The floor was rotting by this fireplace. Soon he wouldn't be able to sleep
there anymore. He'd have to find a new place to lay. He looked longingly
at his magazine and newspaper cutouts that hung from the mantle.
Edward's arms hung limply at his sides, weighed down by his blades that protruded from what should have been his hands. He gazed at the picture of the blind boy reading Braille with his fingertips.
Fingertips. Fingers. Hands. Edward had none of these. Instead he had digits of steel, sharp scissors that had once been used to slice food for his creator. His "father" had died long ago, and Edward felt that he too would die of loneliness.
But Edward did not age, and it was unclear if he even knew for certain what death was. All he knew at this point was that he felt empty, as though he was nonexistent.
He thought of Kim, as he did everyday. Many nights he considered creeping down to her house and silently letting himself in. It would be so easy to just go down there and pick the lock, just to see her face again.
However, he did not go. He couldn't risk the secret getting out that he was indeed still alive. His protection from the public was their ignorance to his existence. So he waited for her to come visit him. Unfortunately, she never did.
Edward didn't know how much time had passed, but he knew it was significant. Over the years, he had seen the surrounding Easter-colored houses torn down and rebuilt. The neighborhood harboring his cul-de-sac had changed drastically, and yet no one had come to investigate the mansion. In place of the pastel candy-colored houses were now domiciles that had been built up by middle-upper class citizens. He doubted very much that Kim or her family lived in one of these new homes.
As he stared out of the gigantic hole in his ceiling, his dark liquid eyes began to water. He didn't dare wipe them.
Edward's arms hung limply at his sides, weighed down by his blades that protruded from what should have been his hands. He gazed at the picture of the blind boy reading Braille with his fingertips.
Fingertips. Fingers. Hands. Edward had none of these. Instead he had digits of steel, sharp scissors that had once been used to slice food for his creator. His "father" had died long ago, and Edward felt that he too would die of loneliness.
But Edward did not age, and it was unclear if he even knew for certain what death was. All he knew at this point was that he felt empty, as though he was nonexistent.
He thought of Kim, as he did everyday. Many nights he considered creeping down to her house and silently letting himself in. It would be so easy to just go down there and pick the lock, just to see her face again.
However, he did not go. He couldn't risk the secret getting out that he was indeed still alive. His protection from the public was their ignorance to his existence. So he waited for her to come visit him. Unfortunately, she never did.
Edward didn't know how much time had passed, but he knew it was significant. Over the years, he had seen the surrounding Easter-colored houses torn down and rebuilt. The neighborhood harboring his cul-de-sac had changed drastically, and yet no one had come to investigate the mansion. In place of the pastel candy-colored houses were now domiciles that had been built up by middle-upper class citizens. He doubted very much that Kim or her family lived in one of these new homes.
As he stared out of the gigantic hole in his ceiling, his dark liquid eyes began to water. He didn't dare wipe them.