It was strange. From then on, there was almost a kind of friendship between the two of us. Just something, like I could catch a glimpse of his world, and he would listen about mine as I described school, my family, Dan, everything to him. The little things, the things you think don't even matter but really make up your life.
Sometimes he asked questions, but mostly he just sat there listening, or awkwardly going through the magazines I brought him.
The wall had turned into a bright collage of pictures. I wanted to bring a photograph of Kim to him, but was too cowardly to even approach the subject. I didn't know what happen if I told him. Maybe the ice would shatter and he would wake up into the horrible reality, and his hope would dissapear for good. He's not happy, he can't be; but that doesn't mean that the truth can't be worse.
Sometimes he seems childlike, naïve and I can think I can understand him, but then at other times he is ageless, wise, silent and I realise don't know anything about him. I am still a stranger. Sometimes it's because of him, and sometimes it's because of me.
Every now and then I would go to the town's graveyard and wander through the rows of neat graves, wondering what I would say to her, if only she were here.
All the graves were made of stone. At the back were the worn, faded rocks, and at the front, the newly turned ones, with flowers heaped upon them. When you got further back there were no flowers. Some had skeletal remains of brown plants but almost none had a sign that someone cared.
What must it be like, to only be remembered by a weathering stone? What will happen when their names fade off it completely? A single grey slab is their tribute, and no one even cares.
My Grandmother's grave is close to the front. It reads simply:
Kim Graham, Devoted Wife, Mother and Grandmother, 1943-2003
She would have been sixty, but she never reached her birthday.
Fifty-nine was too young. Only the good die young. She deserved far longer.
The flowers there had already begun decaying; even the Roses, but I laid more down now, this time, violets.
What did violets mean? Lilies were for funerals, Roses for love, Sunflowers for happiness, If Violets were supposed to signify something, then what did I mean?
I stood there and looked at her grave for a while. Wind whipped through my ears, and I thought about Dan. I wished he was here. Sometimes I hate being alone; I think everyone does. Maybe that's why I felt so bad for Edward, being all alone.
When I got back home I searched for the photographs of my Grandmother when she was my age. They had been stacked in the basement along with most of her things when she had died. I didn't know whether this was for grief, or because they just didn't care anymore.
The light was old and took seconds to turn on, and even then it only gave out a dull orange glow.
I saw a leather-bound book, blew the dust off, and opened it.
On the first page was a picture of a man and a boy fishing, and I realised it was my great-uncle and great grandfather. Bill had died a long time ago. I think he was in the same cemetry as his daughter, somewhere near the back, along with his wife. Kevin lived thousands of miles away in Washington state with his second wife, Joanne.
He had come back for the funeral, then left straight afterwards.
I looked closer at the picture trying to see their faces clearer, trying to understand them, what they were thinking about in this one faded moment in time.
I flicked through the pages and smiling faces, then stopped as a double page caught my eye.
On the left hand side was my Grandmother at her Junior Prom. She looked beautiful, but more than that she looked happy. She wasn't alone either, Jim, the man Edward had killed, was with her.
Oh, I had heard the story; I knew that Edward wasn't really to blame, but it still made me slightly uneasy. I also half-wished that Edward had died too. Kim would have broken her heart, but surely that was better than the constant waiting. At least she would know, rather than believe.
The picture on the adjacent page was her Senior Prom. She wore a simple white dress, and although she was smiling I could tell she wasn't happy. Older and wiser. Her face was almost turned away from the camera, and her eyes were looking at something in the distance. I looked at the picture closely, and wondered what it would have been like to have been there. It was so long ago, but still it remained the same.
I looked at the other things here, and opened another book. This one wasn't as dusty. It was nicely made, and nicely looked after. I had seen my Grandmother looking at it before, but I had never asked.
I realised, as I saw the first page, that it wasn't a photo album, it was a scrapbook.
Pictures of Edward, newspaper articles, photos of green topiary, a few dried leaves, a simple heart necklace, paperchains, even a few scraps of clothing filled the pages. Right at the front, in pride of place, was a picture of the two of them together.
I sighed, and closed the book, putting it on the floor next to me.
Beneath where the scrapbook had been there was a box. I opened it, hoping my Grandmother wouldn't mind me intruding. She made me intrude by sending me up there in the first place, I reasoned towards my conscience.
Inside was a dress, white, but not the one she wore at her prom. One of the straps was broken and stained with blood. I brushed my fingers over the soft material, then picked it up. Beneath lay a scissorhand, the one she had found in the house.
Was I the only one who knew? I felt a slight pang of loneliness. Everyone else had forgotten Edward. No one had passed the story on.
Truth had become an urban myth, until finally, now, it was forgotten.
I picked it up, and found it was surprisingly light. I held it there, running my finger over the gleaming blade.
A scarlet drop of blood appeared and an acute pain split my finger. I hadn't realised it was still sharp.
Hurridly I put the things back where I had found them and went upstairs.
"Hi Laura." Said my Mom, sounding vague and sitting at the table going through another of her cheap magazines. She lifted her reading glasses and frowned. "Have you cut your hand?"
"Just a scratch."
I washed my finger under the tap, then splashed my face with water. It had been surprisingly warm in the cellar.
"Are you okay? Your face is all flushed."
"Fine. I think I'll just go out and get some fresh air…"
"Are you planning on taking the car?" She frowned again
"No, I'll walk"
Before she said anything else I grabbed a coat, and walked outside in the direction of the hill.
A/N:
Thank you, to everyone that has reviewed! It cheered me up loads because my relatives from hell are currently staying (Why am I related to them? Why?)
Song lyrics don't really fit in, I know, but I'm still not sure if I'm going to change it yet.
I'm going away to Ireland very soon, so therefore I'm not going to be posting the next chapter for at least a week. Hey, maybe I will be inspired to write better things… who knows?
(Don't stop reviewing…)
Thanks, again.
Disclaimer: Kim, Edward, Jim and everything to do with the film 'Edward Scissorhands' does not belong, or have any connection to me.
