Individual Thank You Notes: Erik Devotee, It was during the dream and real life. T.y.! Dark Collins, ^-^ Yay, I put someone in suspense! LOL, T.y. "...", Thank you so much for the nice words, hehe. I think your mind works like mine in the rat-connection thing. o.O Crying Child Thanks! ^-^ I didn't notice that either 'til I was REALLY bored. Ha. (See ch.1 for disclaimer, etc.) Please be patient with me, I'm giving background. I've also recently found/read a copy of Ratman's Notebooks so I'm incorporating some things in it—to here in later chapters.
Wields Ill Rats
Chapter 2: Contrary Homes (Cathryn's Romeo)
By- TrSolarCat / RocketSolarCat -
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Nothing was going her way.
Cathryn brushed her slender hands down the length of her tight mini-skirt, smoothing it, then tossed back the black locks of hair, that drooped in front of her sweating face. Suddenly as if all she had lost control of her neck—her head fell onto the steering wheel of the little German car—murmuring in a irate tone, "Come on, you piece of crap!"
She made one last attempt at starting the car, but as the engine revved smoke poured from the back-end of it. Angry, she kicked open the doors with her tawny brown high-heeled shoes, closing the car's door in disgust. Digging quickly in her velvet purse, as she stepped away from the blue Volkswagen (that was beginning to become shrouded in black smoke), she pulled out her cell-phone.
Dialing rapidly as she shoved the phone into her ear, "Molly? I'm going to be late—"
A whining voice replied something. Cathryn made a repulsed look, moving the phone from her face, "I know, but it's this damn car again..."
She had actually said 'again'. The first time was at Willard Stiles' house; the tires had been blown--chewed up by the rats. He had told her, he'd go in and call--but this was a lie just an excuse to get inside before the police had seen him. To think she'd thought he was timid, benevolent and admirable. That's always how it was Cathryn's Romeo—they turned out nothing but liars or worse… When was she ever going to learn?
She felt a sense of odious guilt fall over her, but the voice on the other end didn't give her long to think about the dark matters at heart. The voice idly called her name, then she snapped back into reality—"Nothing, Molly. Look just tell him I'm going to be late and find me the number of the cheapest tow truck you can in the phone book, all right?"
Without bothering to listen for an objecting reply Cathryn harshly punched the button of the tiny cellular—throwing it back inside the velvet shoulder bag.
She felt like screaming—for the entire world to hear—ever since the night that she'd seen them take Willard away she had realized something. She loved him. All of the men she'd been around weren't anything compared to him—but it made no sense, of all the people for her to give her heart to it was a murderer.
Irony had struck at her again, she noticed this only because as she walked up to the sidewalk, waving the smoke from her face—that her car had broke down in the most formidable place she could have imagined.
The place where the car had stopped was less than three houses away from the Stiles' home.
God, or at least some celestial deity, was laughing at her. She knew it.
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It had taken the mechanics several hours to fix the pint-size Volkswagen enough to get her into the driveway of her apartment. She almost considered not locking it—in hopes of someone stealing it. Each stair she ascended felt like a weight was tied around her ankles, and when she finally reached her destination—she gave a wary groan as stood stupefied (almost not believing she was at the top).
Thrusting her purse and coat to the side, she flopped absently down on the leather couch. Her smooth hands groped for the remote—"Here on, KXL-News13, we report the sixth rat-related incident…Herald Jones brings us that story—."
She considered turning it off. It only made her think of Willard once more—instead she shoved herself off the couch and her voice loudly began to hum—how long could they talk about it? Then she began to walk into the bedroom pressing the Voice Machine's button—"Hello this is Detective Sigmund, with the FBI, if you could give us a call Miss. Miller….We'd like to ask for your assistance in this case—concerning Mr. Stiles…."
Cathryn didn't hear anything other than "Mr. Stiles"; the rest seemed superfluous to her ears—the television was still there, but she didn't hear it.
Mr. Stiles.
The deity above wasn't just laughing anymore—he was gathering friends. How else could all this happen to her? In one day?
