Chapter Text
"What you need to do, is to put yourself before anything else. Everyone is there to tear you down, chew you up, and spit you out. The world wants nothing more than to use you. It's your job to make them understand that you will never be taken advantage of. You will find a way to prove you are the only one who matters, just like you do to me."
Amanda Mixter - 1966
Chucky thought he had everything he ever wanted. Love, fame (among those he has affected), and power. The words rang in his head like an alarm, loud but familiar. You're the only one in the spotlight.
But just lately, stuff hasn't been feeling right. Nothing felt that way whatsoever, as much as he enjoyed the attention.
As he ran through the halls of Incarnate Lord, gray hair flying back from the air blowing against his face, he only just figured out why he felt so empty, despite his moral code trying to fill in every blank.
The ambience went dead silent and he only heard a brief ringing in his ears. He let go of what he was holding and his doll body clattered to the floor, blood spurting out from its jaw. It was Dr. Mixter inhabiting it now, but the survivors didn't know that.
He needed to get out of there. Something in his heart stopped him for a second though, in that very moment. As he was about to run out the door, he turned his head. His mind processed the very image of her horrified but mouthless stare.
He couldn't bear to look longer and he would have been shot too, so he turned and fled.
In the silence of the car while driving back to her place, Chucky couldn't help but dwindle on the thought of his therapist. He always prioritized himself over others. She insisted that he should. He was the importance, and he kept his promise on that. But the haunting memory of her came back. It looked like she expected him to save her.
She'll understand my motive anyway, he thinks, in an attempt to comfort himself. He did what he was told years ago. And he'll stick to it.
But what little old Charles Lee Ray didn't know, was that she lied. She used him to her advantage, knowing that she acted the way she told him he shouldn't let happen.
He arrived at the office and opened up the safe, swinging the new good guy doll around in his arms. He could forget about the doc now. He had the rest of his life ahead of him!
1965
Charles set his suitcase down by the front step, his legs wobbling a little bit nervously. His hair was a short but ragged mess. First day at the Burlington Home for Wayward Boys. He didn't know if he had any other family, so this was his only other option. He reflected on just a few days ago.
Just a couple of hours after the Hackensack Slasher came through town, the police came by his house as he clicked through the television channels on his couch. He nearly forgot he had the two dead bodies of his mom and dad inside the building, and he knew he had to avoid looking like nothing happened otherwise he would be convicted as a suspect.
Little him turned off the TV in fright and got on the floor, forcing himself to sob. After all, he was the victim too. He lost those he cared for, even despite not feeling much of any remorse towards them.
The pigs barged into the home and found Charles on the floor, teary-eyed and scared. The only thing they could do was ask him questions, and rehome him somewhere safe.
This was the last option they had in mind, however. Foster homes just never worked out. Families found him too violent, so here he was getting sent to juvie.
What would he say? He needed to make a good first impression. As strange as it sounded, he felt a little guilty for his mother's death. He would have died that night if he hadn't killed her. And while he did do it to help as well, it was primarily for the cost of his life.
She loved him and kept him safe under her roof. He couldn't just throw away the memory of her in favor of his violent needs. So to cope, just to show an ounce of respect in the slightest, he would visit her grave time-to-time at the Hackensack Cemetery every darkest night. To which he cried his sorrows and apologies to her headstone, he felt like his world was starting to crumble already.
In the moment of his reflecting on the past, he started to panic. He couldn’t just keep all these emotions bottled up, and he knew he was in real legal trouble if anyone found out his dirtiest secret. Jail. Anything but jail, Charles thought, terrified. He could only pray that he didn’t get caught, and that his mother’s spirit, if she even were one, would forgive him.
And forgive him she did.
The door creaked open, revealing the face of a middle aged woman. Her hair was curly and frizzy, a pale blonde-ish white, and in the midst of October her lips seemed to be chapped from becoming dry. She stared at the young boy at the front step, a look of confusion passing her glance before it turned into a more knowledgeable look.
“Is this Charles? Charles Lee Ray?”
“Uhhmm.. yes, ma’am.” He muttered nervously, fidgeting slightly with his hands. The woman moved back, held the door open by its handle and beckoned him in, her gaze softening. “I heard about your arrival. Come inside.”
He started to move up the steps and into the surprisingly large building, taking in a sigh. The clitter-clatter sound of his shoes echoed in the main room, drawing nearly all the attention to him. Him aside, the room was full with boys, quite a decent few stopping their current activities to glance at the newcomer. A little boy with blonde curly hair, he would estimate around 6 years old, curiously came up to him and extended a hand.
“Hi! Who are you?”
It seems all of the other boys were shy but interested as well, as the moment one came up, down went the rest, quick to surround him.
