W I L L A R D
NUISANCE OF THE UNDERBELLY

"Mr. Stiles?" He didn't look up as the man came in, he just calmly extended his arm, expected what had come everyday.

"Mr. Stiles, can you hear me?" He rolled his eyes towards the voice seeing it connected to a short woman with long black hair and dark eyes. He began rolling up his sleeve, past his elbow and pushed his arm towards her, looking back down to the ground.

Hesitant, she grasped his outstretched fist and held it aloft, but instead of taking out a syringe, she wrapped it gently in both hands, her fingers stroking his.

"Mr. Stiles, I'm Dr. Bludworth." She eyed him. "I'm your new psychiotrist." She squatted down into his sight, taking his eyes up into hers and holding them there. "How do you feel?"

He blinked slowly and tilted his head, but did not answer.

"Can you speak?"

He still did not answer.

Slowly, she reached up with one hand and uncurled her fingers towards his face, reaching for the wounds, before he pulled away from her touch, curling in the bed with his legs pressed to his chest, facing the wall.

Dr. Bludworth held her sigh and watched him silently. The blue pajamas stretching at his thin frame's fold, a little slice of his back showing, more red wounds.

"I'm here to talk to you Willard..." he twitched but did little else."May I call you Willard?" When he did nothing else, she let her shoulders drop.

"Since I am going to call you Willard, you may call me Sylvia, alrgiht?" She reached out gently and put a hand on his shoulder. Then, she reached into her pocket and drew out a black crayon, devoid of wrapping and bent forward, finding Willard's loose hands close to his face and touching one.

"Here Willard, I'd like to give you a present." She pushed the crayon into his hand and stood back, watching him as he looked down to study the long piece of wax carefully. Then, he closed his eyes to it and pulled his hands beneath his chin, scooting his nose closer to the wall until it touched.

Sylvia licked her lips and thrust her hands into her jacket pockets, before leting out her pent up sigh and leaning forward again, taking the neatly folded blankets from the edge of the bed and pulling them up over Willard, tucking them beneath his chin gently.

"How about we'll talk tomorrow?" She suggested, turning when he did nothing and went quietly out the door. As the door shut behind her, Willard turned from the wall and watched where she had been, unfolding himself from out of the blanket and holding up the crayon, seeing it shine in the dim, caged lights.

Smiling, he turned back towards the wall and pressed the end of the crayon to the stucco surface, tracing a line. He let his hand drift as the line curved up and cam back around in a crushed C, the bottom part of it bulging with two little clawed flaps while it came to a soft point at the adjoining end, giving way to another C close to the edge and finally he connected the lines. At the back of the crushed C, he drew a long, tapered line that hooked gently at the end. He smiled to himself as he traced over his lines, making them darker and darker until they stood out against the gray wall.

Then, he felt pressure against his side and he lifted his arm to see a little white rat with red eyes crawl up to his face, his long whiskers smoothing across Willard's cheek. Putting down the crayon, Willard gently picked up the rat and turned over onto his back, holding it carefully above his head.

"Hello Socrates," he cooed delicately, brushing the crook of his finger beneath the rat's head which twitched and bobbed. His voice was crisp and even and calm, seeming to only want to be heard by himself and no one else. "I have a plan for leaving this place, but it will take some time."

The little rat just stared at him with his beady, pupiless eyes.

"I'll take you with me Socrates, and I'll never let any harm come to you. Ever again."