A/N: I would simply like to say that this is my first attempt at writing a fanfic, which basically means that I have no beta and that I am uber excited so I'll be posting chapters of random length and most likely random quality. 1. Hold no high expectations and 2. Be gentle. Also, I don't own any of the recognizable characters only the new storyline into which I have cruelly thrown them. I get no money for this people, geeze!
Additionally, I ask that you recognize the magic that exists in the Wonkaverse. This is essential. Remember, nothing is impossible, just improbable!
---
Ch. 1: Hell.
It was summing up to be yet another horridly gray day just like almost all the rest in the forsaken town whose unkempt sidewalk passed quickly beneath a very cold girl's very quick steps. Everything in the town was gray. The streets were gray when there was no snow or leaves covering it. The homes were gray, the stores, and the gigantic factory on its outskirts. Gray! The entire lot! It was no wonder Chelsea Collins' already pitiable existence soured even more in the winter months. When the trees were bare and the sun was sparse, everything seemed just a bit gloomier.
Chelsea gathered her coat more tightly about her with her one free arm while her groceries, consisting of a loaf of bread and a bottle of rum, were tucked safely beneath her other. Her father routinely sent her out on errands he, being far to busy himself, could simply not be bothered with. Unfortunately, this busy task which demanded the sending of his daughter out in a storm, was watching his evening television shows. To say that the task was completely unwanted would be a lie; Chelsea did not mind going anywhere her father sent her because it meant that she was anywhere but in his presence.
As she trudged through the snow covering her front lawn she mentally braced herself for whatever it would be that her father would shout at her this evening. She always seemed to misplace the right key, ah, there it is. Damn it.
"That you?" her father shouted from the couch. Good. Stay there.
"Yes," Chelsea replied shortly, stopping to shove the bread in the breadbox and sit the rum on the kitchen table.
"What took you so long? The store is just down the block!" He shouted, rising from his seat. Chelsea decided not to correct his miscalculation. The store was about ten blocks away and she was against the wind through half of it. When he lumbered into the kitchen his face looked of a man about to scream some more but as his beady eyes fell to the table and onto the bottle of rum his expression softened immensely.
"They didn't have the kind I like in?" He asked, rather placidly.
"No, the man said everyone is buying up all his good rum, it being so cold and all…"
"Well, rum is rum I suppose when it all comes down too it. Better this than nothing." With that he snatched up the bottle and headed up the stairs to the study. Chelsea sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed her hands together to help them thaw out. Sighing, she shrugged off her jacket and got up to hang it. On her way back to her room she quickly made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Since her father took the whole bottle of rum with him that meant he would not be requiring her to cook him dinner. She would rather eat something small than stay down stairs for too long. Such was her life of predictable unpredictability.
---
The next morning dawned slightly brighter than the previous. Chelsea's eyes fluttered open, assaulted by a sliver of sun showing through the cloudy sky and through her bedroom curtains. She rolled onto her back and stretched, feeling her aching muscles, a reminder of her impromptu chore the previous evening, begrudgingly awaken and prepare for the new day.
Getting up and gathering her clothes, she paused a moment at her window before pushing open the curtains to punish her eyes with the epicenter of gray. Standing not too far in the distance was that chocolate factory. Aside from at one time bringing a lot of jobs and wealth to the citizens of the city, and at all times sending a wonderful sweet smell to all homes nearest to it, the giant building only served to blemish the land and make the city even uglier and yes, grayer.
---
Sitting on her front porch preparing to sketch the vast factory, as sketching anything within her sight was one of her hobbies, Chelsea silently considered her life for the past few years. There had been a lot of changes, some good, some bad, and others….worse. She often found herself slipping into this self depressing trance. It was depressing; it was comfortable.
Her father, after her mother had had her accident and passed away, moved them to his father's house in this nasty town that Chelsea had not so affectionately nick-named the harbinger of doom. Her mother and father had been fighting, ironically over money, when she fell down the stairs in their beautiful eight bedroom, three and a half bath, three car garage, Beverly Hills home, in 'The Americas.' Soon after, her father inherited all of her mother's not so hard earned family money. Oddly, he put the money into accounts and moved them in with her grandfather, only occasionally dipping into the accounts when extremely necessary. They never worked but always seemed to want for decent things. It was like he was holding onto the inheritance for a rainy day.
Not but a year after their arrival her grandfather had passed away. Luckily his passing was much more natural. Her father inherited this modest 3 bedroom home and promptly became an alcoholic. A few years later Mr. Willy Wonka decided he needed an heir to his throne and held his Golden Ticket contest, quite effectively albeit unknowingly bringing even more fun into Chelsea's household.
The Beauregarde's were one of the parent and child pairs that won the life changing trip into the giant factory of doom. Chelsea too was caught up in the excitement of the Golden Ticket frenzy and thus decided she would like to go watch the winners and their parent's journey into and out of the factory with the rest of the town. Her father, being only mildly intoxicated at the time, as was the norm during the earlier hours of the day, agreed that it sounded like quite a time but that they needed to be stylish if they were to be in the line of fire for so many cameras. She had not actually intended for him to accompany her as she relayed her day's plans but the prospect of some new clothing seemed worth it in the long run.
Dressed for success and looking rather ritzy if she dared to say so herself, they gathered with the onlookers at the great gates to the factory. The winners were all lined up and waiting rather impatiently to enter.
And then they had.
And then the crowd waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Had Chelsea known it could possibly be this boring and quiet in an enormous crowd surrounded by television cameras and paparazzi, she would have brought her sketch pad or at the very least a good book.
