This is my first Edward Scissorhands fic. I loved the movie when I was little and only recently watched it again. I was also pretty shocked that, apparently, the place where they were filming was a few streets away from where my grandmother lives. Go figure. Anyway please enjoy and review.


"She never saw him again. Not after that night."

Her head is spinning with buried memories and the warmth of the fireplace washes over her, contrasting oddly with the snowy landscape outside. She feels all the pain and sorrow and regret as though she were still there, standing on the steps to the dilapidated mansion, holding up a scissor hand for everyone to see.

"How do you know?"

Her granddaughter's voice is soft and curious but it breaks through her memories and pulls her back to the present. Slowly her withered hand comes up and she slides her glasses off the bridge of her nose, shakily resting them in her lap.

She stares across the room at the small, fragile child, laying in the bed too large for her, engulfed by huge pillows and heavy blankets.

And she wonders how time ever flew by so quickly without her realizing.

How she could speak of these strange events that had actually happened to her, feeling as though they had only recently happened, and yet be telling it all to her own daughter's daughter.

She watches the crackling light from the fireplace flicker across the room as she answers.

"Because I was there."

And when the little girl speaks she talks with all the innocence and naivety of youth and she knows that despite hearing the whole story she wouldn't understand the more important parts.

"You could have gone up there. You still could go."

Her tone is earnest and excited but she finds herself shaking her head sadly.

"No, sweetheart." She pauses but she needs for her granddaughter to understand. She might not be around for too much longer. " I'm an old woman. I would rather him remember me the way I was."

And for a moment she pictures him walking around the garden in front of the mansion, snapping at a few twigs and leaves protruding from his grassy sculptures.

"How do you know he's still alive?"

Her voice is burning with curiosity.

She pauses for a second, unsettled by the thought of him being so resolutely gone, but answers in as straight a voice as she can manage.

"I don't know. Not for sure. But I believe he is."

In her mind's eye she can imagine him walking in his ungainly and nervous way up the spindly staircase.

"You see, before he came down here it never snowed. And afterwards it did."

She says the next part as much for herself as for the little girl in front of her.

"If he weren't up there now I don't think it would be snowing."

She remembers the way she had twirled through the misty flakes as Edward had chipped away at the ice in her backyard.

And she doesn't want to tell her granddaughter that she had not told her the full story. That it hadn't quite ended there. But she doubts she'll ever tell the rest. It was a fairytale for her and Edward only.

Because she had gone back up there. Just once.

A year or two later when she had been visiting her mother from college. She had been staying in her old bedroom, not much changed from when she was a senior in high school. She had stayed up until well after three in the morning to make sure her parents were asleep and, locking her door, had snuck out her window, creeping through the neighbors backyards to the hill where you could faintly see the old house.

She had been as careful as possible. No one could know Edward was alive. But she worried over what kind of life he could have and still be happy, stuck up there by himself.

He had been sitting on his bed. The same yellowed news clippings pasted on the walls and the straw leaking from several large gashes in the dirtied fabric.

He had been surprised to see her and worried about her safety but she could tell he was also happy by the glint in his eyes. They were soft as he gazed at her tenderly, standing as close as he could to her with his hands held out in the familiar way she had grown used to.

She had reassured him that she was well and has told him a little of what she was doing, explaining certain things when he didn't understand (he had never heard of a college).

But they hadn't talked all that much. She had enfolded herself into his arms, his hands gently resting, one on her back the other on her shoulder, and his cheek pressed to her hair.

They had pulled away and, not pressed for time at this moment, she had kissed him. The proper kiss she should have given to him, but she had been so broken up about their parting she had only managed to press a small one to the corner of his lips, choking out an 'I love you' through her tears, in substitute of a goodbye.

Those final words he had told her with such remorse.

Their lips had pressed together softly and when they had broken apart his face had lit up with a rare genuine smile.

She strokes the palm of her right hand with her left, feeling the faint puckered pink line she knows is there. She would never forget how she hadn't gotten it. The brief pain had been worth it.

She had left after sitting with him on his small bed just holding each other, staring at the large blocks of ice around the room, gleaming in the soft moonlight streaming through the broken window.

She had guessed that they were for his sculpting and, though curious, had not asked him were he had gotten the ice.

To be honest she hadn't cared much.

She blinks in a tired, weary way but manages to still give a happy, if somewhat knowing, smile ; remembering the man who had stolen her heart in such a strange way. He had chopped at the ice while she had sat there watching him in the moonlight and silently she had stood, twirling through the soft chips.

"Sometimes you can still catch me dancing in it."


I'll be posting another story sometime, possibly. Hoped you liked. Ta.

Song I was listening to:Cancer by My Chemical Romance.