beware of the street sharks, ready to swallow you up [edward]

[woodwind lungs]

Each fold of the paper had to be perfect. She had ruined several pieces of the little red paper already, and her fingers had enough papercuts to last her a lifetime. It'll be worth it, she kept telling herself. Eleven roses done, all red and lovely in their origami glory. It was, however, going to be the last on that was most important. She had been sitting and staring at the last piece of paper for ten minutes, it was a picture. Well a picture printed on a piece of paper. A picture of a little boy in a yellow raincoat and polkadot galoshes.

She wanted the picture to show, atleast some of it, and was finding herself terribly particular in her manner of folding the paper. "Hm..." A contemplative sigh, was the most that the girl had spoken in her seven hours of rose crafting. She was so slow, so careful in her manner of folding the last rose, she wanted him to know what the picture was. It meant something to her, so she hoped that it would mean something to him. She eyed the picture rose, which had come out perfectly to her pleasure.

Giddy as a child on Christmas, she stabbed the tangle of bright green wire into the bottom and carefully slid the final rose into place at the center of the bouquet. "I hope he likes this," she murmured into the bouquet as she tied the stems at their center with a red ribbon. "I would like it." She held it up into the sunlight for a final appraisal. "Perfect!" And Oscar deserved nothing but something that was perfect! She untangled her legs from each other and stretched out from her Buddha pose. The origami princess was pleased with her roses, she could only hope that Oscar would like them.

She would give them to him the next time she saw him, which she had planned on being later tonight. She eased up from her position on the floor, straightening up and laying the flowers on her coffee table for safe keeping. She was anxious to see Oscar now that she had something to give him, something more than her company. He will like them, she hoped. Seven hours were put into twelve roses; seven hours and all her adoration of Oscar which had left her hands littered with papercuts and her apartment floor decorated with the misfits pieces of paper that hadn't been able to form the perfect roses that she had wanted to create for him.

"What a mess," she groaned into the palm of her hand. "I'll clean up after I wash my hands." No one wanted to get infected hands! She wove her way through the jumble of furniture, passed the walls decorated top to bottom with Polaroid pictures to her kitchen, where she could thoroughly scrub her hands until they were red, but free of germs. Oscar was rubbing off on her, but she liked it. "I'm such a nerd!" But she could laugh about it. Head over heels for Oscar and she didn't know why, but she liked that too.

She eased away from the sink and dried her hands. She had to get dressed, she had to fix her hair! There was so much to do to get ready for Oscar. She would stand in front of her closet for an entire hour, just staring at her clothes. Nothing seemed good enough for such an occassion. It had to be special, because she had to look beautiful for him. Dressed to impress she was a mess of color, but she pulled it off so well.

She stood in the mirror for another thirty minutes, trying to figure out if this was something that Oscar would like. She hoped he would. She hoped a lot now. It was right in that moment, as she tied her hair up in a green ribbon to match the stems of her roses, that she realized she was very much in love with Oscar. "Hear my soul speak! The very instant I saw you, did my heart fly to your service," it was all murmured to herself. It made her giddy to think she thought such things about someone else.

She was ready. She was ready to go and stand at his door, knocking until he would let her in. She'd climb up to his window if she had to! She just wanted to see him, so badly.

[edit]

It had taken her four day, nineteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes to compose a letter that was perfect; Oscar deserved nothing less. The torn and tattered sea of paper that laid at her feet were evidence of her mistakes. She held the envelope in one hand and an origami rose in the other (since Oscar had seemed so pleased with them before). Each fold was neat and crisp and carefully tucked away in the envelope for safe keeping from the wind and rain. She'd stand in her doorway for an hour, staring down at the lines of age in the wood of the hallway. "He might not like it." A grim realization that had her shifting back into her apartment and shutting the door.

She sat in the boneyard of paper; kneeling and staring at the muted television. The bright colors of the cartoons were just a blur against the background of the blue walls and peeling wallpaper. She wondered if that was how she looked, a blur of color against a bland, decaying background. "I hope so." Because that blur of color was beautiful, and if Edward wanted to be anything other than what she was, it was beautiful. The origami princess folded up her legs and sat a mini Buddha on her paper lotus flower staring at the blur of artificial life.

She shifted the envelope from one hand to the other, measuring the passing times by how often her heart beat; despite the ticking clock on the wall. She made up an elaborate story of how she had gone and delivered the letter to Oscar and how he had loved it and loved her; how he had held her close and promised to never let her go. It was a vapid fantasy that cause her smile to grow broad and eyes to go wide with joy for everything that could have been. Even if it wasn't. She wouldn't hand the letter to him. She would mail it to him so she didn't have to see if his face if he was put off by it.

She took her time walking down to the lobby of her building, teeter-tottering on each step before the courage swelled up in her chest and tipped her forward. She held the letter to her chest like a prized possession she couldn't bear to part with. She'd keep the step of the paper rose and crush the blossom so she could mail it with the letter. She stashed away the letter in the box and reluctantly withdrew. In two days Oscar would get a letter from Edward Murdoch that would read:

Dear Oscar,

I love you.

