Of course, it was about Edward. He was tall and handsome as ever, but in this dream he had hands. He had hands and he was touching Lydia, cupping her cheek in the palm of one hand while he stroked her lips, her earlobes, her chin with the fingertips of his other. It was so nice to feel his hands on her, and they were so warm and human. His face still possessed the same childlike innocence it always had, but now there was a loving smile where before his lips had been pursed and emotionless. It was so nice...
...and then she woke up.
"Uuuuuuuuuuungh," she groaned, reaching over and hitting the snooze button, hoping to return to that warm and happy place she'd just been so violently thrown from, even for a minute, but it was in vain. She buried her face into her pillow and frowned, deeply. Stupid school. Stupid getting up early. Stupid...everything.
"Why can't it be summer?" she whined, throwing her covers off of herself and swinging her bare legs over the side of her giant four-poster bed. It was much too big for one little girl, and the sheets nearly swallowed her whole on a nightly basis, but her parents were rich now, and she could have whatever they thought she wanted to have, and so, her bed was gigantic.
Muttering to herself, she left her room and walked the short distance down the hall to the bathroom. The walls were still a pallid grey as they had not yet been painted, but she kind of liked it, and wished that they'd just leave her area of the house the hell alone. But this was Charles and Delia she was talking about. They never left anything alone, including Edward.
Edward...
"Oh no..."
Lydia dropped her toothbrush into the sink with a clatter and ran out of the bathroom toward the harsh sound of Delia's voice. It was coming from downstairs, and it sounded angry. But then, that wasn't really anything new; Delia was -always- perturbed at best, and Lydia had learned to live with it (i.e. ignore it). It wasn't the bitching that bothered her, it was the fact that she was bitching at -him-.
"Why don't you just stay up in the attic? You never used to come downstairs, and it was working out fine, that way! So why don't you just go back on up the stairs...that's right, go!"
Lydia skidded to a stop at the summit of the stairs just in time to be nearly impaled on one of Edward's sharp appendages as he ran past her up to the attic. He was so frightened that he seemed not to have even noticed Lydia there, or the injury he'd almost caused her. She called after him, but he kept running, and soon he'd reached the very top of the stairwell and disappeared behind the wall.
Lydia could do nothing but glare at the woman at the bottom of the staircase. She was so incredibly angry at her step-mother for raising her voice at Edward that words refused to form in her mouth, though many swirled around in her heated head, all of them edged with hatred and disgust.
"You..." she finally managed to squeeze out, extending her index finger at the hateful woman in silent accusation.
Delia did not respond. She stood still at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips, devoid of movement save the tapping of her foot against the cold marble floor. She waited patiently for Lydia to continue, as though she actually wanted to be scolded by someone so many years her junior. If Lydia thought Delia was some kind of masochist, before, this confirmed her suspicion.
"Why did you yell at him?"
Delia only stared at Lydia, giving no indication that she'd even heard her. Lydia was about to repeat her question, when finally, Deila removed her hands from her hips and said, "Come down here and I'll show you."
Lydia walked down the stairs slowly, almost hesitantly, afraid of what Delia was about to point out to her. She hoped it was nothing. She knew her step-mother's tendency to overreact...
Delia brought her reluctant step-daughter around to the other side of the couch and gestured to a long gash in one of the cushions.
"He ruined my 1,500 couch, that's what he did!"
Lydia raised her eyebrows. Sure, it was just a couch, and Edward's feelings were more important to her than all the furniture in the world, but the damage was substantial and not something to be sneezed at.
"And as if -that- weren't enough, look. what he did. to my sculpture!"
Delia's taloned hands grasped the two pieces of what had presumably once been whole and held them up to Lydia, who didn't even pretend to care, but did try not to laugh. Honestly, if Delia hadn't told her it was broken, she'd never have been able to tell.
"He didn't mean to...he was probably just trying to watch TV."
"Watch TV? Watch TV!" The vein in Delia's head began to throb as her voice increased in volume and pitch. "He's not even supposed to be down here!"
"He -lives- here! He can go wherever he wants!"
"I understand that he lives here, not that I agree with it," Lydia had to clench her fists to keep her hand from flying up and smacking Delia right in her red mouth, "but we live here too, and it's not safe for him to just come down and mess with whatever he pleases! Those things are dangerous, Lydia, and I have spent too much money decorating this place to have him come down and destroy it!"
Lydia was silently fuming, but she kept her mouth shut. A row like this could go on for hours, and she didn't have time for something as heated as an argument with her evil step-mother. Not now. Now, she had to go to school. But first, she would have to go up and comfort Edward.
Edward sat in the farthest corner of the attic, snipping his scissorhands in agitation. He'd been nervous about going downstairs, in the first place, but Lydia had assured him that it would be all right, and that he had every bit as much right to go downstairs as anyone else in the house. So, swallowing his misgivings and fear, he decided to try it out.
