I have changed the rating to "R" because the material in this story will get a little more mature as the plot continues-also, the language is pretty strong and I don't want to get into trouble for under rating.
Disclaimer: I don't own Edward Scissorhands or A Nightmare on Elm Street.
Chapter IV: You Will Not Rise Above
The night was not always one of gentle hospitality; if one were to choose to make its rest there, they could not expect to be blanketed with the smiles of the stars, nor could they anticipate taking comfort in the open arms of the moon. For, though at times the darkness could be interpreted as the shelter of the night, it was not uncommon for the stars' lips to succumb to hollow intentions, a sort of bitter reflection of time wasted pulling their eyes into sunken depths unknown. Even the embrace of the moon was not always shining; in the most obscure of hours, the warmth of it would transcend into macabre silence as it turned away from the prayers of those who were in desperate need of it. Those elements pooled with the sinister smirk of night became an eerie watch, a garish watch that would let none out of its gaze.
It was that sort of night that peered in through the windows to chuckle at Edward's squirming as he attempted to reach through to sleep; they laughed at his awkward movements as he tossed and turned with empty ambition. Some otherworldly power was determined to keep him awake, to force his contemplations back to the memories they had run from. He was very much fond of his memories of Kim. As he clutched them to him as a small child would cling to the security of a stuffed animal; he was granted temporary solace from the arduous burdens of this world. But now, all of the images he had of her were stained with the trenchant fragrance of death, which, once smelled, lingered in ones mind until some remedy was found to cure it.
Death, despite how little of it he thought, was an interesting concept. He wondered now, seeing as the night would not let him sleep, what exactly were the emotions, the symptoms that went hand in hand with it. Did every form of death involve pain? Edward could not, did not, bring himself to think of the precise methods he would come to if this were true; the one bother that could sculpt his usual good nature into an frightful anger was the image of his beloved ensnared in any sort of hurt. The sight of Kim being abused by the hand of her former boyfriend had shoved his usual morals over the edge along with him; for murder was his weapon against the law.
His thoughts were beyond his control; they were liberated by the lack of any sort of grip on reality on his part. He was damned to spend his eternity wandering among his contemplations. Redemption would not come so easily, for the guilt he sheltered from the external world was the only form of companionship he had to hold onto.
It had been a long while since he had climbed into the open-arms of his bed, and the weight of his reflections was a hard burden on his eyelids, as well as the rest of him. He had worked the whole of the day, as it was the occupation that kept him busy. With his ignorance of the night's cruel insight of him, Edward finally found the slumber that had previously fled from his calling.
His lips contorted into the most demonic of smirks; a taunting gesture intentionally conceived for the sight in front of him. Freddy was delighted to find his victim female; they were slightly easier to control, particularly, Freddy recalled, if they happened to be blonde. But sadly, the adolescent in front of him lacked that particular trait; or, to be more accurate, lacked some of it. In earnest, it was more of a mousy brown, a haphazard love-child of brown and gold. It clung to her, much in part to the sweat hugging her. But what was most prominent was the stench of fear, dancing around her, the perfect perfume. It heightened Freddy's glee to an astounding elevation, knowing that in this state she'd be so easy to use.
But of course, there wasn't much harm in having a little fun, now was there? Fully detaching himself from his corner, Freddy stepped out under the sanguine lighting, his presence evoking a gasp from the girl.
"You're fucking dead." It was spoken in a whisper, more to herself than to him, but Freddy took the opportunity to grab it anyways. It wasn't his fault the stupid bitch left her belongings unattended…
"Maybe in the real world sweetheart, but here, I am immortal." He hadn't been observing her for much of a length of time, so he had little knowledge of her story, leaving him with nothing more than trepidation to play with.
"Don't call me sweetheart." The girl murmured, revulsion leaking from every syllable spoken.
Freddy was getting a real kick out of this, after all it had seemed nearly an eternity since he had last tormented. "Well than, sweetheart, tell me, what is your name?"
"Screw you." She glared, pushing the unease to the back of her mind.
So the bitch had some spunk in her after all. Now things should get interesting. "Any time, bitch. Just say when, and where." His smirk flourished at the sight of her disgust; clearly she wasn't expecting such a lascivious reply.
The nerve of him! Although, Brigid supposed she had walked right into his words with her last comment. Still, as a female and as a human being, she was insulted with his raunchy comments. But she remained determined not to let him use her as his clay, to mold her thoughts into his desires, despite the fright creating its obscure web in the cracks and corners of her mentality.
"Go to hell." She snarled, desperate in her attempt to hide behind her words. At this comment, the man chuckled, seemingly amused.
"Been there, did that." He gestured with both hands, the blades creating the familiar harmony of clicks.