Yours,
Edward

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ August 30, 2006 01:20 PM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

[edit]

She had found the time in between being here and there, then and now, to meet her mother for lunch. At fifty-two, the former supermodel was still all long limbs and perfect skin despite the blemishes of age that wore it thin. Edward was late and her mother was impatient, asking the waiter what time it was with every pass he made. When Edward did arrive, her mother showed no sign of relief, only contempt for having a tardy daughter. Worse yet, a daughter that didn't match. While Ella Murdoch was sleek in black, her daughter was a mess in red with purple stockings and dreadful red high tops that had no business being worn in a place like this.

"Edward, what are you wearing?" She asked with a slight scowl.

"A dress."

"No, on your feet."

"Shoes?"

"Sneakers."

Edward was unaware of her mother's vendetta against such shoes, so she simply sat down and acted as if nothing was askew. The waiter came and went and as a result Edward was left with a cup of tea and her mother was polishing off a third glass of wine.

"You aren't driving, right?"

"Have I ever driven?"

"No. Sorry," Edward apologized for no real reason, if only to keep her mother from speaking a smart remark. Liquor, of any kind, made her tongue loose after only one glass. Her words seemed to get harsher and her mind not quick enough to recover from the rude remarks her mouth made.

"So, how have you been, Edward dear?"

"I've been okay."

"Just okay?"

"Yes...just okay."

Her mother's frown made time's wear on her body more noticeable and caused wrinkles to crease along her face in a domino effect; stretching far across the expanse of taut, artifically bronzed skin.

"Why just okay?"

"Do you want me to rattle off the reasons to you? Is that what you really want?" She snapped, "Because last time I checked, you didn't care."

Her mother sat in silence across the table, sipping her wine and staring at her daughter. Her eyes cut from one side to the other, inspecting the occupants of the resturaunt. Too many black people, her mother had decided. She wouldn't come back here again while visiting her daughter. It made her uneasy; if Ella Murdoch was one thing, it was racist.

"Your father's dead."

[edit]

<center></center>

Her heart ached something fierce tonight as she stood beneath the neon glow of signs. Her heartbeat was broken down into the basslines that pulsed from the clubs she passed. With a crown of origami roses, the walking rainbow nativagated through the city trying to make her way to Oscar's house. If only to pass it by and head home, she wanted to go there and look at his window; just in case he might look back. She was almost there, but the obstacle that the street posed stopped her. She could see it, his house, across from her.

You're better than these streets, he had said. Somewhere deep down she knew he was right. So she screamed and screamed his name and hoped that the breeze born lullaby would make it to his ears so he could see her in all her colorful glory. She wanted him to see her. She looked both ways, anxiously tangling her dress in her hands. When the traffic was halted she made her move. Her feet broke the boundary of the sidewalk and the gutter, her heartstrings being pulled to will her forward. She may have been running, but she was crossing the street. If not for herself, for Oscar. For him, she wanted to be a better person.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ September 20, 2006 09:13 PM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

[edit]

She wore a frown, because somewhere between crossing the street to Oscar's house and reaching the doorstep of her house she began to think that maybe he didn't care and she'd forgotten how to smile. There was a certain falsity that she couldn't quite put her finger on, though she would be quick to blame the influx of medication if she had to pick something to blame. So she sat on the stoop, leaning against the broke brick until her neighbor stopped and sat beside her.

"Edward?" it was a low purr, street rat accented by Slavic roots, "why are you crying?"

"Hi Detective," she offered her greeting in monotone, lost between that static that flooded her eyes and spilled from her lips.

"Just call me Vika, kiddo, what's wrong?" the tattooed detective seated herself beside the smaller girl; the mess of color that she had seen streaking the stark building fronts during so many nights.

"Nothing, really," she murmured into her palm, burying her face in soot stained hands.

"If you're crying, it's something."

"I'm crying because I wanted it to be something, but I think it is nothing."

"I see."

"Because I have a lot of love, but sometimes other people don't," she lamented.

"Did a boy break your heart, duvushka?"

"Not broken, but I think it might be slowly seperating," she confessed.

"Why don't we go get somethin' to eat? Some ice cream...my treat?"

"Only if you hold my hand when we cross the street." Her reason to cross the street on her own suddenly didn't seem a valid reason to risk her life any longer. But she would climb to her feet and brush away the tears. She'd pretend tonight never happened, that she had never been brave and he had never not cared enough to miss it.

It was just easier that way.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ September 20, 2006 11:45 AM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

[edit]

She mailed Oscar another letter. This time from a different name and different address because she had a feeling that if it came from hers he wouldn't even bother to open it. So he would recieve a letter from Mary Etheridge of 1479 Winslow Drive. It was a plain white envelope and a Elvis stamp. Nothing special, nothing Edward. But when he opened it up he recieved a flattened origami rose and a letter reading:


Dear Oscar,

I still love you.

Even if you are a silly boy in a mansuit who doesn't see how beautiful you are. Who doesn't see me cross the street for you. Or cry because I did it just for you, but you didn't seem to care. Even if you can't love me back, or even acknowledge that I exist.

