[Authoritrix note: Half way in the middle I (somewhat) change perspectives—I just wanted to give another view on Willard's appearance, because I felt like I was neglecting it or something.

Wields Ill Rats

By: TrSolarCat / RocketSolarCat

Chapter 5: "Mere Outcast [Mute Socrates]"

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Willard's hands traced the words again, airily mocking the words again, " 'David waz here!' "

Before turning to Socrates, who was on his shoulder's rubbing his whiskers with his salmon paws. He paused a moment as he seen Willard's eyes were upon him, then, nibbling on a piece of loose brown hair that was dangling from Willard—his beady eyes held a stern look. Willard asked him in mock-humour—"What did David find here, you suppose?"

He found Ben, you should know by now.

That satisfied his inquires and Willard pealed his eyes from his companion. Turning to the morning air, the garden seemed more beautiful by morning—the misty air was still hovering over the ground and the dew was still resting on the leaves.

To much of Willard's relief, Major Robinson and Napoleon weren't in the neighboring yard that morning—long night, he supposed, must have been scoping father's old rhododendrons. It was a blessing that the old man had not been there. Willard had yet to get any sleep, the old house had been taken apart. Thankfully all the things he had went for were still there: the fire-poker (still covered in blood), the folder full of father's old things (including the old Swiss Army Knife) and several old brown suits.

Sighing he took a notable glance back—afraid to look away, because he knew it was the last time he'd ever see his home—finally hoping the rusty gate again.

"Let's go see Cathryn, Socrates." He smiled wryly, forcing himself to leave without turning back to look at home.

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A redheaded boy sat quietly behind the counter of Heaven-View Apartments, his head down in thought—reading a book promptly placed in his lap.

He heard the man come in—it didn't mean much—he was in no hurry to put down his book.

Clacking shoes against the shiny white tiles, as they grew closer he didn't bother to look up. Until the man was standing over the desk—then he slothfully pulled his pupils from the text. Saying in a mellow voice, "Yes? How may I help you…"

The man was a lean fellow, with a sharp hook of a nose, sleepless circles under his eyes; hair smooth brown slicked behind his ears—and bizarrely enough a snow-white rat on his collar. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties (give or take, the young man's judgment was screwed up somehow every time he looked at the ivory rat). The man seemed oblivious to the rat's sharp clinging claws, that were sure to hurt—yet the suit he wore was of a thick brown formal nature (so he might not feel the claws at all).

"Please, Sir. No pets." The young man told him punctually—pointing hastily to a sign on the exterior of the door that stated the same policy.

Preparing to turn back to his book the man looked down into his lap once more—but the man on the other side of the counter didn't move. After a moment's time, the odd man told him, "Socrates isn't a pet."

Something was contemptible in the voice—a biting tone—best leave it alone.

"How can I help you, then?"

"I'd like to know which apartment Cathryn Miller lives in." His hushed voice said his eyes still held an acrid look though his voice passionless.

The young man automatically began to spill several lines, "We aren't at liberty to give out the name's of our residents unless you are a relative, spouse, or other specified person."

After another moment, the answer of—"Is potential spouse good enough?"

Potential—this brought an rare smile to the young man's face, "Don't you think a lot of people say that about her? I'd like to—Miller, right?"

A nod of his head, the man gave a tilted look—confused.

"She's hot!" The clerk breathed, a broad grin crept over his unruffled face, "I just don't know what about her sets me off, but still…"

"Her knees." The brown-haired fellow peculiarly smiled, when the clerk gave him a tainted scrunching of his face, the man repeated it, "It's her knees."

"Yea." He nodded in agreement—maybe this fellow wasn't so bad after all, sure he had a pet rat, but something about his obscure nature was wonderful—"Listen, I'll cut you some slack—if you really know her! I'll give you her number to buzz her."

"Thank you." The man gave a glance back to the ivory rat on his shoulder—the little fend was chewing absently on some loose string from the man's suit. Its eyes were set on the young man dauntlessly—protective little thing—

Isn't it?

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Cathryn heard the buzz as she stepped from the vaporous bathroom, her hair in a tight towel—another over her lean body. She dashed over to the doorway, pressing a button on the off-white box—"Yes?"

"Cathryn!"

She let go of the button. Astonishment swept over her face, then she pressed the button again—"Willard! What are you—! How did you get—Willard! Stay right there!"

Letting go of the button, she rushed for the bathroom.

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He was waiting for her patiently, in an auburn office chair—sitting by the entrance. His hand in his lap, eyes roving about at the aspects of the room, and a calm face. He reminded her of a child waiting for his mother to return or one at a doctor's office—either way, it brought a smile to her face as she came closer into view of him.

His brown eyes caught her—a infrequent little smile over his face—just that was enough to make her heart skitter, it wasn't like him! Maybe it was and she didn't know it—maybe Willard did smile, but never to her. So few of his emotions she had seen, his anger—at Martin—his shame, and his sorrow.

But now he was smiling. In turn she was beaming right back.

Her hair was tangled, wet and in her face—but he didn't hesitate as he stepped forward to her—putting his extended arms about her. Willard's arms were possessive around her, she felt him go weak under her— he shakily whispered, "Cathryn, please help me. I don't have anyone else. I'm so tired—I'm so lost, I need your help."

