. This emptiness inside him. His body stiffened hearing the booming steps of his father coming up the steps, the stench of pungent ale following closely after. The young lad could stay put as he waited for his father to reach him. The floorboards creaked upon the man's arrival, a bottle of beer in his left hand, a lighter in the other, and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. The young boy could barely look at the man, one brief glimpse was all too much in itself. The man's unsteady posture as if the weights of hell had been trying to drag him down, his crazed eyes, the owner of the baby blues his sons had inherited, and his breath, pungent and flammable. He lit the lighter, lighting his cancer stick,

"I wish it had been you Charles" he rasped before pausing to exhale.

The lad could only listen.

"You know, you should be grateful for this life. I come to America for you! You took my life away. And because I–" he remarked slumping against the doorframe.

"Because I created your pathetic ass. And I could take it right back out" he slurred taking another swing.

"The strong live and the weak die. Remember that…Makes me wonder why you're still here. Doctors said you should've died when you were born."

Charles sulked deeper into the room, his body trembling with each word.

"Least thing God could've done was give me a strong boy…But no he gave me you. A fucking runt..…Or a kid that would fucking talk or have the balls to fucking do something" he scoffed stepping closer to Charles. "Well then…I guess there is no God Charles" he sneered, turning back to the door leaving the boy.

…

Chucky had been snapped back into reality with one final snip of thread.

"Done"

He blinked absently staring at her work. Neat and tight. Just how he liked it.

"Ready to talk?" she asked, positioning herself against him.

Chucky sighed, lowering his head leaning it against hers, taking in her warmth.

"Do…Do you think I'm weak Tiff?" he asked, his voice sunken, almost hollow.

Gently she stroked the side of face , tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "No, you're not…What's this really about Sweetface?"

He sunk deeper into his chair, his throat tightening at the thought.

"I—I still hear him ... ..s–see him…h–he won't go away" he spoke tightly, sealing his eyes.

"Your father?" she questioned softly pulling him in.

He tried to speak…but nothing came. All he could manage was a slight nod.

"Charles…he's dead….He's been dead…And he's going to stay dead…He can't hurt you anymore. But when you feel him…I'll be right here to help make it go away" she whispered, running a hand through his locks feeling the subtle ease in his shoulders.

Chucky simply clung to her burying his face into the crook of her neck feeling himself calm down

"Thank you Tiff"

"Anytime"