I can accept that, because you don't give love to get something back in return. You give it because you think that person deserves it. And oh my gosh, Oscar do you deserve it more than anyone else. You just don't realize it. I wish you did, because then you would bloom into something more beautiful than you are. Possibly too beautiful for me.

I love you, boy in your mansuit. With you glasses and camera and upside down smile that makes me want to kiss you like they did in Gone With the Wind. Please Oscar, please, love me. Because gosh do I love you. If you read this far, I will be amazed. If not, well then I am just a wishful thinker.

Yours,
Edward

A wishful thinker who'd hope and pray that one day she would get a letter back or a phonecall or maybe a boy in mansuit at her door wearing his awkward glasses and upside down smile.

[edit]

<center>
when she's fast asleep she shakes her head
to wave the ghosts away
a hall full of echoes
her head full of pills
she wakes up in make up,
feathers and fur
when she comes undone look away
but i like the way her hair looks in this light</center>

[edit]

<center>

If you happen to be educated
Time it marches on,
oh time it marches on.
In the end there is a sacred show
delivers every song,
delivers every song.

Mourning steps and
mourning gallivants
And mourning never shows,
no mourning never slows.
If the avatar reminds that it
will never stand at all,
will never stand as tall.

Since the water made it,
most to sail it,
made it most to song,
it made it most to song.
For the politics are not political
for what they stand,
For not what they demand.
Every senator and diplomat
combines her certain part,
A matter for the heart.
Save yourself from recognition.
selfless and quite song
To better get along.

(We love you. We Chose to.
We made to. We love you.)

If we concentrate and pull
resources to the highest poll,
To beat the highest pull, too.
Ever will we conquer grief
and find it faster to resolve
the dead, to be absolved
and fed, to restore.
If the advantageous
reprimand misgivings,
We wont grow.
We will not ever know.
We will not!
(Lift my life in healthy places!)

sufjan stevens</center>

[edit]

"Where are all you colors, Edward?" her mother asked, eyeing her daughter warily. Perhaps Edward had gone insane, for never in her life had she seen the girl devoid of color. But today she saw her daughter in white, with her hair pulled back and neat. Instead of high tops she wore plain white shoes, to match the plain white dress.

"You don't like it?" Edward countered, sliding into her seat in front of her mother. On time, for once her mother seemed bewildered by it all.

"No, I do. I just never expected to see you without all your colors," she murmured into the brim of her wine glass. Edward had caught her at number one, rather than number three or four.

"I thought I would try this."

"You look nice in white, Edward."

"Yes, I suppose," she replied to the compliment in a mumble, accompanied by a shrug.

"But why are you wearing white?" she asked with raised brows, lowering her wine glass to look at her daughter straight-faced.

"Because maybe he will like me better without all my colors."

"He?"

"Oscar."

"Who is Oscar?"

"The boy in a mansuit who I love."

"You fell in love?" astounded was an understatement.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Once upon a time."

"Now isn't the time for riddles and jokes," she chided.

"I think he is the best."

"But he doesn't like all your colors?"

"I don't know."

"If he doesn't like your colors then drop him," she replied quickly, leaning over to snatch up her daughter by the jaw. "Listen to me Edward Elise Murdoch. I like you in white, but you are more beautiful in all your colors with your hair in a mess of tangles. If he doesn't like you that way, then he isn't worth the time of day."

"But he is worth everything to me," she managed to form a coherent sentence through the buzz of thoughts that plagued her mind. Her mother released her grip on her jaw and settled back in her chair.

"I like you better in all your colors."

"...me too."

[edit]

"Hello," she spoke to the casket like it was a person, like the cadaver inside was still her father and could reply, "How are you?" Those around her must have thought she was daft, speaking to the dead man, but Edward paid them no mind, quite content to hold a conversation with her father before they locked up the casket and piled on the dirt. "It's good you can finally get some rest, I know you were not sleeping well." She sat her bouquet of origami roses on top of the casket. "I met a boy," she confessed to the shell of a man that had once been her father. "His name is Oscar. You would have liked him." Even if she wasn't particularly fond of him at this moment. Black shoes tapped together, like Dorothy trying to find her way back home.

"I miss you, already." She looked to her roses rather than the fake flesh of the man she had so many fond memories of. She wanted to remember him when he was alive, not like this. "I dunno, I thought you'd go out in a different way. Like pushing a buck eighty on the Autoban in a Ferrari after robbing a bank with a snickers bar," she chuckled, fingers drumming nervously on the deep wood of the casket. "I'm holding up the line, so I'm gonna go sit back with mom now. I love you, Daddy," she reminded him before peeling herself away from the casket and moving to sit with her mother in the worn wooden pews.

While her mother sobbed on her shoulder the entire time, Edward didn't shed a tear. Christ, she thought, atleast he's getting some sleep, mom never shuts up.

"I bet he planned it," was all she said in regard to her father's dead. "He just wanted to get some peace and quiet."

It all made sense in Edward's logic, as she sat smiling at her father's funeral, humming an Elvis song.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ September 20, 2006 09:11 PM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>