"They Stretch Like Mad" (8-8-05)
Wonka
character in reference to 2005 film
rated PG
no warnings, but slight creepiness
Far too tense and far too jittery, Willy Wonka retired to his private rooms. At the least, the tour had proven fruitless, if not completely confusing and havoc-wreaking. Four prospects eliminated--not without a certain amount of sadistic reward--but the winner declined, preferring to be with his...family.
He silently damned the boy's family for exerting such a hold on him, repressing him, keeping him from achieving greatness.
Lately his whole head was coming undone. A restabilization was long overdue. There was only one type of exertion of pressure which was acceptable.
A brush with mortality, flashbacks, confrontation with other...people, for lack of a better term. Only one thing could be done when Real Life got intense like this...a return to an indulgence in his old habit--the one with its roots in adolescence.
He slid into his pajamas and between satin sheets--both overly ostentatious, but what's the use of being a billionaire if you can't splash out on a bit of superficial decadence? After all, items like this were a testament to his achievement as well as his loss.
Settling back into the pillows and breathing slowly with conscious effort, he closed his eyes and laid his hands on the sides of his face. His skin felt cool under warm hands. Slowly his fingers splayed out, and his grip on his head became firmer. Head held immobile, he opened his mouth slightly, shifting his jaw around, rolling his tongue. Under his hands the bones slid, muscles distending and clenching.
Both abhorrent and fascinating a sensation to Willy Wonka, the flexible, malleable skeleton within him shifted.
Wonka licked his teeth, running over every memorized surface. Enamel is the hardest substance of the body, yet even teeth can stretch and move...in their fashion.
They're moving now. Moving out of position. Arrest them. Retain them. Slowly guide them back in time, back to perfection.
There is nothing more terrifying than losing control of one's own body...or one's own mind...so control what you can control. Many outside forces are at work against one's money, personal safety, exploitation of creative genius. All which truly exists lies within. The creation of empires begins within.
As his fingers screamed protest at cramping up, he noticed he'd been clenching his head. Vague handprints marked his sallow flesh as he released himself.
He sat upright and leaned over the edge of the bed, retrieving a deep box from underneath. From it he pulled his orthodontic headgear, the revamped remnant of his adolescent braces.
Brackets still remained on his backmost molars, and he fitted the mouthpiece wires into them, stretching his lips to reach. With practiced hands he next attached the headpiece and chin strap. No need for a mirror.
Already his blood pressure was calming. Soon he would be safe.
Bedtime was the most uncomfortable time to wear the headgear, but ironically only by calling attention to the discomfort could he reap the rewards.
In some cases, growth must be forced. In order to grow properly, a certain amount of reshaping is required.
Wonka began to apply the tension. He turned the screws and tightened straps. Application of one kind of tension could cancel out another. S-t-r-e-t-c-h. Pull the bones, the boy, the man. Assure it's equal on both sides now, holding him securely. His eyelids fluttered closed. No need to see.
It hurts.
Nonsense. A bit of pressure, perhaps, but discomfort soon transforms and passes. It's all for the best. Oral health, proper speech, a lovely charming smile.
Another twist just...there...to make the nerves come alive. Wonka checked the security of his appliance with an experimental jutting of the chin, a wiggle of the jaw. It clinked and creaked to his movements. As a reward came the satisfying clink of metal on metal.
Gripping the main support, he gave it a little tug, testing the restraint. Tight. Good--as if it's one with his head.
Wonka settled back between the pillows as best he could, a small pillow rolled up beneath his neck for support, one large pillow on each side. Once more his hands crawled across his head and its extension. He retreated in the security of his imprisonment--at once trapped by the gear yet safe within it.
Here there were no surprises, nothing unexpected. It was all of his own design. Here he was safe. Held. Here there were no other people, and therefore no way to be disappointed by them. No way to be remade by them.
As Wonka's consciousness waned, he drifted fitfully into and out of comfort. Something was missing--something huge.