Through the Eyes of Another

Each morning, I remind myself that I’m my own man; although there are many parts to who I am, they are all molded into my unique self. The hands that hold the coffee are mine; I own them, I control them, and what they do is my will. The feet that carry me through the world go where I wish them to go and travel at the speed I command. Even these eyes, I use them to look at what I wish and analyze all that surrounds me; even when closed they allow me to see my dreams. All of it is me.

“Good morning my love,” Evelyn says after entering the room. At once I appreciate my ears for without them, I would never have heard the most amazing piece that was ever added to my life. She knows what I am and who I am and has looked beyond my past and enjoys our present. I was, early in life, a terrible thing. I was controlled by my unabridged emotions rather than shaped by my heart and mind.

“Morning dear wife. There’s fresh coffee warm on the stove,” I say as she crosses the room of our mountain cottage. I built the place with these very hands before I ever met her. I took the trees from the forest floor, notched them, and carefully stacked them one by one. The shape and design created from an old image buried somewhere in a memory. It seemed daunting at first but with each layer the idea became more sound.

In all my years of travel this body has proved to me it’s worth through trial after trial and a multitude of tests. From the high mountains, frigid landscapes, and even the desert sands I have witnessed so much of the world. No matter where we went, or what we experienced it was always new and amazing. A sunrise and a sunset are not the same on any day or from any location, it’s always new, unique and beautiful in its own way.

“What are your plans today,” she asks when she sits across from me in the rocking chair I built just for her. Until we met, until she became mine and I became hers I needed only a single chair in this home. And until she lived here I must admit it never quite felt like home. At least as I would envision one.

“The storm felled some trees in the night. I thought I would travel out and find them. Add wood to our stores for these long winters,” I respond. Before meeting her I had no need for so much wood. A daily fire became a requirement within our first fall here together. Cold never bothered me much. Sure, all my body would feel cold, but it never left me a shivering mound huddled under a heavy blanket as I saw her on those first chilly mornings. Thus it arose, because of her need, and out of my love for her, that I started building a fire and keeping it burning from late September until late April. I became comfortable with fire inside my wooden home in a want to keep her happy.

“Thank you my sweet. I have always appreciated your efforts,” she says. My efforts are endless for her. It is that desire to keep her satisfied that fills my days. Desire, a distinct mental state, is something I never much understood until we met. It now drives my activities, feeds my emotions, and pays me back tenfold for each ounce I expend.

At one time there was nothing but emotions, confused emotions, that controlled me. There were excitement and joy that drove me, anger that filled me, and sadness that hung over me. There were emotions I had little control over that ran rampant almost like an experiment that’s bust from its confines and is out of control. And thus, I was malicious because I was miserable. There was something I lacked in those early days. I think I lacked it due to a piece of my mind that wasn’t right or wasn’t there. I warned Evelyn when I first met her, ‘Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.’ She laughed it off as exactly that, she explained, ‘My dear, without fear, you would not think to tell me to beware. For you tell me out of fear that I may be scared and leave.’ She was correct. Over our years together, I learned the meaning of many things and came to discover that fear was the driving force behind everything I did.

Before that, I mostly lived in solitude; it was better that way, I was better that way. Though today, I can’t imagine my old life, or lives if we must think of it that way, without my bride. All those parts that make a whole each somehow forming this singular being. Yet, at the same time, they each have their own beginning and end. Every part contributing to the whole.

I still wonder about my beginning. It all seems such a blur to me. I remember thinking I had, what a person would call, a family; a piece of one. My father was interested and involved with every piece of me. He was the foundation to my life. Unfortunately, I don’t know my mother, or if she even existed, he never spoke of her. Though I’m told all creatures must have one, yet I am at a loss to know mine. As a result, my father was my world until the day he no longer cared for me. I was driven by my unbound emotions and my need to be accepted but he couldn’t hold that flame to feed that fire.

“Throw another log on the fire will you?” Evelyn asks, interrupting my thoughts. As requested I rise from my chair, open the door to the steel box that contains the flame, and toss another log upon the glowing coals.

Fire, that’s where I was, I remember after resetting the door and settling back into my chair. The fire inside me drove me. I knew inside I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. A fiend, that was how people saw me. And I agree I was a terror for many years. It wasn’t until I understood my father, and he me, that I moved beyond that. I was learned but had not fully recognized all that I digested.

I made a promise the last day we were together; the day he passed. We saw each other that day, really saw each other’s inner self. I’m not sure who learned more. It was after he passed that I promised to fade into the darkness, descend to wherever one goes and never reappear from that beyond. But, when I wandered out into the cold, leaving him where he died, looking for my place to die, there was something at work in my soul, which I did not understand. In time a new me arose from the sum of all my parts. I started by pushing down all that I was and embracing everything I acquired, essentially becoming someone new. It’s easy to look back on my younger self with disgust, but I turned the malignant devil I had been into what I am today. Evelyn and the love we share is the greatest symbol of what I’ve become.

