Disclaimer: Before I begin, a quick explanation. "Edward's Shoes" didn't come entirely out of the blue--it began as a Creative Writing journal entry entitled "Edward's Shoes" and someone's comment that not even Shaq could donate shoes to a gargoyle. I just erased any mention of names, considered Claw as a narrator, and my teacher was happy. Here is a modified version, names included, but not greatly changed otherwise, so be warned. And no, it has absolutely nothing to do with any of my other stories.
A note of homage to one of the best Claw stories, IMHO, out there: "Beneath Your Lonely Sky" by Acyn. The "Claw does not talk" rule, which I (reluctantly) agree with, is not violated here, although I skirted it a bit. Thanks to Debbie, Dylan, Selma, Nancy, Andrew, Andy, Sirnero, Maya (happy birthday, hon!) both Amys, and anybody else I might have forgotten.
Oh, and by the way--Disney belongs to Gargoyles. :)
Edward's Shoes
by Amanda Ohlin
I can see him in the side alley, although he can't see me. It's not easy to see anything when you're a bum asleep on the curb. Maybe not a bum; I think he used to be an ordinary person, trying to get through the grind, until the system turned him into a dirty, tired soul in ragged coat and worn, oversized boots. The boots are interesting, but I'll get back to that later.
His name is Edward - at least, that's what the hot dog vendor calls him. Not Ed, or Eddie, but Edward. One last shred of dignity. I know so much about him, about the vendor, about everyone who frequents this strip of Manhattan. I've watched them from the rooftops in the evenings, always out of sight. Can't let them see me, it'll destroy the scene.
No one knows I do this. Those below me don't, for obvious reasons. Maggie and Talon don't, because Maggie would worry and Talon would throw a fit. Maybe they'd accept it if I came when it was pitch dark, but at night there's not much to watch--evening brings all the action. Besides, there isn't much to do underground. A lot of the folks down there are afraid of me, mainly because I don't talk to reassure them that I'm human. Fang found it funny that I don't. It's not that I won't--I don't think I can.
I've learned to keep my mouth shut over the years, thanks to my father. He probably couldn't beat on me now, not that he would try to. My parents wouldn't recognize me now, not that it matters. They never cared enough to. Twice I've escaped from captivity. First from a trailer park, then from a lab cage. The only difference was that the second one was obvious. Sometimes, remembering Mom and Dad shouting, I wonder which was worse.
Perhaps it's not so bad having to hide away, since that's all I've ever done. It's nothing new, really. At least I'm not alone. As strict as Talon is, and as much as Maggie worries, the Labyrinth is the only family I've ever had. And sometimes it's fun to sit and watch Fang throwing fits in his little tube. He's cooled down a lot, though; instead of threats, he just grumbles. Sounds more like the crabby old uncle than the violent nutcase we've all grown to love. But no one's ready to let him out just yet.
Back to Edward. He just woke up for a second, and he's passed out again. Sort of looks like my dad, no, a little like me. What I used to see in the mirror. I could have ended up just like him, now that I think about it. Alone, homeless, sleeping on concrete. The girls that usually work this alley are avoiding it tonight because of him.
I remember when I was down there, human, and maybe I could relate to Edward. I'd go and try to talk to him, but he wouldn't understand. He's anchored to the ground, alone, trapped by poverty and the self-centered idiots who pass him by. Unlike me, Edward can't fly. Despite having hands and feet instead of claws and fur, he just might be worse off than I am.
But one thing bugs me. They don't make footwear my size in this lifetime.
I can't help but envy Edward his shoes.
The End
