"You know Charlie, you're getting to be more like me every day."
The phrase echoed through his mind, repeating itself over and over like some broken record. It had been said over dinner, just a casual observation by Mr. Willy Wonka as he cast a glance towards his young heir. Of course none of Charlie's family had said anything, but by this time no one had expected them to. Charlie himself stared blankly back at his mentor, a streak of fear shooting through him, though it was dulled by the confusion that was slowly overtaking the boy.
In response Charlie finally nodded, offering the other a weak smile before going back to his dinner, and attempting to forget the comment altogether. He didn't want to be like Mr. Wonka, not there was anything absolutely terrible about him, but Charlie couldn't do it. There were days he wasn't even sure he could live here in the factory, live here amongst another mans wildest dreams. It had been happening more as of late, but Charlie had been forcing himself to sleep through it all, though it rarely worked. Instead the boy found himself pacing the length of his rooms like some sort of caged beast. Once he found himself growing so frustrated, Charlie hurled himself against his bed, tearing into the delicate fabrics and ripping everything to shreds. In the end, Willy had found him laying on his floor, the remains of his blankets everywhere. He never asked any questions, only smiled and offered a hand to the boy. Charlie didn't want his hand, in fact he wanted nothing to do with any of this, but he took it anyway. They had gone for a walk, both males remaining silent for the majority of the stroll before Wonka finally spoke.
"Charlie," he stared, "it's not best to start acting like an untrained puppy you know." The chocolate maker smirked down at the boy, watching and waiting for a reaction.
"I...I'm sorry Mr. Wonka." No he wasn't, he wasn't sorry at all, but even now as the two stood near the rushing chocolate river, that rich smell assaulting both their senses, he couldn't say anything else. He was after all still Charlie, still sweet, kind, polite little Charlie, no matter how much he would have loved to be otherwise. Well at least that's how he had always seen things. Apparently things were different now.
The boy finally forced himself to sit up. Strands of a dark brow, a chocolate brown, came down over his face, covering one eye, and teasing the other with their light touches. He was still in his clothing from the day, still in the patterned sweater but now a pair of loose fitting black pants rested against his hips, rather then the old brown pair he had refused to part with for so long. Moving towards the mirror, Charlie took a good look at himself, studying his face, his built. Taking everything in and making a mental picture for himself.
Thin fingers came to push back the hair that hid the other eye, the boy expecting to see nothing more then an eye to match his first. What glinted back at him in the mirror made the boys' stomach churn. There was something wrong with what stared back at him, something wrong with the sight of the bright purple eye. Suddenly, Charlie felt like crying.
This wasn't supposed to happen, he wasn't supposed to have this. He loved Wonka, he didn't want to be him! As much as the boy may had wanted to escape, to go free for even a short time, he knew he couldn't do it, couldn't abandon his beloved mentor like that. Even now, as he watched the eye in the mirror, he couldn't bring himself to do anything other then run a finger under that eye, wiping away something that may have been a tear.
Something had to be done though, he couldn't let the eye stay there, make itself comfortable inside him until he found himself with a top hat and silly haircut. Immediate action had to be taken, it was just a matter of what. What could he possibly do now?
Then it hit him like a shovel to the stomach. Finding his way to his desk, Charlie went rummaging about, looking desperately for what would offer him salvation. Finally his fingers wrapped around the icy metal, and the boy drew the scissors out of the drawer. Staring at them, he wondered if this would even work, if he could actually bring himself to do what he neeeded to do.
One quick glance in the mirror answered his question.
Returning to his bed, the boy eased himself down, taking in deep breaths and thinking hard. It would be swift, quick, but painful nonetheless. Snipping the scissors in the air, he offered to no one a faint smile. Then, peering at the mirror for one last time, he let the opened pair of scissors make contact with the purple eye.
Outwardly, the boy was writhing on the bed, sobbing and clawing the sheets with one hand, but the other was still finishing its task. It repeated its performance, jamming the scissors into the eye, then tearing them back out again.
He was staining the blankets, but it didn't matter. He was staining his hands, but it didn't matter. He was freeing himself, and it felt so good.