Edward sat alone on his straw mat of a bed, absently snipping his scissorhands and staring at the dusty floor in deep contemplation. The Deetzes had finished the house, and though they'd tidied it up a bit, they'd left the attic un-renovated, except for the hole in the roof, which they'd patched up only the third day into their re-modeling adventure. He was sad, because now it was dark and even more dreary and isolated than before. The view had overlooked the entire town behind the mansion, and sometimes, if Edward tried really hard, on a clear day he could see the ocean. The white birds flying over the rooftops of the peaceful town made him smile as they swooped and screeched. He shared a kind of odd kindrance with them, almost; neither of them really belonged down there, yet they could still see everything that was going on as no one else could. They had the best view of it all, yet they could never really be part of it. Edward wondered sometimes whether or not the birds felt the same detatchment and loneliness that he did. But no...probably not...at least -they- had other bird-friends to talk to, and to fly with. Edward was and always would be alone, and would always be stuck here, with broken wings.
Well...there -was- Lydia. It made Edward's face hot, just to think about her. He really enjoyed her company, and wished she had more time for him. She hadn't been up to chat with him for at least a week. Whenever he'd wandered into her room, she'd be sitting at her computer, typing and clicking away, her dark eyes glued to the glowing screen that sat no less than two feet in front of her face. He'd stand silently in the doorway, watching her fingers as they flew across the keyboard at lightening speed before shuffling quietly back up to his room, convinced that whatever she was busy with was more important than him. He'd think of speaking up, of saying "Is it okay if I just sit here and watch you, so that I'm not alone, up there?" but he never got so far as the first syllable. It's not like he ever really had anything to say to her, anyway, though he wished desperately that he could think of something, -anything- to say to her on the rare occassions when she would come up and visit him. But whenever he heard the clunking of her boots as she climbed the stairs, it startled him out of anything he'd been prepared to say. He spent hours just sitting around and rehearsing conversations with her, but he just got so excited whenever he heard her voice wafting up the stairs like the sound of church bells, or an angel choir, that he forgot everything he'd sworn he'd had memorized. He was just like a caged puppy about to be paid attention to, and he really wished he'd get over it, and actually be able to make some semblance of conversation. He remembered back when his father read to him from the big book of etiquette, how it had dedicated a chapter solely to making polite conversation. Hmm...
But he didn't really think Lydia wanted to talk about the weather, how lovely her dress was or how the "stock market" was doing...whatever -that- was. Well, she would probably appreciate a compliment, but he blushed just thinking about it; her smiling face, her arms around him in a loose embrace, her glittering dark eyes looking up at him, expectantly. What did she want from him, anyway? What did he possibly have to offer?
Edward swallowed, hard. If just thinking about her was making him this nervous, how would he ever be able to talk to her? -Really- talk to her?
iYou're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry /i
He sighed and leaned back against the wall, the boards creaking under his weight. Edward wrinkled his nose and blinked. Something was tickling his face. After a moment, he discovered that the culprit was not cobwebs as per usual, but a particularly long and unruly strand of hair hanging down from his massive nest of dark tangles and right into his eyes. He placed his tongue between his lips and poised his scissors in the manner of five-year-olds concentrating on construction-paper-and-paste projects, everywhere. Then, with perfect precision, snipped it clean off. There, that was better.
He let his eyes drift lazily to his left and brought them to rest on a picture of an angel he'd clipped from a magazine, one of the many littering the dusty floor. The angel was female, and her young and innocent face was framed by a long, flowing mane of golden hair. He'd cut it out because it had reminded him of Her, but now he pictured the hair being a darker shade, with lines of black smudged beneath her eyes. Lydia. Perfect Lydia. Lydia, whose skin, though pale like his own, was smooth and unmarred. He longed to touch it with real, human hands, to feel its softness and warmth. Just thinking about how he would never be able to made him want to cry.