Are you going to leave me in the cold again, Cathryn? For the rats, Cathryn?

There's a rat on his shoulder. It's right near your face, why aren't you scared of it? Why aren't you pulling away?

"Of course not." Cathryn breathed her hands slide around him slowly, holding him to her. Soft tears began to form—"I won't ever do that to you again."

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"Cathryn can I ask you something?" He asked her sometime during the later hours of the day. She had stayed with him there all day—she called her day off at work, told a lie for him—'the car was broke again'. Willard had been sitting on the couch, Socrates had made himself at home on a small throw pillow, and Cathryn herself was in the kitchen, "Well, I think I know who killed all those people, and I was going to ask for your help."

She came out, giving him an odd look, hands on her hips; "You aren't going to tell me Ben are you?"

"Alfred! Are you in there?" Mother was at the bathroom door, yelling at him again. Her eyes were frail, her lips were together in a tight displeased manner—her gray-tint hair frazzled. She hit the old tan door once more, "Alfred, answer me!"

"No. He's being helped by this boy I seen on my way here." Willard explained, looking to the sleeping form of Socrates, "His name is David. He was spelling it in an anagram for the name: David. Aiymee Stonewall, Victor Ironmorge, Danielle Landcastor, Dan Tailyos and Ingried Evans."

He had been in that bathroom for hours. Willard watched his mother's features grow more frantic then. Panic on her worn face, her voice was hoarse now as she begged at the silent portal, "Alfred, please!"

"But Willard. That's five." Cathryn sighed; an odd air came about her, "You didn't know about the sixth?"

His lips were drawn, a slightly calculating look in his darkened eyes, "No."

"His name was Stanley Stephensons. I was sure he was found before you got those reports from the FBI." Cathryn explained, "Then the sixth and seventh were found last night: Thomas Simon and Natiella Ivangrede."

She was crying now, screaming.

He shook his head, troubled, "That doesn't make since—I'm sure…"

Socrates was beginning to stretch his long tail uncurling—as he gave an annoyed glance to Cathryn.

Still distressed Willard softly questioned, "C-can I take a shower, please. I think that will help me to think."

"Sure." She gave him a honey smile, still not seeing a response—it dropped back to a placid confused look.

All those times she had yelled at him. In her anger, her hates—her sheer malice. Father wasn't a strong person—she was too much for him—he wouldn't yell back much (sometimes he would—if she anger him enough). Just take it—let her beat him down with it. She wanted him to feel worthless; it must have made her feel damn good!

Telling Cathryn a hushed word of thanks he closed the bathroom door. Hearing Socrates' claws at the door he quickly reopened it, letting the tiny rodent in as well.

Willard was sitting on the top of the stairwell, pretending not to listen to her yell further into the bathroom door. He too was worried about his Father—but not in the same way Mother was. He didn't want father to come out—just so Mother could yell at his face—he wanted him to come out because he was worried. Daddy had that knife in there.

Willard took off the overcoat, hanging on a cold brass hook on the back of the door. Then, as he stripped the rest off—the entire process was done automatically—his mind wondered about the allusive "David".

Maybe Cathryn was right, he didn't exist—but Willard was so sure—David's eyes were wide in fear at the sight of Willard, David knew who he was.

It's so odd.

Putting his hands on the knobs—he turned them slowly, hearing the creaking as water spurted out.

Mother loved to argue with Father. Any chance she had! But today it was different. For all her begging—Willard finally realized his mother was scared—she didn't want to argue. She wasn't trying to now—she just wanted Father to open the door.

When the water was perfect for him he closed the shower door, glancing around—he spotted some cabinets—finding one full of bathe cloths, "There we are."

He stepped back, hearing something under his feet give a metallic crunch, a knot in his stomach, instantly— "Socrates?"

The rat was sitting on the back of the lavatory, leaning over towards the stream of water that was hitting lightly against the shower doors.

Willard looked down, slowly pulling up his foot—it was the knife.

Strange, his mother didn't want to fight. After all that screaming—

Running it through his delicate fingers—he flipped out its silver blade.

—after all her pleading, only then for the first time in Willard's life was he frightened—

It was so innocent, his eyes were glued to the knife—but he didn't quite know what he intended to do—something was taking over him. His fingers run across the blade—lightly, it didn't cut—it was like hypnosis. The blade was enchanting—don't let the feeling die! He moved it down his hands, through the palms—to the wrist.

Father's blood was still in cakes on the knife, but flaked off as he run it back against his skin again. Then, changing directions—again.

—the day Mother stopped yelling—

Socrates was watching him, as he began to run it harder—pushing it more into his wrist. Right over the vein—pressing it until the pain began. Small insignificant at first—press it deeper! Blood was beginning to speckle the end of the blade—further! It was a cold burning feeling, licking his lips Willard let the blade rest in its bloody orifice.

—then, there was silence.

His knees went, as he fell into the tile floor—panting, tears were coming from his eyes.

"What am I doing?" He whispered barely audible, his head went into the rough now-scarlet tiles. Willard gave a half-conscious look to Socrates—nothing stir in the rat.

The silence is what killed Willard. He could take anything—but silence. The day Mother stopped screaming, and Father stopped hiding—was the day Willard knew: Nothing was right anymore.