What is up my dudes? My name is Tilly and this is my first story, so constructive criticism only please!
This is a Willy Wonka (2005 release) love story, though kind of dark. I'd like to take this opportunity to say I claim no rights to the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory franchise and own none of the characters or content therein.
Warning to the reader, I have been told I write like an old English professor. I know this looks like a lot of text but I have to set up some background. Enjoy!
Most people use the expression "I'm starving" to say that they are hungry and ready to eat, and they can say this without thinking twice because they've never been literally starving. Starvation isn't just being without food for a while and becoming weak, it's a unique type of pain that eats you from the inside out. At first, your stomach grumbles periodically as if to remind you of what you need. These grumbles gain urgency and sharpness until your body relinquishes as it accepts that despite several audible and kinesthetic requests, food is not coming. After a while, it feels like your stomach is trying to digest itself, searching for something to consume, something that isn't there. Then you settle into a constant pain that distracts your waking hours and causes a fitful sleep riddled with interruptions of misery. Imagine a deep nausea that will never be relieved mixed with being kicked in the stomach repeatedly with a hint of alien-birthing-itself-through-your-stomach and you've got that last feeling.
Welcome to the Bucket house where this feeling is almost constant. For me, at least. I do my best everyday to make sure it isn't that way for my family, my little brother in particular. Everyday I work my fingers to the bone cleaning houses, doing yardwork for the few priveledged enough to afford a yard, and in general doing menial tasks for minimum pay. You'd think people wealthy enough to hire someone to do chores for them would pay well, but they don't. They're the worst type of people, I tell you. They know I need the money and will take whatever I can get because it would be more a loss to turn down their small sums of payment than to endure the small injustices and get what little I can. It doesn't help I have a mouth on me that has lowered my wages on more than one occasion, but sometimes I can't help seventeen years worth of frustration pent up inside me.
My mother and I are the only ones working in our family, two workers to seven hungry mouths, not to mention one is a growing boy. My mother is getting on in age, and it won't be long before she's bedridden right alongside my grandparents and I'll be the only one working. Then I'll have to take on work Sundays and maybe during the night too.
It might make sense that Charlie start working now, but I can't ask that of him, not yet. I suppose I'm working to maintain his childhood and innocence as well as to feed our family. He's only eleven, after all, and I want him to have the childhood I never had. I wasn't allowed to have a childhood, that was ripped away from me when I had to start working at age seven, before Charlie was even born.
Back then my jobs mainly consisted of mucking out stalls, feeding, watering, and grooming horses, along with the odd painting job thrown in. It was a lot of work folks just didn't want to do and didn't think I could screw up too badly. Of course, each job, even now, comes with the stern warning of what will happen should I mess up, followed by several muttered obscenities to describe me. It took me a while to learn what those words meant, but once I did, I told them exactly what I thought of them using aforementioned obscenities.
I can hold my tongue better now because I know it's usually the case of a word in between dinner and going hungry. My jobs are different now than they were back then too. Now I can tackle a whole yard's worth of trimming and cutting and shaping in an afternoon. I can clean a whole house inside and out in a single day too. And I usually walk away with ten pounds a day.
Today was an especially taxing day. I was simply told to get the snow off the lawn so the man's wife wouldn't be so cold when she went outside. Now, I haven't heard of anyone this stupid in a long time, but work is work and he promised me five pounds for my efforts. I thought I'd be done in a couple hours, just take a shovel to the grass and be done. As my luck would have it, my employer tells me that The Mrs. wants no trace of snow on the grass when I'm done. So, long story short, a couple hours turned into the whole day and now my body aches like hell. I'm cold and wet and hungry and frustrated.
I enter the tilting, desolate shack us Buckets call home with hardly a grunt of acknowledgement. I am greeted with a warm chorus of "Hello"s and "Good evening"s. I ache too much to do much else but drag myself to where Mum is standing, making dinner, and hand her the five pound note before taking over stirring the pot. It hurts to do even that, reminding me of the inadequacy of my toils today.
I take pride in my taut, toned body, I'm stronger than most boys my age. I think that's part of why they never come asking after me and why I've never been on a date. I'm 24 and I've never even kissed a guy. I asked Mum once if I was pretty like those girls we see on TV, the movie stars. She said when I was born angels peered out of Heaven jealously at me and all the Earth moved with pride at knowing it contained the most beautiful creature to ever draw breath. She named me 'Dawn' after the only thing in grace and majesty to precede me. I promptly laughed my wicked cackle at her genuine misconception and dismissed all thoughts of my appearance.
"Dawn! You're home!" a small voice shouts from upstairs. I see the rosy, cheerful face that may be the one light in my life peer over the incomplete ceiling. Charlie bounds down the rickety stairs and practically throws himself into my arms.