The first of the morning light starts to shine through the single window into the room. The outdoors glows bright in a matter of minutes, the fresh snow amplifying the sun. With it I rise from my chair, walk to the wavey glass, and see a massive buck standing outside. His breath puffing into the cold while he looks about him. Then he sees me and his nostrils flare, his haunches tighten as if to bound away, and his breathing quickens. His fear is palpable, then, moment by moment, his breathing calms, his muscles relax, and his eyes again scan the area outside as I show no signs of threat. Though I do notice one ear stays turned in my direction, heeding the presence on the other side of the glass.

When you live on the land, and live off the land, you take no more than you need. Any more would be a waste. We have enough meat for the winter, I made sure of that before first freeze, as I have each year. We also made our trips to the nearby town for other supplies, and we do so in the winter as we need. The people in town have come to know me. I am not their friend, nor would I consider them mine. We have a mutual respect though, an understanding. Most of our supplies are purchased through trade. Evelyn does her sewing and knitting and I trade in hides and pelts.

“There’s a big buck outside looking over his land,” I say.

“Hopefully he visits us in a few months when we are in need.” Both his ears turn our way as we talk as if he tries to understand our words, but he shows no outward signs of alarm.

“I’m going to head out soon. I’m just waiting until he leaves.” As I talk I walk away from the window to grab my oilcloth overcoat. I don’t wear it for warmth as much as to keep myself dry. She hates when I bring puddles into the house, they just make mud on the earthen floor. Either way I still bring some in this time of year.

“I’m going to bake some bread today, to go with the stew tonight.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Her breads and stews are both amazing. In my life before, I ate only with the intention of filling the void that called for anything. Now I eat with pleasure and find great appreciation for the many flavorings she provides. Hell, half the time I ate meat raw, on occasion I still eat some immediately after a hunt. The heart is especially delicious and has a taste like no other meat, a flavor that’s lost in the preparation and cooking. I don’t tell her about that; she was horrified when she learned I ate raw meat before.

When I return to the window there is only snow left outside, and the lazy tracks of the buck heading off through the forest on an unintentional path. That freedom to roam was mine for most of my years meandering into an unstructured future. It was the walk of an unhindered soul and an unattached mind. Now I walk with a purpose and a plan as my present and future are intertwined with Evelyn and my adoration for her.

I pull open the door, look back to my love and say, “I’ll be back before dinner. Keep the fire alive until then.”

“Of course,” she responds as I close the door.

For hours I toil in the woods. The cold and bleak day lords nothing over me as it was once my domain. After locating the fallen trees, I spend hours separating them into ten-foot-long sections I can easily carry home. One by one I transport the heavy loads nearer the cabin through the deepening snow. I stack them along the side of the dwindling wood pile with plans to section them into manageable pieces for the fire tomorrow. I spend all the afforded light of the abridged winter day in such labor until the sun begins to set behind the distant mountains to the west.

Finally, I walk up onto the meager porch, remove my overcoat and shake off the standing water and snow. Through the window I see her at the woodstove just removing the fresh loaves from her earthenware. As I open the door the smell of the bread envelops me and a hunger emerges from deep inside. I leave my boots near the door, walk across the floor and fold my arms around Evelyn swallowing her in an embrace. Our sizes are heavily mismatched, me a giant figure and her nearly half my size, more so in weight.

“I always love when you come home,” she says as she often does when we release our hold on one another. “Would you like a little something to eat before dinner?” But even before waiting for a response she is tearing away half a loaf and handing it to me with a bowl of butter. Then she turns back to the pot of stew and gives it a stir. “The stew will be ready shortly. You know, I never understand how you can work out there all day and not freeze, like some woodland creature.”

I was for a time a wild beast that lived out in the environment; I was a creature out of control. And the one thing that tamed me and finally held all that together was when my soul found peace. “The cold is no bother to me, love.”

I plant myself back into my chair where I quickly consume the half-loaf and the entire quantity of butter in a failed attempt to fill the void that was found. All the while watching my dear wife season and stir the pot of stew. How did I get here from my tumultuous past? It’s an answer I ponder every day and especially after days like today.

“Adam, can you set the table?” she asks, not often does she use my name. Adam, a name that was chosen not given. A name for the first of his kind and thus it seemed appropriate for me. It was years before I had a name or the need for one. It was even longer for me to choose one. I grab the bowls and plates she set out and walk to the table.

As I place the settings out for the two of us, I see the stitches I rarely perceive anymore. The signs that I was many and am now one. I long ago accepted the hundreds that I was made from into the singular being that is me. A one-of-a-kind creature made from man looking at himself through the eyes of another. I am the son of my father but the sum of many men.

A tear forms in remembrance of Father, he was a terrible man, he was a loving man, and in the end I am his son; I am Frankenstein’s creation. I lift my gaze upwards and see the last illumination of the day as it fades to night. To the west the mountain ridge is aglow, beyond it, and to the north rests my father hopefully in peace over what he made. Snow falls heavily now into the woods outside, and tomorrow with the dawn of a new day, the forest floor will look anew.