Moving Day
The man who had been known as Willard Stiles, gentle and shy,
was now "Rat-Boy". Or at least that's what the correctional
officer called him. That officer, Jim, would not leave him alone,
not even when he slept. Always taunting, snickering, guffawing
at Willard's sad state. But never would the officer find Willard's
small white companion, waiting with him for Socrates to return.
They were as quiet as a mouse. Jim would always walk in to find
Willard Stiles, case 3 9-11, staring at the door blankly, waiting.
Yes, sometimes Willard would eat, his slim fingers would drop
down to the food, feel around for a piece, and he would raise it to
his mouth, chewing slowly, eyes never leaving the door. Today,
Willard waited inside of his cell, the white rat nibbling gently at
his palm, telling him to give up this monotonous routine, but
Willard would simply bring his sleeve to eye-level, look at the
creature and whisper, "He will come. Wait. Patience, little friend."
Although, the routine was quite different today. Almost
disturbingly so. Today, Jim walked in and sneered at "Rat-boy"
and hissed, "Com'n. We're going on a walk." Willard turned him
head slowly and said, "No." "What are you talking about you sick
freak? When I tell you to walk, you walk." Then a twist of fate
presented itself as Willard's companion wriggled under his
sleeve. Jim leered. "Wouldn't want anything bad to happen to
that rat of yours." Willard jumped up and processed the threat in
his mind. Jim could almost hear it snapping. Willard then jumped
on the scrawny man, who was even thinner than himself, and
started beating him upon the face. Jim flailed and called for help
and four burley men with tranquilizers marched into the room.
They threw Willard onto his cot and injected him with the serum.
Willard instantly went a little limp and two of the men took
Willard by an arm and led him out of the room. Willard walked
by madmen babbling about non-existent women and places and
wondered if he could even be classified as the same species as
them. His world started to spin as a headache threatened to split
his head in two, and was led into a room with the words,
"OFFICER PERSONNEL ONLY". They opened the door and
that is when Willard's world would be shattered forever. He
walked past men in 6-8 foot showers with a padding on the side.
They lead Willard by them and Willard stuttered, "U-uum, w-
what are those e-exactly?" "These are gonna be your new happy
home.", said Jim holding an ice-pack to his swollen face.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHH!". A scream rung out through the metal brushed
room. The officers left Willard's side and ran to the source of the
scream. A man had ripped out his IV, and it was now spurting
purple neon liquid. The officers ran to the man who was now
scraping himself across the floor in agony. They unsheathed their
nightsticks and started beating the man about the head, quite
unnecessarily, Willard thought to himself. Willard felt numb as
the man was left dead on the floor, in a puddle of pooling dark
blood, skull bashed in and exposed tissue. Willard took in the
scene and started to emit body wracking sobs. The men came to
Willard's side and threw him into his new home. They attached
and IV to him, and left him sobbing in the room. A man in a long
white coat took the plastic that was protruding from Willard's
arm, and put a syringe into it and injected him with some liquid.
That is when Willard realized the truth. They were being tested
on. They were truly human lab rats. Willard looked at the rat
wriggling uncomfortably in his sleeve and told him to find Ben.
Find him and tell him what was going on. He sent the rat out and
the rat escaped only to give a loud squeak as it's tail was stepped
on by a large heel. The woman who had caused the rat's pain
looked down and picked up the tiny creature who was quivering
with fear. A warm smile crossed her face as she carefully placed
the rat into her purse, and whispered not to be scared. Poised,
she walked to the front desk and stated, "Catharine Miller to see
Willard Stiles."
I don't own Crispin Glover, Willard, or Ratman's Notebook.
Please R&R.