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His eyes roved over the room haplessly it had been a full week since Socrates had left. To find Ben. The confiding prison he was trapped in did nothing for his worries—it intensified the thoughts he had over Ben (greater so on Socrates).
Willard had yet to eat the salty food the Orderly had given to him, it would not be the first time he would pass up a meal in this place. Certainly not the last either. Glancing the platter over he found it consist of: soup, several leaves of lettuce (what might be referred to as a salad had it anything else but greenery); and most of all cheese. The cheese was always there. A sick joke of the Orderly's: "Food for the mice."
This small thing was enough to make him shake with hostility—it was that nagging feeling that happened with Martin—the loathing thorn in his ribs that he couldn't remove so it would continue to irritate him to no ends.
He was brought to his feet—jolting the tray as it skidded into the off-white wall, watching it spill all over the ground tediously—it was his only means of revenge in this place (self-defeating yet, effective).
When he heard the footsteps approach, he hastily returned to the abhorrent cot—resuming his placid face. The dull look of his catatonic state was another wondrous tactic at revenge, yell, scream, threaten—Willard can't hear it! Willard can't hear anything! Willard doesn't eat anything—Willard doesn't sleep; he just stares out at the empty world—but you need him for something, something he can only tell you, but he won't tell you!
Several detectives came in, as before—the young one was there—Willard enjoyed the look of the younger detective (the one that had thrown the folder down before). Sitting in a semicircle before his sordid bed, saying to him in a overly passionate voice one asked, "Willard…we understand that you don't want to talk to us…"
"What was the first clue?" He sarcasticly wanted to reply.
"We brought in someone who might be more comfortable for you to talk to…"
"Who would that be? A rat?" He asked them in his mind, wondering if they were patronizing him—as his Orderly did—just seeing what would bring him back to The World of the Living. Nothing could, as far as they could bring to him.
But as he sat contemplating in his tranquil nature, a creature he thought would never cross him again—came into the room.
Cathryn.
With hesitation she entered, soundless shoes against the hard floor, glancing at her surroundings with her cherubic irises, nervous—yet she was still beautiful. Her tight mini-skirt covered in front by the handbag she kept a tense hold on—her slender attractive body.
Cathryn made it hard to stay catatonic.
He hated her. He loved her. It was so confusing, these feelings about her. She refused to help him when he most needed it. When he called out to her begging for help as he held tightly the bars of the window—she backed away from him alarm festering in those pretty eyes…She must hate him to leave him in such a state. Let him die there—in that house of rats.
"Willard." She gave in her gentle undertone of a voice, her eyes were glazed—as if she were going to cry. Reluctantly the detectives rose, casually heading for the door, as they gestured to Cathryn something. Handing her various items—a manila folder—god knows whatelse! His mind was gone he was numb from the reality of Cathryn being in this intolerable place with him.
"Willard." Again she summoned, as she approached cautiously reaching for him with her delicate fingers. He wanted to jerk away—yell at her, strike her, tell her she was lying again that she hated him—but nothing like that happened. For when her warm touch fell on his pale face it went through him fervently—spreading the warmth inside his body like a plague, it would not stop until it reached every fragment of his being. "Willard, please, we need your help."
Putting her other hand on his shoulder, his changeless eyes were looking into hers with the unwavering coldness, as he watched the tears form on her angelic features. She let go quickly, bringing a hand up to her face, shielding it in shame, "Why did I think this wouldn't happen?"
She told herself this aloud—as he watched her with the stillness, the crime of this cruelty he felt by doing this—was sickening him. Cathryn was bitterly weeping before his eyes, and he was so shallow to stay catatonic—"Willard, I didn't mean to! I didn't."
"I know." Willard unexpectedly whispered, his eyes still reddened and unchanged, repeating it in an echoing murmur, "I know."
It didn't matter all of a sudden to him that the detectives where listening—perhaps—or that Cathryn deserved it.
He didn't want to see her cry anymore.
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Authoritrix Notes: Please don't hate me…I hope this chapter was good. I always have problems with second chapters. I will do better next chapter. That's when it gets back to the Ben death type stuff. Thank you. I love you all. ^-^
