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Inspired by Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein

By Aspen Worbeck

What is love? the creature wonders. He is an amalgamation of broken parts and buried secrets, things that should be long gone but were cruelly wrenched from the surface to build him. An abomination.

He has listened to the humans, heard their silvery speech and the words that flutter across their tongues like a promise. Among those words, there is one that seems to gently squeeze on his rotten heart: love. He traces the word with his misshapen mouth, his lips pressing together in the corners, tongue flicking gently against his pearly white teeth as they brush against his lip. What does it mean to feel love?

The humans describe it as something in your chest, like a lion, or a rabbit. Not physically there, but it makes your heart beat traitorously and your brain act differently. The creature wonders if it is possible for him to truly feel this way. What would it be like? Would there be a connection, a spark, something warm?

He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his creator, his beloved creator, has abandoned him to the cruel whims of the humans. At first, he wondered why, but soon enough he came across a gilded mirror and understood. Now, he is only shunned further; people look at him with a fear deep in their eyes, a fear that crawls underneath their skin and lays eggs in their minds.

Rejection is his only friend. And even rejection strays away from his hideous features.

He wanders and wanders and wanders, through silent streets and whispering woods and fields of tall grass. Eventually, though he does not know how, he ends up at his creator’s home once more. It is almost as if he is drawn to Frankenstein, as if there is a string tied taught around his heart that will forever lead to him, even if his master decides to snap it.

The creature knocks upon the mahogany door, tracing his ghostly white fingers over the intricate brass doorknob. What shall he say to Frankenstein? Will he even listen? the creature wonders. Or will he simply turn me away once more ? He wouldn’t blame him, even if somewhere in his heart he knows he should.

Heavy-hearted footsteps approach the door from the inside. The creature hears several clicking noises, a lock, perhaps, and then the door opens.

Frankenstein lets out a small, almost imperceptible gasp before clearing his throat and molding his gaze into something sharp. “You fiend! How dare you return here, after murdering my beloved brother William! I swear to everything that is holy that I shall drive a stake through your cold, abominable heart, you absolute monster.”

The creature slowly blinks, searching through his foggy memory. Ah, yes, the boy . He had only wanted to befriend the starry-eyed child who fed stray cats and whispered sweet nothings to his beloved stuffed animals before going to sleep every night. He had thought, just for a minute, that there would be someone on this cruel earth who might not scream at the sight of him.

He was wrong. William had taken one look at him and cried out, bolting for the woods behind his house.

He hadn’t gotten very far after that.

Returning to reality, the creature stares coldly at Frankenstein. “Perhaps you should have never created a monster like me in the first place,” he hisses, the betrayal in his chest turning to a cold, hard rage. “But you did, and now I am subjected to eternal suffering for your cruel actions. I rather think, Frankenstein, that I should be the one to strike you down.”

There. A flicker of fear in his eyes. “Is that what you came here to do? Kill me?”

The creature ponders this. “No, I did not. But I could, if I so desired, couldn’t I? You built me with the strength of three men and the intellect of ten—it would not be a difficult task.” He pauses and takes much delight at the look on Frankenstein’s pitiful face.

The man stiffens, his hand clenching in a tight fist. “You wear cruelty well, monster. Now I ask you again: why are you here?”

Frankenstein’s monster smiles, his horrid features curling into a twisted grin. “I ask of you only one, simple thing. Make me a companion, someone who I can live out the rest of my suffering with, or I shall haunt your existence forever. Mark my words, Frankenstein; you will regret that you ever gave me life.”

The heavens open up and release their tears down onto his back as he retreats from the house, but he barely feels the cold sting. He is still smiling as he remembers a phrase a human priest murmured to him in a confession booth: “Monsters are not born. They are made.”

So a monster he shall be.