At first it went well; nobody seemed to be around. He figured it was probably too early in the day for anybody to be awake, though Lydia would be getting up for school, soon. He knew this, because he often waited just outside her door in the mornings, simply waiting for her alarm to go off at six thirty AM. Sometimes he would hear her talking to herself, or catch a glimpse of her on her way to the bathroom as he hid in the doorway of the empty guestroom and peeked out into the hallway. But today was different.
He'd walked around for a few minutes, inspecting the new decor in closer detail than he had, the day before. He didn't really have much of an opinion of it, but most of it seemed all right. It was strange to think that the room which now contained leather furniture, twisted sculptures and a slew of the latest electronics once housed his father's cookie machine and other similar inventions. The room seemed so huge and empty without it. It made Edward sad to think about the things that were lost in the renovation, so he stopped.
Finally, he decided he would sit down on the couch and watch some TV. He was just about to do so, when he heard a noise in the hallway. He'd been so frightened by it, that one of his hands slipped as he was reaching for the remote, and he accidentally sliced clean through the leather on the back of the middle couch cushion like butter, leaving a sizable gash that would surely be noticed.
Then Delia spoke, which frightened him even more. As he ran out of the living room and to the stairs, he bumped the coffee table and one of the sculptures that had been located there went tumbling to the ground, where it split in two clean halves.
And then she'd yelled at him. He hadn't been really yelled at in a very long time, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. He felt like he had no way to defend himself. Words came to mind, but somehow, he was rendered mute by the anger being directed at him, and so all he could do was run.
To make matters worse, Lydia had appeared suddenly at the top of his stairs and gotten in his way. He could have seriously hurt her. He didn't think he could bear it if he ever hurt Lydia...
Edward was brought out of his sulking by the familiar sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. He would have been afriad, but he knew those footsteps well.
"Lydia," he whispered, finding comfort in the sound of her name on his lips.
That day at school was no different from anyother. Lydia's teachers droned on about things that would supposedly help her succeed in life, handing out homework and calling on raised hands, but all Lydia could think about was Edward.
Then it was time for her advanced biology class. When she saw that Mr. a-little-too-old-looking-for-college was still "teaching" the class, Lydia groaned and took her seat toward the back of the room. She didn't know what it was about the guy; maybe it was his dull fashion sense, or the way he invaded her personal space, but she just didn't like him. She hoped he wouldn't be subbing long enough for her to even fathom the idea of giving him a chance.
After class, Lydia was sure to gather up her things, right away. She would have been one of the first out the door, but the nosy substitute, who's name, Lydia now knew, was Mr. Craven, (she'd looked up once and seen it written on the board) called her back.
At first, Lydia pretended that she hadn't heard him and kept walking, but when he called her name, again, she new that it would be extremely rude of her to just walk away. He'd never actually done anything to deserve the negative feelings she felt toward him, and so, reluctantly, she turned around and walked over to him.
"Yeah?" she asked, eyeing the clock on the wall.
"How's that little project of your's going?"
iIt's not a "little project"/i she wanted to retort. iIt's the single most important thing in my life, right now, and it's none of your business.i
"Fine," she replied, instead.
"Good, good. You know, my offer still stands," he said, running a hand through his longish dirty blond hair. "If you need any help, I'd be glad to give it...and I could use the practise."
The way that he was looking at her through those oversized tortoise shell glasses was making Lydia increasingly uncomfortable, and though she figured he was just kind of a creepy guy who meant well, she really didn't want to be near him a moment longer.
"Yeah...thanks. Um, I don't want to be late to my next class."
"Oh, of course not," Mr. Craven said, glancing behind him at the wall clock. "Last class is the most important one of the day, they say."
"Yeah...sure is," Lydia replied blandly. She'd never heard anybody say that.
"See you, tomorrow," he said as she made her way hurriedly toward the door.
Tomorrow? So she would have to see him -again-? Just how long would he be temping for Mrs. Collins? She decided to voice her curiosity.
"Didn't you hear me when I told the class that she'd be out for at least another week? She's got a bad case of mononucleosis and doesn't know exactly when she'll be back."
Lydia only stared blankly at the space between his eyes. A light tuft of hair was beginning to grow there. If the guy didn't watch it, he'd soon have a uni-brow. Lydia wondered if he knew how unruly his eyebrows were, but decided not to voice this particular curiosity.
"No, I suppose you weren't listening. You were probably too busy taking notes and whatnot."
Lydia just nodded and walked out the door, leaving Mr. Craven standing against his desk and scratching the back of his head. The other students didn't seem to mind him so much. He was fairly young as far as teachers went, and not strict at all, and was therefore generally well-liked by headstrong teenagers who don't like to be told what do do. But this Lydia girl was different. She wasn't disobediant, obnoxious or disruptive, but she unnerved him, nonetheless. She simply acted...differently, almost as if she were in her own little world. He'd only gotten a glimpse of her notes and sketches, but they intriegued him to no end. What was she working on? Was this some sort of science project? Was it all theoretical, or was she applying all of it to something real and tangible? He didn't know, but he hoped that somehow he'd be able to reach her. He hoped that someday, before his time was up at the highschool, he would find out what she was working on, and maybe even get to help her with it.