It hasn't happened in such a long time.
It was never supposed to happen again.
Willy Wonka crouched on the floor of the Inventing Room, staring at the table before him. He was still clutching his aching hand close.
I thought it was safe now.
What was he going to do? Last time this had happened, he had slashed another boy—a child, only a child—straight down the face. If he injured Charlie in any way, he would simply have to kill himself. Not to mention what the other Buckets would do to him.
Willy hugged his knees to his chest.
What haven't I tried...
He was on better terms with his f-f—Wilbur. He could ask to talk to him.
Oh, like that worked so well last time, the little voice in his head whispered. Willy grimaced. That voice was usually helpful.
Now, your mother. THAT you have not tried.
She's probably not even alive.
Coward.
"Yes, I am a coward," Willy said out loud.
The empty room echoed with his words.
Willy stood and walked out of his room, through the many twisting passageways of the factory, to the double doors which stood only a few inches apart.
He pushed one open and stepped inside, tripping over a couple boxes in the dark until he could get to a light switch.
Charlie was leaning against the file cabinet, fast asleep, a picture still clutched in his arms. Willy tilted his head, but he couldn't see which picture it was. He smiled, and leaned as if to brush Charlie's hair from his face.
But he thought better of it, turned, and left.