Chapter 2: The Black Manor
A/N: I know I haven't update in what seems like forever and a day, but I have reread my work and found a few of the 'nay'-sayers to be completely right. Due to their requests, nothing is changed about Edward's hands. And I guess she can have a boyfriend. But other than that, yes I AM changing the story of Edward Scissorhands because that is what FanFiction is about. If I were to just put it the way it was in the movie, well that would be like writing a REVIEW, not a STORY, wouldn't it? I'm not big on reviews. So instead of doing what would seem to me like just recapping the movie, I am doing a 360 turnabout with it, while incorporating some of my favorite movie parts. In conclusion, I want to appologize to those who find my views distasteful, and to assure my hopefully still faithful fans of this story that they will not be disappointed.
In the cold, soft moonlight she silently struggled with her backpack up the craggy slopes of the mountain to the looming silhouette of the castle, but it wasn't the backpack that was the true burden: it was her mind. Her head beaded with sweat despite the frigid wind blasting the fur-trimmed hood off of her golden crown, sending her hair whipping wildly back and forth as the winds shifted unpredictably.
She wishes she never had me.
She wants me dead.
She wanted to kill me herself.
The thoughts spun mercilessly through her head like a revolving door, not giving her mind a moment to argue. "So who loves me?" She called aloud to the wailing winds, which carried the cry with them on their journey away from the mountain. She felt lost to the world, forgotten without remorse. The last time she could remember being acknowledged without experiencing the malace of her mother was at the age of seven, back when her father was still home alot. She still heard from her father at least once a month, but she frequently thought it would just be better not to know him at all. It was too painful to think the only person who might love her was off somewhere in the world making big money without a care, and sending it to her alcoholic mother who was too piss drunk to spend it on anything other than her cheap beer and cigarrettes. It was a wonder they still had a roof over their heads for the time they did.
She could feel the steep incline becoming less difficult to climb; the jagged rocks under her feet smoothing over. The wind was dying off slightly, but before she knew it, she was standing on a flat plane, bending her neck at an impossible angle to stare past the vine-plastered gates to the towering spires of the mansion. The wind had suddenly died down completely, to the point that the only distinguishable sounds were her breathing and the crunching of the smooth pebbles and she shifted her weight onto her heels to get a better view. The eerie silence was unusual and unnerving. but in a sense peaceful. All at once she felt this mystifying calm settle over her like the blanket of snow that she wished for in countless dreams. Her breath came out in soft puffs like clouds, but the frequency of the clouds decreased as her breathing slowed to normal. The castle had fallen into an uncomprehensible state of decay, but its gleaming black stone still called her ever forth.
She walked hesitantly to the wrought iron gate before her: something that should have been mechanized long ago, for manually opening it was a perilous feat. She again pulled the pocket knife from her pocket, and began cutting with precision at the thick, ropy vines that twined around the main bars, holding them shut like a padlock. She briefly and rediculously wondered if the vines were simply decoration, made of steel. And if so, what force were they holding behind their glimmering green foliage? Her knife proved her inquiry wrong: they were indeed living plants, and dense ones at that. After what seemed like hours of hacking away with her pathetic little blade, the bars were free and the gates were penetrable. She struggled with grunts and groans, and with an inconcievable screech, a solitary, monstrous gate budged enought for her to slip through without her backpack. She slid through sideways, and after brushing off her white jacket, she reached back through the iron bars for the pack. Her muscles screamed in protest as she yanked it through the sliver of an opening from both the beating and the journey up the mountain. She was tired, hungry, and unbelievably sore, with a thumping migraine pulsing behind her eyes.
She glanced up from her feet and gasped until her lungs were swollen with air.
Her blood ran cold and her blue eyes bulged from their sockets as she stared at the topiary before her. The hedges were trimmed in lifelike shapes with masterful skill and precision. She had never seen a work of art more beautiful than the nature that stood sculpted before her. From the outside the mansion had seemed forboding and cold, but what she stared at then was a welcoming garden with pools of glistening water, spurting forth from flowing fountains and hedges in the shapes of animals and objects of all shapes and sizes but so precise in their detail that it seemed impossible for them to be actual shrubbery. A circular central garden sat directly in front of the great iron doors, from which sprung a massive shrub in the form of a hand, palm up towards the sky and fingers bent, as if cradling something precious. This was a great contrast to the leering gargoyles perched on the crumbling stone pedestals, glowering down from their bases as if angered at her unexpected intrusion.
She approached the shrubs, flexing the branches and gauging their strength. These hedges dwarfed the suburbian ones that she was used to, as if they were the heads of trees cut to look like figures rather than bushes. She again looked at the hand reaching to the heavens, then at the towering castle. It was dreadfully dark and she was afraid to explore the manor, for who knew what awaited her in the shadows and corners of the monstosity. she decided that if it's burly branches would support her small frame, she would nestle herself in the palm of that hand.
She carefully overstepped the ring of vibrantly colored flowers and onto the lush sprigs of grass that framed the hand, and set her heavy backpack next to its base. Lying it against the sturdy trunk of the oversized bush, she used it as a stepstool to climb onto it. It bent dangerously with her weight, and for a moment she feared that she would sink through the foliage, but she discovered that each of it's fingers had a thick, outward-stemming branch at its core. Clinging to the sturdy trunk that was the index finger of the hand, she lolled into a state that could just pass for sleep.
A/N:This is the end of Chapter two, as if you didn't notice. I'm sorry it's not very interesting and that the details are absorbitent, but I promise that Edward comes into the next chapter right away. Thank you for bearing with me through my long break from and sorry again.