[Brief Note: In this one, I am introducing a character (a minor one) that was left out of completely from the movie. I cannot take credit in his character, but I can in his actions because he had few actions in the book.]
Wields Ill Rats
Chapter 4: Briefly Told Tales (Alfred's Little Boy)
By: TrSolarCat / RocketSolarCat
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Willard pulled Socrates closer to his body, the little white ball of fur was shaking—the night air was nipping at them both as they had begun to walk from the gray asylum. He pulled the azure collar of the sweater up around his neck, saying to the ivory rat softly, "Socrates, we have to go home."
Home? Wouldn't that be the most likely place to find him? Wouldn't they see him when he got there—have it staked out, ready to take him back to the asylum—would they know he was escaped tonight?
But he had to see it one last time.
Sentimentalism would be the death of him, it always wiggled its way into his mind—hate, fear, anger—did he never think things through? Lashing out in anger, but he wouldn't have reacted any other way. If he didn't act rashly—if he had just stood and calmly thought with a good-natured conscience why it was an evil thing to kill someone, even Martin—he wouldn't have acted at all. Instead standing catatonic and letting Martin take the damaged pieces of his life away, anything that was left to be taken in any case. But he had reacted and that was why he was locked away in that insane asylum—he refused to let Martin kill him by destroying his life. Maybe insanity was just an odd term for someone who refuses to let another trample him—someone who reacts to being wronged.
The lines were so blurred. It was hard to tell anymore—he was certain the asylum had planted these thought into him. Willard couldn't tell right from wrong—and perhaps there wasn't one anymore.
Willard could almost imagine the house so vividly in his mind, without even closing his eyes—he had done just this in the asylum as well. Envisioning the ivy vines creeping down the side of it, the creaking boards of the stairs, his father's picture resting neatly over the fireplace.
Suddenly, Socrates started to wriggle in his palms making several sharp hissing noises. Willard looked down curiously at him imploring, "Socrates?"
The rat poked its salmon nose from Willard's cupped hands and inquisitively sniffed the air. Only then did Willard realize what the small rodent was whiffing—a small red fast food building was ahead—the smell of hamburgers and grease was rising from a gray puff of smoke at its top. Smiling Willard opened his palms smoothly as the pearly rat climbed tediously up his arms, "Are you hungry, my friend?"
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"May I take…your order?" The young man's hands were jolting about the cobalt counter—Willard felt a smile emerge, he wasn't as forgotten as he thought, the brown-haired man definitely knew who he was. They must have put something on the news about him—either that or this man was phobic of rats—Socrates was sitting on his shoulder waywardly crawling down his arms.
In his tender undertone of a voice Willard replied searching the youthful fellow's face quaintly, "We'd like a large hamburger meal."
Don't be specific—make him talk back to you.
"W-hat kind of drink would you—?" Sweat was seeping down the adolescent's features—his eyes wide and searching, each of his words was choked out as if they pained him.
Its ridiculous how the mind can fabricate what exactly might happen—nothing actually would happen to this young man—but what frantic ideas did this man have racing through his crowded head. Maybe he thought Willard would have rats attack him—jumping out of no where to tear at his throat. Maybe he was internally wishing he'd never taken the night shift—or perhaps he forgot to tell his girlfriend goodbye.
"Coke." A smile still on his face, Willard grasped tenderly at Socrates velvet fur, watching the man twitch in private agony.
"Fries or Potato Cake?"
"Both."
A laconic moment later, Willard was handed a grease-stained bag folded rigidly at the top, the employee gave him a curt farewell—Socrates and he were back on the moist streets with the hazy glow of the lampposts as their only light. Absently Willard pulled out the fat-coated French Fries—offering the first to Socrates—"Don't make a mess up there."
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As it turned out, the asylum was quite far from his home. When he reached the old vine-covered residence it was through the backside—No point in making his presents known.
He hopped the fence tumultuously landing with a jolt—the ground beneath him was corroded in a downward shift (like a little valley), the grass stalks hid it. Brambles and young trees were sprouting spontaneously about the little garden.
Father's pride and joy—the healthy little rockery Best in the neighborhood, everyday he'd work on it—not after that day. The day he died. The rockery isn't anything more than an abandon old mess (as messy as the gory blood that poured from daddy's wounds—falling on the bathroom floor—splattering into near-black globs on the rug).
The rockery's gone to hell.
Just like Daddy has.
Willard shook his head a melancholy feeling was creeping into his brain—thinking about father always did this to him. He would always go through the same irrational arguments: If he wasn't such a costly child, if his mother wasn't so demanding—if Martin wasn't driving him so harshly, forcing him to it—if the economy wasn't so down—if…
Socrates nuzzled against him warmly.
"You're right, lets go inside and get our things…It is the last time we will be here." Willard cooed to him smoothly—but was their stuff still there? Does someone usually do something with a vacated house's belongings?
As he turned to walk in he heard a brass voice calling out, "Alfred!"
Alfred? Father's name?
Quickly he turned to in. An elderly man was calling towards him—leaning over the fencing in the next yard, a cane dangled from his left arm, a coffee mug in his right (oddly enough he was wearing a sun hat as well). Dusky gray hair and a short trimmed beard, the man looked vaguely familiar—his black eyes were friendly as they searched Willard with them promptly.