"Then what the fuck do you want?" Frustration gripped her voice, its fingers wrapped as tight around it as her anxiety of just what was to come.
"That's for me to know, and you to find out, bitch!" He laughed, his chuckles imprinted in her hearing as he left her to her own devices. Where the hell did he go? Brigid felt the tension of the situation grip her throat, trying to strangle breaths previously bruised.
"Looking for me, sweetheart?" The voice was unmistakable with its ragged growl of amusement, echoing down from above. She shot her head up at the sound of the words, fear helping to speed the pace of her desperate glance. It was somewhat comforting, knowing where he was. But the knowledge that he could change such a position in the mere blink of an eye disposed the lingering ashes of said comfort.
She bolted without lying to waste another second, desperately scoffing at her own feeble attempts to tame her fear. Who was she kidding? She was fucking afraid. She knew it, and he certainly knew it; why bother putting on a façade when the enemy already saw right through you?
As she ran around corners, trying to avoid the taunting whispers of the boilers, Brigid attempted coherent thought. It was a difficult task, as she was rather distracted by the adrenaline echoing in her head. Nonetheless she had to at least try and think, for she knew she would not be able to keep at the pace she was going. She had not been born a runner, a fact which she was cursing now. The only options pity had left for her were either to wake herself from the nightmare, or to stop running altogether, which would leave her at the mercy of Freddy. The former of the two would be near impossible; she was gifted with the curse of a deep slumber. All her life her father had joked that 'not even a nuclear explosion could wake her from sleep', and every time she had listened to the words leave his mouth, tolerance for her dad's poor sense of humor motivated her laughter. Now, that laughter and pity, as well as the adoration for such vindicated futility were mold in the hands of her hunter; mockery to be crafted for her misery
She was all too acquainted with the lukewarm, bitter sensation intoxicating her eyes; the confessions of her fears were waking from the very slumber that held her captive. Brigid didn't want to accept their offers, for she knew their asinine nature perched upon the brittle shelter of ice, which could very easily give in to the pressures of primitive hysteria, her control of which was helpless to the impending threat. As much as the acknowledgement of this flaw bothered her, she knew nothing could be done about it. And so she let them fall, their rhythm identical to her pounding footsteps.
It crept from behind her, that hideous hiss of the clash of metal and blade; nonchalant at first, the noise gradually began to build into an orchestra of mayhem, just the force needed to push her over the edge.
I'm going to die. That single thought cycled throughout her mind, showing no signs of relaxing its pace. Its orbit was fragile in its pace, that of a skip of a young child, and yet the impact of its motions had sharply concentrated Brigid's breaths into hollow shards of gasps; their cut into the evening, already bloodied, no deeper than that of the butterflies with their slicing of wings as they escaped from Winter's kiss.
As if in response to the petals of her bravado wilting away into nihility, pain made its presence known, casting enchantments upon her abdomen that melded its repose with the bitter caress of the cold, its touch burning with every stroke given away. She couldn't grant permission for her steps to continue onwards, not without contorting herself to fit the bizarre shapes of her aches' cries.
It was over; she couldn't continue on whilst exhaustion lingered, coupled with trepidation. Their hand-hold prevented her from progress. She was caught under their trance; down on her knees, she was imprisoned by their infatuation as truth settled down to join her: a most unwanted company.
Denial was no longer a friend of hers, it refused, due in part to reality's influence, to let her cry on its shoulder over a situation that could have easily been avoided. If only she weren't as thick headed, if only she didn't act upon impulse as much, would she have saved her own life?
It was a question of a value worthy of pondering; the hellish aura of the place held a great amount of intimidation, a trait she was very much aware of. She needed to distract herself from the terror clutching to her, a stubborn child refusing to rid himself of his mother. Her tolerance for the tears she had let fall was great, but she needed to get away from them if she ever wanted dignity in place with her death. She couldn't let herself ride away into the next world dressed in cowardice; no, if her spirit was to abandon her body, she would leave in elegance.
His smirk was tattered, rusted. Countless nights had passed since it had last been in the presence of human flesh and the alluring prospects it brought with it; so tempted was it by the malice of the pleasure received with the meeting of metal and skin, the soft at the feet of the hard begging for mercy. Freddy's desire to kill, to watch life ebb away down a river of crimson, held the insatiability of the damned for eternal rest.
But he would do nothing of the sort; at least, not tonight. But the stupid girl did not know this; her ignorance of the plot she unknowingly became a part of only fed Freddy's starving delight. With her ignorance, she assumed the worst, nurturing her fright with the sweet misconceptions of her feral imagination. And it was this that seduced his lust, raw in its zeal for the youthful innocence that had been forbidden in his 'life' for far too long.