But she'd said that she would help him...but how...? And she hadn't visited him for so long...
iYou float like a feather in a beautiful world /i
He pictured her as he'd first seen her, her black skirts long and flowing, billowing gently in the light fall breeze. The veil from her huge black hat, trailing behind her as she floated into his life from out there; a world he'd tried desperately to be a part of. Maybe he simply hadn't tried hard enough? Maybe the circumstances were just wrong, at the time? Maybe...
But, no. He was never going back down there. He was a freak. He was scary. He was unnatural and dangerous. No, this is where he belonged, though he was sad to admit it. He supposed he liked it well enough up there, in his attic, though it was much less pleasant now that his big window had been taken away, and that he could never really get any peace and quiet because of all the crazy music Delia liked to blast, downstairs. But what more could he ask for, really? What more was there to have?
A friend...or maybe something...a little bit sweeter...?
iI wish I was special you're so very special/i
No. No, don't even start dreaming like that again, Edward. It's not good for you, and you know it. Remember what happened, last time? You couldn't handle that if it happened, again.
He made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat and laid down on his side. Sitting up was beginning to get uncomfortable, and he really was tired. But he didn't sleep. He never really slept, he just sort of...shut down.
iBut I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here./i
Sometimes Edward wondered why he didn't just run away from that place. It was being invaded by strangers who'd torn it all apart and rebuilt it to their tastes (or more specifically, to Delia's tastes). But he knew why, deep in his heart...if he even had one of those. He didn't run because there was nowhere to run to. This was the only place where he could hide and remain unburdened by the rest of the cruel world. And yet, lately, even though he'd lived up there for who knew how long, he was beginning to feel out of place. It was like the house was his skin and he had an itch but was unable to scratch it. He knew it was because of those people. He was grateful that they'd not kicked him out, completely...though, in a way, they kind of had. Yes, he was still allowed to sit up there, in the dark, day after day, unbothered save for Lydia's visits...and those he did not mind in the slightest, though lately they'd been few and far apart, which was beginning to worry him, though he tried not to think about it...but really, he knew the house was no longer his. Would they even let him work on his topiaries, anymore? It was the only thing that ever really kept him busy. He hoped they didn't take that away from him, too... He knew that his father's precious possessions had been carelessly discarded, or sold, depending on their value. At least his book had been saved, thanks to Lydia... He knew that none of them wanted him there, except for Lydia...at least he -hoped- she did... But how could he be sharing the same house; breathing the same air as such a beautiful creature? It didn't feel right. It made Edward very uncomfortable and twitchy, and he didn't know if and when it would stop. Every day that passed without a visit from Lydia, the feeling got worse and more bothersome. Edward didn't know how much longer he would be able to stand it. It was comforting to know that there were people living in close proximity to him, that he wasn't completely alone, yet at the same time, that very fact made him feel more alone than ever before.
iI don't care if it hurts, I want to have control/i
He wished that only Lydia had come, like Peg had done so many years ago. He didn't like the Deetzes, because they didn't like him. They'd made that clear the moment they'd locked eyes with him, and probably even before. He was creepy; not like them. He'd wished he'd been able to tell them to get out, that it was his house, that they couldn't live there. But, Lydia...she'd really liked the house, and seemed to like him. He pictured the look of disappointment that she would have worn had he spoken up and chased them off of the property. But that's just not who he was. He rarely even spoke, and if he did, it wasn't to say anything profound or relevant. It wasn't that he didn't have a firm grasp on vocabulary, because he really did. He knew lots of words, and some pretty big ones, too...he just never got to use them. So he remained a push-over, a door-mat, something people just walk all over, regardless of how it made him feel...and he did feel, sometimes so much that it scared him. iI want a perfect body I want a perfect soul/i
Edward looked down at the many buckles and straps that criss-crossed his chest. What was under there? he wondered. Just what exactly was he made out of? He honestly did not know; he'd been "born" in this black leather bodysuit, with no detectable zippers or buttons of any kind. He'd never taken it off and was kind of trapped in it...unless he should choose to take more drastic measures to remove it... The blades of his scissorhands glinted in the light coming in from the window...but then he wouldn't have any clothes. And what if what he found under there was...something he didn't want to see? He had enough problems with looking at himself in a mirror; he couldn't bear to discover something -else- wrong with him. Oh well, at least what he could see of his body shape looked okay. He was a little thinner, and perhaps more gangly than most other people he'd seen, but that was all right...wasn't it? He'd seen pictures of men in magazines that seemed to be about his size and shape; gaunt and waifish. They were what the magazines called "models," and they donned clothing from all the latest fashions, some of which were comprised of leather, buckles and straps, which gave him at least a little confidence. Maybe he wasn't as different as he'd been made to think. Maybe, by some stretch of the imagination, he could even be considered attractive. Joyce had certainly seemed to think so, though he still couldn't quite piece together what exactly had happened with her, even after all these years...