When the contestants were finally pouring out of the building the crowd became excited once again. All of the contestants were sullied in one fashion or another. Covered in what could only be chocolate judging by the smell, stretched out to the max, covered in garbage, and turned completely purple. One contestant was missing, the little lucky Bucket boy whose presence was only announced that very morning.
Chelsea remembered having glanced up toward the sky to gaze interestedly at the Teavee boy who had been standing near her when she thought she saw something pass quickly overhead. A box thing, but she was hastily pulled out of her observations by her fathers elbow in her ribs.
He was pointing at the little purple girl and saying something about a circus when the little purple girl's mother stepped in front of his offending finger.
"Excuse ME Sir, but would you kindly stop pointing at my daughter?!" Mrs. Beauregarde shouted. She was clearly angry at that time and trying to coax her daughter into wearing her jacket over her head.
"Well, Ma'am, I meant no harm. But you are going to have one tough time getting around anywhere without her being stared at," he replied.
What had happened next Chelsea could not have foreseen.
"Why don't you and your.. lovely daughter come stay with me and mine until you have to catch your flight back home?" Her father offered with a small bow Chelsea had never before seen him use.
Mrs. Beauregarde looked startled at first. Who wouldn't be? But after giving him a once over she smiled sweetly and grabbed her bouncy daughter's arm, gesturing for him to lead the way. The cameras were all too side tracked by the tall boy mumbling something about particles and televisions to notice their departure, which all in all was what Mrs. Beauregarde had wanted to achieve. She got more than she bargained for. Then again, the word bargain should probably not be used when describing Mrs. Beauregarde.
The next five years could best be described as noisy. Mrs. Beauregarde had quickly become Mrs. Collins and Chelsea had gained a new sister and a new mommy. The worst part was that the new sister quickly realized that going out side was scary and became a walking purple zombie and that the new mommy became the wicked witch of the west. There was not a day that passed that Chelsea did not have to deal with fights, tears, or even suicide attempts. The fights and tears were for the most part only the step witch but the suicide attempts were the purple zombie.
At first Violet was beside herself with excitement about being different and more athletic, until no schools would allow her enrollment because she was such a distraction to the other students, and no sports teams would have her either. All was fine until she turned thirteen. Violet could cope with rejection until her traitorous hormones decided to kick in. Everything changed after that. Violet's growing depression spiraled out of control on her fourteenth birthday. They found her that morning puking up a bottle of pills she had found in the medicine cabinet. These half hearted and half thought out plans to kill herself only increased in unsuccessful number until one day, fed up with the hospital hassles, Chelsea's father declared in a drunken rage that he "would purchase Violet a handgun so she could do it properly" and that he "would be rid of them both because afterwards" he would "make sure her money hungry succubus of a mother followed her to hell."
He got part of his wish. Shortly thereafter they were rid of them both and Chelsea found herself without a new mommy and without a new little sister. The only downside that she could see to their divorce and move was that now her father's rage was once again directed at her and that she felt really bad about everything that Violet had gone and was still going through.
---
Chelsea looked down at her sketch pad. She always depicted the factory as more sinister looking than it actually was. She supposed that this was due to her ex-sister's situation and the grudging pity it stirred insider of her. Thinking about the Beauregarde's always made her feel uncomfortable. She felt bad about Violet's depression. It was not like there was anything she herself could do to make it better for Violet but she always got into these weird moods when thinking about them. Moods that made her want to pick up the phone and give Violet a call just to see if she was still alive. And to maybe ask her how her day had been.
Shaking her head, she finished drawing the puffs of smoke rising into the darkening sky above the factory and realized that she had spent the entire day in the same spot doing the same thing. This was a regular occurrence for her. It was a way of zoning out of the world that Chelsea had picked up after her mother's death. It was only helpful part of the time.
On her way back up to her room Chelsea decided to check in the miscellaneous drawer next to the kitchen sink to see if the card Violet had quickly scribbled her cell phone number on as she was leaving was still in there. After some rummaging she decided it was not and that she needed some food and a hot bath before bed.
An hour later found her sitting in bed getting ready to open up one of her favorite books, "Ender's Game" for some light reading to help her fall asleep. When she did open the book the card in earlier question fell out onto her chest. She glanced down at it and picked it up. On one side of it in quick scratchy writing was Violet's cell number. Apparently Chelsea had sought out the card during one of her previous moods and had decided to use it as a bookmark. When Chelsea flipped the card over out of curiosity, realizing she had never actually examined the other side before, she found something truly surprising. Written in beautiful eloquent characters was this:
Mr. Willy Wonka: Magician, Genius, & Chocolatier.
Following those very remarkable and egotistical words were his personal office number and the instructions to call him if one were ever in need of his services. In much smaller print it also said that this card must never be given away or his number shared for it was for business associates and important customers only.
Chelsea stared dumbfounded at the card for a number of minutes before realizing she had not blinked and that her eyes were stinging. She blinked rapidly for a moment and then her mind began to work out the puzzle. Knowing the tale of what had gone on in the factory from both Mrs. Beauregarde and Violet, she knew that they went in, had their accident, and left. Why would Mr. Wonka have given this card to either of them? After more thought on the matter she decided that he most likely would not have and that one of them must have stolen it when he was not around. The only time he was not around was while Violet was being 'juiced' and Mrs. Beauregarde was waiting in… of course! While she was waiting for Violet she must have snuck into his office and taken this card. She had mentioned noticing his office on the way out. Well, she had noticed it for sure, but not exactly on the way out.
Puzzle solved, Chelsea closed her book and sat it on the bedside table, propping the card up against its spine. As she drifted off to sleep the words on the card became blurrier and blurrier until she found herself hugging Violet who was melting into a purple puddle and throwing dozens of little white business cards at Violet's mother.