Her gaze was clothed in the thinnest of draperies; even from the distance the enemy could interpret the scrawny confidence as a covering for the anticipation, which was quite a contradiction. In glee Freddy, her eager audience, observed the mounting tension in her eyes compete with the doubtful relief starting to settle, his amusement as trivial as the April rain.
So the little bitch was waiting was she? It was rude to keep a lady waiting, but then, Freddy was no gentleman. But still, there was no need for the apprehension lingering in the air…
His beckoning for silence, absolute in its demand, was answered without question. The darkness knew far better than to defy its master. No protest, not even from the boilers, was sent in response; he was the royalty of this realm, ruling over the malevolent surrealism with a rancorous law even Lucifer would burn himself upon touching. This argument made the very idea of sustaining him in the deepest of Hell's bowels ludicrous; Freddy's arrogance refused to give him any reason as to why the mortal would attempt the murder of the immortal nightmare.
Still, Freddy's matriculations were cruel in their individuality; such inimitability was the bearer of much hurt, both internal and external. His smirk, one would assume, could not descend any lower into wickedness than it already had. But the contemplation of the damage possible to the human psyche had managed to rebel against that very opinion, shoving the quirk of his lips deeper into a bottom that couldn't be reached.
Indeed, Freddy held much the ability of a psychiatrist in his subconscious; he had been blessed by an unknown deity with a brilliance that could peer in and interpret accurately the emotions the unintentional youth conjured. But it was very much a double-edged sword for the business of psychiatry, for he was skilled in the ways of manipulation, something he had long ago learnt; the human mentality he considered his clay, a mold in his hands that would become whatever his desires wished.
This was the sort of practice in play at the moment; with the silence, he was determined to soothe the knots of her fear, to comfort her mind, a blaze with confusion and uncertainty. After all, it would make for great fun later.
As much as Freddy took enjoyment in the gruesome ends that had come to meet the majority of his victims, this pleasure's grip was too insecure to hold any candle to the ecstasy withdrawn from the absolute destruction of the human self. However much he was infatuated with the sight of spilt scarlet haphazardly scattered around hollow screams, the vehement winds rushing past as internal life clawed for mercy in agony were composed of more than enough power to make that passion seem like a mere, middle school crush.
The silence lurking was beginning to annoy him; the bitch had yet to show any symptoms of alleviation. It was taking far too long for Freddy's satisfaction; he wanted her completely off-guard, not trapped in some shade of gray. His glance searched about the surroundings, analyzing the environment for any sort of flaw.
He pondered all sorts of possibilities, frustrated with the common sense of the girl. As he continued the critique of his beloved maze of agony, the idea came to his bidding. What if it wasn't one or several faults with the boiler room, but the said location itself? He looked at her form, grasping comfort within its own embrace, in its position in the furthest corner. It was obvious she wasn't about to slip into a state of ease while among the presence of the boilers, that much he could tell from her anxious motions. So he would put her back into where she felt comfortable, back in the living, rousing a misconception in her that…she was awake.
He faltered on the verge of complete joy, for he was very much ignorant to the girl's past, having not yet read her story. "Fuck." He murmured, his tone dripping with annoyance for the technicalities he had overlooked. "Damn the little details."
He reluctantly rose from his perch from which he had been watching as his patience had slowly become little more than ashes; the heat of his passion overwhelming in its glory. He traveled back to his "office"; if you could call it that. Really, it was a room, garbed plainly in a disheveled gray, cramped with the clutter of miscellanea. No love had gone into the making of the aforementioned room; that much was apparent among the piles and heaps. Freddy indeed indulged much of his time in that area, confined to its walls since the demise of Springwood's adolescence.
The drawer his touch landed upon now had grown stale to him; it seemed eternity had passed since his last use of it. He replaced the dull frown with a most garish grin as he withdrew a bunch of papers. Everyone's stories were his when their characters fell into the dream realm. It wasn't difficult; hers were the only parchments in his hands.
"Brigid Belen." He chuckled, his eyes already reading the words of her untold tale.
No sound came running; silence had reigned supreme for the past moments. It was dreadful, marooned among the monolithic beasts colored in their own crimson, only words of her creation to keep her company. Her curiosity had been awakened, though it was refrained from any free will, the value for her life too great for any rushed chance. But what if she truly was alone? Could she not attempt any tries for escape?
As time remained motionless, Brigid was compelled by consideration. She couldn't stay in her little corner, as much as her fear falsely believed in its sanctity. No, with everything ending in eventuality, she was destined to move at some point.
Cautiously she unfurled her reluctant body, ignoring the pleas of her stomach, she rose through her movements. Glancing for any sign of Freddy's presence, she carefully placed one step forward. Her hearing intent for any resonance of the dream demon, her vigilance held her in place for a quickened pause.