...but how could that be, if everything he'd ever known had him convinced that his existence was flawed? The few kind words he'd recieved in his abnormally long lifetime were beginning to fade into the background, their meaning lost in the long stretch of time he'd spent alone, yearning for companionship, for someone...anyone...to talk to.
iI want you to notice when I'm not around You're so very special I wish I was special/i
It seemed that the most likely provider of what he pined for was Lydia. She was the only one that made his life worth living, not that he could really stop if he wanted to...could he? Edward had never tried to kill himself. The thought had crossed his mind, once or twice; could I ever just stop existing? He still didn't fully grasp the concept of death. He knew what it was; he'd read about it and had it explained to him...but it was such an abstract idea...that someone could just...go away, and never come back? Where did they go? Why didn't they come back? What made them go away? It was all so confusing, it made Edward's head hurt, thinking about it.
He began to wonder how Lydia would react if one day, he just wasn't there, anymore. Would she even notice? Would she even care? Would she wish that he wasn't gone? Would she miss him? Part of him wanted to go away and hide for a while, just so that he could come back to see, but, on the off-chance that she -would- care, and that she -would- miss him, he would not make a move to sate his curiousity. He wouldn't be able to stand it if he ever hurt Lydia, sweet Lydia...
iShe's running out again.../i
No, no, please let her stay...she's all that I have...please, don't ruin it, this time...
Edward quickly tried to banish from his troubled mind the thought of Lydia ever going away. He wanted her to always be there, even if he was never able to really open up to her like he wanted to. Just for him to be able to look at her, see her smile and hear her voice was almost enough...almost.
iwhatever makes you happy, whatever you want, you're so very special I wish I was special.../i
But, if she ever wanted to leave, he wouldn't keep her there. He wouldn't tie her down. He...he loved her. He wanted her to be happy, no matter what. He hoped she could be, with him, but he was terrified that she wouldn't be. He needed reassurance. He needed to see her pretty face and feel her hand on his shoulder, or on his cold cheek. She'd only touched him there once, and he'd freaked out a little. He supposed his reaction had been what kept her from ever trying to touch his face, again, and he kicked himself for it. When was he going to stop acting like a kicked dog and start acting like the normal person he knew he could be, with a little bit of practise?
iBut I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo, What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here./i
Edward closed his tired eyes and tried to stop thinking. It was wearing him out and he was beginning to feel very down. Thinking about Lydia not visiting him wasn't going to help. If she didn't want to visit him, that was her choice. But he so badly wished that she was only busy, and would continue to come see him, once whatever had been occupying her time, lately, was finished.
His eyes did not stay closed for long, and he looked around his dark room. It looked so different, yet the same. It was a little bit cleaner, and some of the old junk that Delia fancied had been moved downstairs to decorate her studio, but otherwise, it was more or less the same room he'd been in for years. Then why did he feel so out of place?
He exhaled sharply and a cloud of dust rose up out of his pillow. He coughed twice and blinked his beady black eyes as the dust assaulted them.
iI don't belong here./i