My name is Victor Frankenstein. I’ve never tried to make anything beautiful. Not until today.
I live in a house with a lab that sits on a hill which overlooks a town. It’s a quaint little town, with straw houses, cobblestone streets, oil lanterns, and people who hate me.
They hate everything about me; what I make, what I believe, what I want to achieve. They leave me alone, letting me go about my business so long as it doesn’t interfere with theirs, and I do the same. Most days I stay on the grounds, toiling in my lab, reading arcane books of alchemy and life and death, and tending to my creations in the basement.
I keep them in wrought iron cages. They sit there, with pale, mangy skin, black greasy hair, and blank eyes. They smell of death, and they are my children. They mean me no harm. I am their creator, who carried them as cold corpses from the cemetery, and brought them to life with the wonders of science, and just a pinch of black magic.
The people in the town hate them. I keep them locked away and the people in the town don’t bother us.
Every day, I walk the rows of cages, pushing a cart of fresh meat. They like it raw. I hand them meat through the bars, point at it, and say “Food.” They eat it quickly, and I wince as they growl like animals.
I take them for walks on the grounds, give them toys, and tell them stories. A few of them know how to speak, but none can hold a conversation. They were my beginning, my stumbles as I learned to walk. They are not beautiful.
#
We live in God’s shadow.
Since he cast us out of Eden, humanity has begged, quarreled, suffered, and died, under his cruel, uncaring gaze. With his infinite power and vast knowledge, he has let us wilt away; left us bruised, bleeding on the ground, blaming us for his failings as a father, leaving us alone and scared, at the mercy of forces beyond our control.
I did not want this for my fellow man.
I wanted to reveal the secrets of the universe, unlock the hidden vaults of knowledge, solve the mysteries of death, and put us on equal footing with our estranged father. I wanted to usher in a new age of peace and understanding, where men are Gods, totally in control of their own destinies.
I wanted to be a modern Prometheus.
For this, they called me a lunatic, a madman, a demon, and monster. I’m not a monster. I’m just a man who tried to change the world, and got spat on for it. The people in the town hate me. They’re nothing but simple rubes, clinging to fairy tales from mankind’s childhood. They wallow in filth, as I promise to raise them to unheard heights, promise them salvation from the God who abandoned them.
And for this they sneer, they howl, and push me away, force me to work here, secluded in my lab like a prisoner. I have no one to talk to, listen to, help, or encourage me. Just a cold bed at night.
Prometheus tied to a rock.
#
Humanity has given up on me; left me alone in this place, my malformed creations the only things keeping me company. Inarticulate, grotesque, and brutish, my children are imperfect as their father.
But I want something different, something more. Something divine, ethereal, angelic, and transcendent. Something above that which exists today, that displays grace with its every breath, that keeps me warm in this cold place.
It is only now, after years of practice and solitude, of hunching over old books, mixing chemicals, digging up corpses, losing sleep, fixing machines, working long hours without a moment’s rest, that I finally feel ready. My mind and soul are just the right balance of bored, excited, and desperate that drives innovation. As Gaia made her Uranus, so too will I create a mate.
I’ve never tried to make anything beautiful.
Not until today.
#
Thunder rumbles in the distance as the storm approaches. The people in the town retreat to the shelter of their huts and churches. Though they speak of respecting nature, they hide from its most violent forms; cower before its awesome strength like frightened children.
They say I go against nature, that I hate it. I don’t hate it. I marvel at its complexity, elegance, and power. I respect nature. They fear it.
I open the ceiling of the lab, and stick the lightning rod on the roof. She lays on the gurney, wrapped in bandages like an Egyptian mummy. I check her vital signs. No pulse or heartbeat. Not yet.
Tesla coils line the walls, switches wait to be pulled, dials wait to be turned. A tingling goes up my spine and goose bumps line my flesh.
The storm arrives. The rain beats down in heavy sheets, coming in through the opening in the ceiling, drenching me and her. Jagged blue lines of lightning pierce the dark clouds above. Thunder roars like an avalanche; God’s wrath to power my creation.
I secure the gurney to pulleys and ropes, and raise it to the opening in the ceiling. It sits up there, waiting. I work the dials, throw the switches and pull the levers. Tesla coils spark, buzz, and hum. The wind howls and the rain falls. I look to the sky, and watch lightning illuminate the darkness.
“Come on,” I say to the storm and the jealous God behind it. “Come on! You can do better than that!”
A thunderclap shakes the earth, and I smirk.
“Come on Lord of creation,” I taunt. “Father of man, Alpha and Omega, You can do better than this. In seven days you gave us a world! Now give me a storm!”
A deafening crack of thunder, a blinding flash of light, and the rod is struck. Ask, and it shall be given you, the old book said.
The storm dies down. I turn off the switches, set the dials to zero, and watch as the Tesla coils slow down. The opening in the roof is closed, and the gurney is lowered to the ground.
We’re both dripping wet. I stand over her, and remove the bandages from her face. By brown-gold candle light I see her; her smooth, soft cheeks, round chin, and pink lips. I touch her long, black hair, and drag my fingers over the stitches that lie across the neck and forehead.
She’s pale like a ghost. For several moments nothing happens. I wonder if I’ve done something wrong, if I’d miscalculated.
Then she gasps. Her eyes open. Her hand twitches on the gurney. My heart races as I take her hand. I’m shaking. Brown newborn eyes frantically search the room.
“Hello.” I whisper. Her eyes find me. They glow in the darkness of my lab. She shivers and shakes, as she struggles to take her first breath.
I fetch a towel and dry her off. Slowly, I help her off the gurney. She limps on useless legs, that she doesn’t know how to use yet. I carry her to the couch in a corner of the lab, and lay her down. Her eyes dart about, and she starts to hyperventilate. I stroke her hand, and try to calm her.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. She doesn’t understand, but it still works. Her breathing slows, her shaking stops, and she closes her eyes; her beautiful brown eyes. I sit next to her as tears blur my vision. My brain is a mind-gibberish of ecstasy. My heart beats faster than it has in years. I finally did it. Something beautiful.
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