Her steps had advanced no further than a dozen paces before her world dissolved into the enchanting bliss of nothingness.
The next object her eyes laid their sight upon was one of the windows in the living room. Her confusion was alive in her as she extended her hand to the nearest window, touching it and sensing no subnormal layering. The lack of furniture excluding the faded beige sofa was still in existence, as well as the lack of her father and his navy blue Dodge. Her nap had finally quieted into a whisper as normality settled back upon the room.
The transition from the dream world had taken its toll upon Brigid, and so she could not prevent the cries falling from her as she sat, clinging obsessively to her knees for reassurance. It was over, he was gone. Why was she still crying?
At that point, she gave up her caring for the display of weakness. Death had come so close in kidnapping her; terror had almost consumed her sanity. Doubt had no right to question her tears.
Reality had tainted so much of that world; it was hard not to question the ghastly ethereality of the place. Her fear had been-was, real. His threat had been real. He was real. The truth in that reality was cold in its caress, its frost so low in temperature; it was burning where it touched her. It mingled with the truth of Death's presence at her door; its cruelty continued to cover her, taking over any sense of relief.
It was the gentle yet rough, humming of an engine that crept up slowly upon her. Realization recognized the melody at once, alerting her to the arrival of her father. Oh thank God. She rushed from the position on the sofa, eager for the entrance of him. The paternal presence would bring tranquility to her madness. He would talk to her of inane things, little nothings that would cool the sting of the aftermath. It was, after all, his specialty.
She was too damn relieved to clean herself up, she decided. The rhythm of his steps became more secure in their proximity with the door. God, he was taking far too long. She needed him now, forher doubt had yet to settle in its coffin. The nightmare was over, leaving her sanity barely intact. Her hearing needed to listen to his explanation; it would not be satisfied until it knew, from his words, that it was just a dream, and that nothing from that world could ever come into existence.
The creak of the door brought her out of the frantic reverie she had fallen back into, startling what was left of her expectations. "Dad!" The one word had unlocked a flood of relief, bringing it down upon the anticipation in her giddy footsteps. She all but leapt into his arms, carrying her sobs with her, giving them to his shoulder.
"Hey honey!" He wrapped his arms about her, trapping her form in a bear hug before releasing her. He smiled down at her, warmth etched into his aging features. "How come you're so eager to see your old man, eh? An hour ago, you couldn't wait to run off." His familiar mockery worked wonders on her bruised humor.
For the briefest of seconds, it appeared Jack Belen's eyes were a muddy brown instead of their usual clouded gray. This factor mattered not to Brigid; she was thankful to be around an adult who lacked the possession of a clawed glove.
"I am just so happy you're home." She sighed, tossing all doubts away. "Dad, listen. I know you're not going to believe me but…" Her tale was lengthy, but she had to tell it. That particular experience wouldn't rest until it had taken leave from its roost within her.
She had become entangled in the words of her own tale, so much so that she did not take notice of her father's silence; her awareness was blinded to his lack of interruptions. If her attention hadn't been caught up in her own words, alarm would have overcome her. For she knew her father was not one for believing in fairy tales or rumors.
She heard nothing immediate from her father following the completion of her story. It was odd, for he usually commented straight away, whether to comfort, or to critique. But now it was simply quiet, and if judging by his appearance, he seemed to be lost in thought. But perhaps he couldn't find anything to say; perchance he had come up short with words for the moment.
He finally shattered the silence with syllables of a most confusing nature: "You say this…Freddy Krueger. He is the keeper of the nightmare realm? The ultimate one who lives on, even when death has already claimed him?"
It was in his eyes that she saw the icy glint of thunder come alive, synchronizing with the words he spoke. Her sense of stability was again pulled from beneath her feet, as she reflected on his questions. What the fuck? Her father had never believed in Freddy, what was he doing asking her about his legacy?
Unwanted, the reality came forward, although she had never been beckoned. Her father wasn't home yet, she was not yet awake. It was who Freddy Krueger hid underneath the mask of Jack Belen, watching, waiting. And she was the one who was going to pay the fines of her own frivolities.
She didn't give a second thought to the scream that bolted along with her as she attempted to run from the one she had thought to have eluded.
"I don't think so." It was the clawed glove that sank into the smooth white of her skin, summoning pain and scarlet with its demands. She was held in place with the gravel mechanics of his voice, and her rekindled terror.
"Let me go!" She shrieked, squirming in her attempts of escape.
"Make me, bitch!" He laughed, the gritty edge to his tone deepening to a rough growl, primitive in its song. This sound only increased in volume as everything around Brigid, including her own breath, fell into obsidian.
7, 8 Gonna Stay Up Late…