Notes: Written for the "white" contrelamontre color challenge on livejournal. Nurg. This honestly makes me squirm. I don't enjoy rereading it at all.
By the way, if you like Willard… please check out geocities . com / ratpr0n for Willard fan-type goodness.
Virgin
"Shoot!" Willard hissed under his breath as blood dripped from his finger onto the white sheets he was stuffing into the washing machine. "Shoot, shoot, shoot…" Several bright circles of red had already soaked into the linen before he had been able to find the presence of mind to push his fingertip into his mouth to soothe the cut he had gotten from a rough piece of metal hiding inside the decrepit washer. He sucked in earnest, tasting salt and copper as he ran his tongue across the sharp, slightly raised line of the wound. "Damn," he murmured around his finger as he examined the damage that had been done to the sheets, looking up guiltily as his voice echoed in the hollow space of the laundry room.
With a sigh, he crouched down and fumbled with the plastic bottles of various cleansers, most of them empty. Finger still firmly caught between his teeth, he made a grab for the bottle of bleach and swore when he found it empty. "Damn!" He stood and stamped his feet in an adult mockery of a child's tantrum.
There was a slight squeaking noise to his right, and he turned to see Socrates staring up at him reproachfully. Willard pulled his finger out of his mouth and absently wiped the last traces of saliva and blood off on his trousers. "You're right, Socrates," he extended one arm out to the rat to allow him to climb up to his accustomed place on Willard's shoulder. "It's not really a big deal." The two stared at the stains on the sheets for a moment. "We just… we just won't tell mom, that's all...
—Don't tell anyone. If you tell, what will your parents think of you? Huh? Look at me, you little shit! What will your father think?—
… it isn't as if she'd notice anyway." Willard shook his head, jarring Socrates slightly. With an air of resignation, he continued to stuff the sheets into the washing machine. As he closed the lid on the load of laundry, he raised his head and exhaled a long, shaky breath. "It's just… why do so many things start out white and end up… red?" He turned slightly. Socrates nibbled on his ear. Willard swallowed and adjusted the dials to permanent press. As the machine began to whirr, he took a step back and slipped one hand beneath Socrates' belly, lifting his friend up and then cradling him gently against his chest. "The bathtub used to be white," he whispered to himself, rubbing his chin gingerly against the top of Socrates' head when the rat responded to the sound of his voice. "Used to be… had to replace it…
—After Daddy did the bad thing, took his own life, committed suicide, fucking murdered himself, that bastard, that bastard. What did he leave us with? Nothing, nothing but debts, no money, and a bathtub ringed with sticky stubborn redcrimsonbrickmaroon blood. It was thick, so thick where it had dried just a little bit, thick all over your arms, in the places where the bathwater had never touched it. It was black and crusty underneath your fingernails and when I touched you it got all over me, like I was the one who had taken his fucking Swiss Army knife and slashed at his wrists like they were boxes secured with brown tape, like the boxes that used to come at Christmastime. How many boxes did that knife open? Still sharp after all those years, sharp enough to open that final box, your skin was the final piece of packing tape it ever sliced through. Halleluiah, it's Christmas morning but there's blood in the snow. If you see baby Jesus, give him a big fucking hello just from me, because I hate you both so much.—
… the linoleum too."
—On my shoes too, so I left bloody footprints everywhere and Mommy was screamingscreamingscreaming, I wish you could have heard it. Blood on my face when I put my head in my hands, blood on Mommy's nightgown, we ended up throwing it out, who'd have thought the old man had so much blood in him? And she just wouldn't stop screaming. The ambulance came and gave her a tranquilizer and took you away wearing white gloves that immediately turned pink as they pulled you from the water. They wrapped you in a long piece of white cloth when they put you on the gurney which jumped and jiggled as they wheeled it down the stairs and your body jumped with it as red started soaking through, just a little bit. Haven't they figured out yet not to use white things? People bleed. You sure did. And when you were gone, I laughed, because I hated you for not knowing… never doing anything... knowing and looking away, that was what you did, I think.—
Willard stroked Socrates slowly, his eyes closed. "Then the other time," he mumbled, his voice rumbling low in his throat, enticing Socrates to push his nose against the man's Adam's apple, "you don't need to know about. No one needs to know." When Socrates squeaked indignantly, Willard smiled. "I know… you're my friend, and I know you won't tell anyone, but…"
—It hurt so much, so much that I couldn't breathe, I thought I was dying. When I tried to say something, anything (just trying hard to take in air with pain and a heavy body crushing me, crushing my lungs) he smacked me and told me that I couldn't talk and that if I screamed he would kill me, maybe, or make my Daddy hate me. And afterward he laughed and told me that even though I'd never been with a girl I wasn't a virgin anymore even though I was only twelve twelve and he knew it. I didn't like him, but I never thought he'd do that; if I had, I would never have let him in the house. I wish I'd known, but I thought maybe he had something important to leave for Daddy, but it turned out he had something to leave for me, in me. And that was white too, mixed with a little bit of red. When I reached my hand back there, it was wet and sticky and it hurt. I couldn't sit right and when it trickled between my thighs I thought I was going to throwupthrowupthrowup so disgusting I couldn't believe how bad how nasty I don't ever want to be touched again. —
… it's just not something I like to talk about."
—But I put my underwear back on, white cotton briefs just a little too tight and the elastic would press into my skin and sting just a little. I put them back on and gritted my teeth and hugged Mommy and Daddy when they came home, hating them because they hadn't been there to make it stop, hating Daddy because Mr. Martin was his partner and he should have know, I don't care how but he should have known. When I changed into my pajamas before bed that night, there was a little circle of red on my underpants because it wouldn't stop bleeding slow and slow and slow but steady and it didn't stop until sometime the next day, thank god thank god thank god. And I took that pair with the red stain on them (looked like a girl, like a girl had gotten her period and hadn't known) and stuffed them into one of the big trash cans at school where no one would ever look and I hope they got buried deep, really deep somewhere. That pair, and every pair after that I had to hide because there was blood on them and you never noticed, Daddy, you never noticed that he was hurting me and I hate you for it.—
Socrates seemed to accept this and his teeth chattered softly against the material of Willard's shirt, his tiny claws clutching the flesh on Willard's hand fervently. "You're white," Willard observed, as if noticing for the first time. "Pretty white fur." He stroked his friend softly. "I hope nothing ever happens to you," he said, his fingertips tracing Socrates' delicate spine. "I hope you never turn red… I don't think I could live with that." He lifted Socrates slightly and kissed him between the ears.
"I love you more than anyone else."