Status: This is an on-going story, and I'd like to know if I should continue to pursue it or not
The Man Who Once Was Edward
Chapter One
Edward Bloore smiled to himself as he grabbed an old, tattered fishing cloth. He wiped his hands on the bloodstained rag, then blotted his sweat soaked brow.
He folded the fishing cloth neatly into a tiny square and tucked it into his breast pocket, turning toward the dismembered body of Jennifer Hicks. Or Jen, as she had preferred – while she had been alive. He chucked to himself and shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Oh,” Bloore moaned in a slightly southern draw, “Jen. Jen, Jen, Jen. It could have been so much easier.”
He exhaled and stroked the dead woman's pale cheek, which was beginning to grow cold,although the rest of her body had been like ice hours ago. Dried blood crusted on her forehead right below her hairline. Blond hair was clumped and caked with dark red blood on the back of her scalp.
Slowly, Bloore removed the fishing cloth from his breast pocket and brought it to his lips. He licked the tip of the bloody cloth and began to blot at the crusted wound.
He replaced the cloth in his shirt pocket and stared into Jen's vacant, pale green eyes. They were still frozen in fear. He had told her not to be afraid. In fact, he had warned her that he was coming. In the many months before he had seen her beautiful face so close to his own, felt her warm, glowing skin against his he had sent her a letter.
Perhaps is hadn't been the most conventional sort of letter, but he thought that it had been quite flattering. She didn't know it, but he knew her. Loved her, so he had convinced himself, just like all of the others. He had loved them all, and they just couldn't love him the same way. It had made him angry.
He slipped his fingers through her feathery hair, and into his jean pocket. He dug around for a bit, then closed his thick fingers around a dull blade. He pulled the rusted, dull knife out of his pocket and brought it back up to her beautiful golden locks.
He held a clump of hair with one hand and sawed it off with the other. After he received his token to remember her by, he stuffed both the hair and the knife into his pocket and patted them carefully. Not that he would ever forget Jen, he assure himself. No, she was special.
But then again, so was Isabel Boyde. Or so he had thought at the time. As the years moved on, he forgot about her and the look of her dark chocolate color eyes, also laced with fear. No matter how many times he closed his eyes with his fingers gripping her dark hair, he couldn't picture her full face anymore. Only her lips, which he had almost kept as well.
You aren't that crazy, a voice inside of his head scoffed, crazy enough to keep a woman's lips.
“No,” Edward replied out loud,” I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy at all, you sonofabitch. I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy...”
Oh, Eddy, but you are. You're utterly mad, aren't you? You've gone 'round the bend, and can't come back any longer. You won't be able to keep me in, dear friend. Why, look at that poor woman. Who do you think did that? Certainty not you; you haven't got the moxie.
“I AM NOT CRAZY,” Bloore shouted as his temper rose, “You're the lunatic here, Mister, not me! Not me.” Bloore stood and crossed the rickety wooden flood and slammed his hands on the writing desk just across the room, knocking over a picture frame which shattered upon the ground.
Edward bent to pick up the broken frame, but his own hand was already there. He stood slowly and stared at the Edward in front of him. Slender, tall, dark and handsome, with eyes so blue they were shocking; looking straight into them nearly made your blood freeze.
“Leave me alone,” Bloore said as he turned away from his own self and sat on the edge of the moth-eaten, musty, rust colored couch.
You are alone, Eddy, the other Edward said in a voice all his own, I'm only you, aren't I? Nothing to fear about yourself, hmmm? Unless, of course, there is. The other Edward crossed the room and rested his strong, tan hands on the back of the sofa and began to whistle. He scuffed his shoes on the rickety wooden floor, which was rotting in some places, then folded his arms across his chest.
“Why are you here? What do you want,” Bloore said, shutting his eyes tightly. He began to envision Jen and the way her eyes seemed to glow, how her hair flew behind her and curled slightly at the ends. A devilish smile crept onto his face.
Oh, Eddy, you already know why I'm here.
He folded the fishing cloth neatly into a tiny square and tucked it into his breast pocket, turning toward the dismembered body of Jennifer Hicks. Or Jen, as she had preferred – while she had been alive. He chucked to himself and shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Oh,” Bloore moaned in a slightly southern draw, “Jen. Jen, Jen, Jen. It could have been so much easier.”
He exhaled and stroked the dead woman's pale cheek, which was beginning to grow cold,although the rest of her body had been like ice hours ago. Dried blood crusted on her forehead right below her hairline. Blond hair was clumped and caked with dark red blood on the back of her scalp.
Slowly, Bloore removed the fishing cloth from his breast pocket and brought it to his lips. He licked the tip of the bloody cloth and began to blot at the crusted wound.
He replaced the cloth in his shirt pocket and stared into Jen's vacant, pale green eyes. They were still frozen in fear. He had told her not to be afraid. In fact, he had warned her that he was coming. In the many months before he had seen her beautiful face so close to his own, felt her warm, glowing skin against his he had sent her a letter.
Perhaps is hadn't been the most conventional sort of letter, but he thought that it had been quite flattering. She didn't know it, but he knew her. Loved her, so he had convinced himself, just like all of the others. He had loved them all, and they just couldn't love him the same way. It had made him angry.
He slipped his fingers through her feathery hair, and into his jean pocket. He dug around for a bit, then closed his thick fingers around a dull blade. He pulled the rusted, dull knife out of his pocket and brought it back up to her beautiful golden locks.
He held a clump of hair with one hand and sawed it off with the other. After he received his token to remember her by, he stuffed both the hair and the knife into his pocket and patted them carefully. Not that he would ever forget Jen, he assure himself. No, she was special.
But then again, so was Isabel Boyde. Or so he had thought at the time. As the years moved on, he forgot about her and the look of her dark chocolate color eyes, also laced with fear. No matter how many times he closed his eyes with his fingers gripping her dark hair, he couldn't picture her full face anymore. Only her lips, which he had almost kept as well.
You aren't that crazy, a voice inside of his head scoffed, crazy enough to keep a woman's lips.
“No,” Edward replied out loud,” I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy at all, you sonofabitch. I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy...”
Oh, Eddy, but you are. You're utterly mad, aren't you? You've gone 'round the bend, and can't come back any longer. You won't be able to keep me in, dear friend. Why, look at that poor woman. Who do you think did that? Certainty not you; you haven't got the moxie.
“I AM NOT CRAZY,” Bloore shouted as his temper rose, “You're the lunatic here, Mister, not me! Not me.” Bloore stood and crossed the rickety wooden flood and slammed his hands on the writing desk just across the room, knocking over a picture frame which shattered upon the ground.
Edward bent to pick up the broken frame, but his own hand was already there. He stood slowly and stared at the Edward in front of him. Slender, tall, dark and handsome, with eyes so blue they were shocking; looking straight into them nearly made your blood freeze.
“Leave me alone,” Bloore said as he turned away from his own self and sat on the edge of the moth-eaten, musty, rust colored couch.
You are alone, Eddy, the other Edward said in a voice all his own, I'm only you, aren't I? Nothing to fear about yourself, hmmm? Unless, of course, there is. The other Edward crossed the room and rested his strong, tan hands on the back of the sofa and began to whistle. He scuffed his shoes on the rickety wooden floor, which was rotting in some places, then folded his arms across his chest.
“Why are you here? What do you want,” Bloore said, shutting his eyes tightly. He began to envision Jen and the way her eyes seemed to glow, how her hair flew behind her and curled slightly at the ends. A devilish smile crept onto his face.
Oh, Eddy, you already know why I'm here.