"Alfred, that boy of yours has been in my leek garden again!" The man scowled but Willard could sense that he was joshing him—"If he does that again, Napoleon'll nick his trousers good."
"Major Robinson?" Willard queried as he took note of a scruffy old dog roaming the ground behind the old man. He quickly grabbed Socrates, shielding him from the man's view.
"Damn right, ol' man and that boy of your is going to have sore legs jumping that fence all the time—getting away from Naps!"
Did the major truly mistake him for father? It seemed so—the major was so old—Willard had known him all his life. Willard also noted—the major was old then too, it seemed the man had always been old. Perhaps he had finally lost his mind—Willard hoped this was the case and not that the man was playing him only to turn him in.
Willard decided it was best to play along, he groped his memory for the man's surname yet it evaded him, "I'm sorry he's still doing that, I'll give him a good spat for you—Sir."
"See that you do." The man smiled, the dog behind him came up—getting on its hind-legs it propped up on the fence—giving a sharp bark. The Major took his hat off swatting the dog—yet it backed away only to come back to the chain link fence to furiously yap once more.
The dog must smell Socrates.
"Well Major, I'll be going." Willard flicked a hand through his hair, meaning to be casual—but as he turned to leave, the wintry man told him:
"Alfred, don't spat him too much—Willard is a good boy. Tell Henrietta those pies she sent last week were wonderful. Oh! Alfred, don't take this too harshly—," Robinson uttered, Willard had only taken a few steps away—"Don't get so caught up in work! I noticed you aren't spending much time in the rockery as you used to…Those rhododendrons are beginning to show it!"
What a queer thing for the man to leave him with—rhododendrons. It was strange—he wanted to laugh at it—but also had the notion to cry. Because he knew exactly when the Major and his father had this conversation really—it was an hour or so before his father went into the bathroom.
He remembered father coming into the house looking out of sorts and telling mother that Robinson had thanked her for the blackberry pies.
(He even remembered the flavour!)
Father said, "I am going to work on some things in the attic."
Naturally mother let him have it, saying, "You are spending too much time up there lately! You need to spend time with your son—."
The last thing he saw of his living father was as he passed him in the hall. Willard noted the agitated look upon his normally kind face—Henrietta's nagging behind them both. His father brush up against him—as he went into the attic—returning several minutes later with the Swiss Army Knife in his hands. He didn't know what father meant to do—but if he had—he would have stopped him. Somehow.
When he reached for the crusted backdoor (coloured in faded yellow); he stood looking at it someone had sloppily taken red spray paint and wrote: "David waz here!". The lock was busted, spider's webs covered the corners—he brushed them away as he pulled Socrates out from his pocket.
Giving a heavy push to the door, it began to creak open, "Ben isn't here, is he, Socrates?"
He whispered but was surprised to hear a hollow echo within the house. No other sounds where inside—no scratching, no clawing—just the dense air around him and sound of his own feet, nothing stir.
Cautiously he went up towards the stairs, hearing the familiar yielding under his foot as he put weight on the first one—looking absently about the room before continuing upward.
He kept reminding himself of all he came for….which he didn't quite make a real list of until now: The fire poker, some clothes—father's momentos. He was shaking with anticipation—or perhaps anxiety.
His foot hit the top step—odd feeling this was. Until now he hadn't felt it—but his stomach was in knots.
Someone is here.
He felt the eyes on him.
Socrates was on his shoulder—suddenly his back was arched—he made a low hissing noise as his tail shot up. Willard's eyes shot across the room instinctively—seaching.
"What are you—doing here?" Willard seen quickly before him a flaxen-haired apprehensively standing in the hallway connecting to the attic, his cold blue eyes watched Willard horrified. His hands held to his chest, as if he were hiding something—nervously backing away.
"Don't you think I should be asking that! It's my house." Willard demanded expeditiously as he took Socrates back from his shoulder.
The boy's face turned cold paling—until he was almost white with fear.
"What is in your hands?" He slowly inquired, but before he did the boy suddenly let loose a burst of energy—running for him—he brushed past Willard, his hands still tight against his chest.
That boy knows about you.
He hadn't the time to follow before the boy disappeared under the stairwell—and he heard the loud noise of the doorway being forcefully kicked open…and his harsh footsteps growing distant.
That boy has Ben. It was a quick thought—but he imagined that boy was holding Ben. He thought, what if Ben was working with someone—if so he might have lost the one and only chance at finding him. But he smiled, he knew for sure that he would find the boy again:
"Until we meet again—David." He said quietly, as he continued up the stairs.
But as he entered the attic he had a sudden epiphany—etched in red across the wall—the names of all the victims so far (first names): Victor, Dan, Aiymee, Ingried and Danielle.
He had been going about this the wrong way—so had the police! They were looking for a cold-hearted killer—and they got a boy with a phone book and a fancy for Scrabble.
The names of the victims had suddenly became more important than anything else he had tried to find common with the murders—all different ages, both sexes, different races—everything was different. The names were anagrams—and it was apparent that "David" wanted to be found. Or was simply too foolish to know that someone was just as smart as he was.
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Authoritrix Notes: I had troubles with this one. O.O Thank you again reveiwers, I love you all.
