Well...I just finished watching this movie and I was totally entranced the whole time. The whole time I was just shaking my head at poor Edward's misfortune. He's so lovable and half the movie he just needs a hug and someone to be his conscience and tell him what the heck is going on!

Well...I'm trying my hand at the generic, cookie-cutter Edward Scissorhands fan fiction. You know the story...

I'm worried about how writing Edward will turn out. Innocence and naivety is can be hard to write....hmmm...

oh, yea, uh...

DISCLAIMER!

If I owned all of the things I wrote fan fiction for, I'd be rolling in money. :)

I don't own Edward Scissorhands. Sadly. =(

In hindsight, I don't now what exactly drew me to the mansion. It was old and dark and you couldn't even shift your weight without the whole house lurching. The decrepit old house smelled like mildew in the summer months and was absolutely frigid in the winter because of the gaping hole in the roof. In autumn, wind whistled through the little spaces where he wall had worn down. Come spring, wasps and bees hung their nests from the ceiling. Despite it's flaws, and even in its delicate, ancient state it was a magnificent sight. The Gothic-style manor was gated, though the rusted gate creaked open easily. I felt sorry for and was amazed at the weary building--it had been standing for so long and it seemed like so many stories were embedded into the floorboards. Perhaps that's what attracted me. Or maybe the magnificent garden was what had captivated my interest.

Ah yes. The mysterious garden that never changed. Never once did I trudge up the steep slope and find the beautifully sculpted shrubs overgrown even in the slightest. Seeing the artistry and precision in those plants never failed to cheer me up--whether it was the thought of waking up to a sunshiny, pleasant morning, the dew shining on the leaves of the giant bush that was shaped like a human hand after a painful night or taking a detour in the afternoon on my way home from a particularly bad day at school. Of course, ever since my mother and I moved in with my step-dad in this rinky-dink little suburb, we began hearing all of the legends about the man that used to live at the top of the hill. The man that had scissors for hands.

Until I began retreating to the house, I hadn't believed a word of it. It had just been an urban legend used to keep children from snooping around the "haunted" house and getting collapsed in on. When I had gone there for the first time, I didn't think anything of the well-kept garden. Of course...that night it had been pitch black, pouring rain and downright freezing and I had been beaten and bleeding from the wounds. The morning hadn't been any better. I had uncurled from my fetal position on the ground, eyes and limbs both swollen. It had been all I could do to move my aching body away from the mansion and back to my home--where I would proceed to lie to my mother again about where I had been all night and how I had gotten my swollen split lip.

Anyway. I hadn't started to notice the shrubbery until there had been a particularly horrid week where I had spent almost all my time there. I took note of a growth that jutted out like a wart on the replica of a hand in the middle of a garden one night before I left the safety of my retreat. The next day I checked the hand which appeared to have a supply of Freeze Away handy. The growth of leaves had vanished. I was suspicious. The story couldn't have possibly been true. Maybe someone who had known him before he got his reputation as a murderer had been fixing up his old garden for all of these years. Maybe someone was playing a trick on me.

Once the the idea of man with sharp scissors for hands became a real possibility for me, I found myself frequenting the elegant manor less and less. It made no sense--I had no where else to go when the going got tough and if he hadn't hurt me or even tried to speak with me in the times when I was just there enjoying the beauty of the glorious grounds, why would he all of a sudden turn around and hurt harmless, little me? A part of me believed that now that I was open, but terrified, to the idea of his existence, he would somehow transform into some bloodthirsty killer and attack me. Another part of me just didn't trust the old house any more, even though it had been my only comfort or solace the past couple years. Another smaller part, that I desperately wanted to grow, believed the stories that the middle-aged Kevin Boggs who lived a couple blocks down told about the scissor man. Mr. Boggs said that--Edward, was it?-- had really been a very gentle and innocent guy, just naive and confused.

But, if this place was supposed to be my sanctuary from the pain, how could I associate it with someone who can't even touch another person without causing it?

This is kind of short... it's sort of meant to be a prologue so that's okay.

Reviews are appreciated. =)