The blonde woman ushered the group to make room for her to move in front of Charles, waving her arms slightly. “Everyone, everyone! Settle down and give him some space. This is Charles Lee Ray.” She proceeded to turn back to him, looking empathetic. “I’ll lead you to your room. You’ll be sharing it with Eddie Caputo, one of our other boys.”
He couldn’t think of a word, so he followed her with silence, setting down his suitcase the moment he stepped in. The rooms all around were small yet cozy, only one window, two beds. A very tidy atmosphere.
“I’m so sorry about your loss, by the way. I’m sure you must miss your family a lot. But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to make your home here easily. My name is Ms. Janie, by the way.” The woman said to him, her tone laced with sadness for him.
“I’ll be okay. Thank you.”
Getting settled in was a pain in the ass. He had no friends, and nobody wanted to socialize with him ever since he started to get comfortable. Day one went rather well in his favor, but unfortunately the start of his growing murderous tendencies drove kids away.
Charles could get away with killing stray animals. They were nothing comparable to real humans. But it did nothing to benefit him other than scare off possible friendships he could be making. He needed to satisfy the tensions.
The killings increased the worry of Ms. Janie, who in turn decided to hire a therapist to talk to Charles and talk him out of his bad habits. Every month she would have to drive him back and forth to her office. Today was day number one.
“I heard Dr. Amanda Mixter is one of the best therapists out there in her occupational field. She’s guaranteed to help with your little addiction,” His current legal guardian mused to him, turning her head to the backseat where little Charles Lee Ray sat, about ready to head into his first therapist session. They were parked into the main lot, and on the lowest floor of the big building, outside its glass walls.
“I can lead you to the elevator and to her floor, but then you must be able to see her on your own.”
They got out of the car together at once, headed into the building, and went into the elevator. There she pressed the button labeled with the number 7, marking the 7th floor. As it went up, Charles couldn’t help but form a sense of foreboding. The same fear came back that he would remember every time he saw his mother’s grave. He couldn’t let anybody know that he killed his mother, or he was screwed, doomed to be stuck in a rotting cell until his death. The elevator let out a ringing sound as its doors opened moments later, signaling the arrival to the floor. He stepped out fearfully, noticing a few doors ahead. He went forward through the hall, up to the empty window space, and took a turn. Just to his side was a door labeled with her name. Dr. Amanda Mixter, PhD.
This was it, he found the room. As he was about to open the door, as much as he did not want to, it opened first before he could put a hand on the handle. A blonde woman, he assumed immediately to be her, holding papers in her hands, rushed out and down the nearest stairwell (rather than the elevator). Oh well, at least he didn’t need to have a major introduction right then and there. The boy walked into her room and sat on the modestly comfortable couch, deciding to wait out for her return.
As she showed up to the doorway now paperless, her eyes rested upon him, softening as she wandered in and closed the door. “This is Charles Lee Ray, isn’t it? Welcome.”
He felt an odd chill down his spine as he noticed that her tone sounded mischievous. This was unlike any therapist he’s ever seen in a film. She seemed more like his kind of type just from first glance.
The woman wandered over and plopped down beside him, kicking back her legs.
“Yeah.. that’s me.”
Her professional demeanor faded and her lips curved into a grin. And the way her eyes wandered over Charles, made him think she was surveying him. Calculating what he’d do, invested.
“I’ve been looking forward to your case since I first was assigned to you. What an interesting bundle of surprises you are. You’ve lost your parents to a killer, been too much for other families, and now you’re stuck in the Wayward home with a knack for killing animals.”
He ducked down his head shamefully. Well, those families didn’t understand me . He wanted to say it so desperately. Charles wanted to bawl his fists, vent, lash out, something. Anything.
“I admire it, I must say.”
And then he looks back up, his eyes narrowing. Well, certainly not expecting that from a therapist, of course.
“You wouldn’t understand. It’s not your job to encourage, I thought it was to fix.”
“It is my job to fix this kind of bad behavior. But you... You’re a different case,” She says, her voice lowered to a whisper. “I don’t need to play by the rules with you.”
Amanda had something else on her mind. Something he could tell behind her piercing blue stare. Yet he couldn’t put a finger on it.
He goes silent.
Yet she continues. “All of my young clients I’ve had, never went under the category of a juvenile.”
The woman crosses her legs together, looking off into the distance. Her eyes are locked on the room door, as if expecting someone to barge in. Someone to interrupt her plans.
“Tell me... what’s been troubling you, Charlie? Is it okay if I call you that?”
He nods slowly, but doesn’t respond. It has a nice ring to it. But the thought alone of all on his mind, explaining it to a licensed care professional... he didn’t want to just snap out of these habits. He also wasn’t sure of her motives, all of this talk was up in the air.
“I’ll be here as long as I get the information I need.” Mixter nudges him lightly in the arm with the back tip of her pen.