"Hey, little dude," I respond, using all my will power not to wince at his unintentional roughness. They don't need to know how awful the day truly was, they have enough worries as it is.
"Did you bring home something good to eat? I don't want watery cabbage soup and hard biscuits again, it's not enough." His earnest face begs for me to say yes. Yes, I've brought him more. Yes, I can get more. Yes, his belly will be full tonight. I slowly shake my head and watch his face fall with disappointment. In me.
"You can have my soup and biscuit though. Addie had me over after work and we ate at her house, so I'm not hungry," I lie. There is no Addie, but it's easier for them to believe I'm full so they can be as well. I will my stomache to remain silent so as not to give away my ongoing lie. Mum smiles, believing in my charitable friend. Charlie's face breaks into a grin and he takes my biscuit from Mum to break it up for those that will eat tonight.
I sit quietly beside Charlie until everyone's had their fill. Then I meet Mum's gaze and say, "Can we talk? Outside?"
She nods as Charlie asks Grandpa Joe to tell him a story and we slip out, leaving Grandpa Joe beginning a tale of his glory days working for Mr. Willy Wonka. I smirk, thinking The man, the myth, the legend. The one I'm not entirely sure exists.
"What's wrong?" Mum asks as soon as we're out of earshot. Her face is crinkled with worry, her only facial expression as of late.
"Nothing, I just...you noticed I only made five today?"
"I made six, so it's not that bad." Her eyes speak volumes and they say the opposite of her mouth. She wrings her calloused hands together, and her large eyes dart around.
"Not that bad? The first thing Charlie asked me today was if I had food. That boy needs more to eat so we need more money."
"So, what? Are you saying we start working Sundays?"
"No, I'm saying I start doing a different type of work, one that pays better. Well, it's more of a service." I pause, fiddling with the worn aviator goggles that used to belong to my father. Mum looks suspiciously at me. "I mean the kind of service men request privately...and...the kind girls get all fancy dressed up...then stripped down..."
I wait with head hung until I see Mum's eyes flare in realization. She grabs my arm and pulls me further from the house while staring intently at the door to make sure no one else heard me. "Dawn, are you crazy?! What in Heaven's name-"
"You said it yourself, I look nice enough. If I do that, I can decide my prices, and they'd have to meet them. I'd have the power, and I'd get the money. Enough money to feed Charlie and you guys." I gaze determinedly into her eyes. She glares just as intensely back and begins waggling her finger.
"Now, I know we're poor, but we can't help that. We can't help how people already look at us, but we can help what they say about us. And I won't have anybody saying my daughter's a-" Her voice rises to a fierce belt, so I cut her off.
"Alright, Mum. Alright." I take off my fingerless gloves and turn toward the house.
"No more talking about that, yeah?" I turn my head to the side, not entirely seeing her, and nod grimly before going inside and joining Charlie upstairs. He's already asleep so I just curl up on the floor with my jacket spread over me and let my mind fade and my body relax.
The next morning
It's Sunday, the one day of the week I get to sleep in. Today isn't like other Sundays though, I could tell that from the first shriek of surprise and glee from the street. It's closely followed with other shouts and calls about miracles and luck, followed by a very audible mad dash down the road. I sit up, bleary eyed. The freezing winter morning air hits me hard as I shake cobwebs out of my brain. There's a light dusting of snow over the whole top floor and I sigh as I glare at the ragged hole in the ceiling.
Seeing Charlie already gone, probably part of the excitement on the street, I shake out my worn, oversized leather jacket and put it on before lacing up my work boots. I wash my face quickly and rip a brush through my dark, tangled curls. I decend the stairs on light feet, not making a sound, just as Charlie bursts in.
"I've just seen the notices! Everybody wake up! Listen here, Mr. Willy Wonka is having a contest. Five kids who find golden tickets, hidden in Wonka Bars, will get to meet Mr. Willy Wonka and see his factory." Charlie's face glows with excitement as he looks to each member of the family.
Grandpa George frowns and mumbles, "Now don't git yer hopes up."
"Why not? I know I won't be able to buy many bars, but my luck's as good as anyone else's." That boy is sensible, I have the feeling he'll make something of himself one day. Something big.
"You're right. And your birthday's in a week, so we don't have to wait long to find out just how lucky you are." He smiles at me and I see the hope glimmer in his eyes. There's something so creatively magical about him, but I can't put it into words properly. I almost manage a smile when I think of how "creatively magical" perfectly describes Mr. Wonka. Well, the stories of him anyways. I'm still not sure. . .
Yes, I did mean to stop in the middle of a sentence. I guess you'll just have to keep reading to find out what she's not sure about. 😁
If you made it this far, congrats! And thank you! I know my story is kind of bleak, it's for emphasis, but things get a lot more interesting. Trust me!
Please vote and comment! I might take requests.
xoxo, Tilly