Chocolate Tear
Charlie Bucket was fairly used to wondering around on his own. At school he kept to himself mostly. He didn't really mind: from the conversations he had overheard, having more money only seemed to make you more unhappy with everybody else. The other children, with their talk of Game Boys and Barbie dolls, mostly left him alone. Rosemary Machin talked to him occasionally, but only out of pity. It was a shame really – he thought of himself as a nice enough boy.
So on his way home from school, alone, he'd run like mad to get ahead of himself, then stand outside the gates of the great chocolate factory and take deep, deep breaths of warm, chocolaty air, as if he could survive on the smell alone until his next birthday. It was just like Grandpa Joe always said: he would give anything in the world to go inside that factory and see what it was like to be a chocolatier.
Today the smell was more hazelnuts and cream, and the memory of the taste of his last Nutty Crunch Surprise rocketed back into his brain. Licking his lips to try and lock the taste in, at least for tonight, he began to make his way home.
Meanwhile, not far away...
Mr Willy Wonka stood at the full length window to his private admin office and looked down at the busy town covered in icing sugar--
...No.
Snow.
This was the real world and it was covered in snow.
He frowned slightly. Yes, there he was again! The same skinny little boy standing very still at the gates, a look of innocent bliss on his face. The chocolatier's face contorted. Poor little thing – without a proper coat or hat in this cold weather, sniffing up the smell of chocolate as though it would nourish him! He had a good mind to invite him in for some hot chocolate.
He twitched his head, surprised at himself. Invite him in for hot chocolate! Where on earth had that come from? In fact, where had the tightness in his jaw come from, the tickling behind his eyes, the funny empty feeling in his chest? His frown deepened as the boy, having run out of time and breath, began trudging through the snow, blowing on his fingertips.
I'm just impressed someone likes my candy this much, he told himself sternly. There is absolutely no chance of the possibility that I feel sorry for the poor little thing.
His slight reflection in the glass, the slight, wet twinkle in one light-coloured eye, belied his feelings.
All right, all right! Gosh darnit, I'll make sure he gets a good chance of finding a Ticket.
... And then I'm going straight to the Therapist.
fin