This story looks into Edward's relationship with the inventor, or his father, and the stages of grief every person goes through when he or she loses a loved one. The prologue is written from the inventor's perspective, and the rest of the story will be written from Edward's point of view.
Tim Burton owns Edward Scissorhands. I am not Tim Burton. Thus, I do not own Edward Scissorhands.
Pale sunlight glittered upon untrampeled snow, the aftermath of a heavy storm, and reflected upon an old stone mansion. The building had waited through three seasons, out of place overlooking a clean and modern suburban neighborhood, to be breathtakingly ornamented in pure-white jewels and draped in a fresh fluffy blanket.
An old inventor proudly strode across his concrete-floored laboratory, past spindly contraptions with frozen claws and still gears, gleaming in the pale sunlight, over to a stainless steel table—upon which lay a bright red box. He paused, his hands on the box, and glanced back at his son with a eye-crinkling smile.
"I know it's a little early for Christmas, Edward, but I have a present for you."
Turning his back on the dark young man, he pulled off the lid of the box and pulled out its contents. Holding the objects to eye level, he briefly examined the two parts to his latest invention before turning to the man standing erect just a few paces behind him.
The young man's name was Edward; this tall, pale, handsome boy was the older man's latest invention. Months had been spent on creating every detail of his body, and many more on manners, etiquette, respect, and of course appreciation for poetry. He showed Edward the value of compassion, trust, cause and consequence, and hope. Edward was a fine young man and the inventor was proud to call him a son. Out of all of the old man's creations, Edward was his greatest one, for his mission to create the perfect gentleman and son was complete.
Almost complete.
The inventor had spent the most painstaking effort on the hands, for the handshake was all one needed to truly judge a first impression. In the end looks and social customs could not amount to the warmth and confidence that could be put into a handshake. In addition to crisp observance of social customs, his son needed to have an inviting and kind heart, or he would be just another robot of society. Now was the time to replace those cold, harsh blades that had temporarily been on Edward's wrist with his new and practically real human hands.
He could not wait any longer. He turned and showed Edward the hands.
The surprise on his face was too precious for words, and his dawning comprehension was the best gift the old inventor could have ever received. Edward stared as the inventor drew closer, and gazed at the gifts in profound disbelief. Very delicately, He caressed his new hands with his own blades, feeling the curves of the wrists, the gaps of the fingers, and the contours of the palms. His own eyes filled with emotion, he looked up to meet the eyes of his creator.
And in turn, the inventor's heart overflowed. Too much. His son's puzzled face was the last thing he saw, before he felt himself spiral to the floor, overcome with happiness.
Then oblivion.