Manmade Creature

Awaking in agony should have been the first sign that I was not meant to be on this earth.

It was a dark and stormy night, lightning flashing across the blackened sky as thunder cracked moments later, rumbling the whole tower with its terrible wrath.

The excruciating, electric currents rushing through every single one of my nerves caused my body to jolt violently as white hot pain roiled within me, setting off the synapses in my brain, and the stench of burnt flesh hit my nose when I finally rose from what seemed like an eternal slumber.

Throbbing aches were the first sensations I experienced. My limbs felt heavy and dead, as if they were never mine to begin with. The pit in my lower abdomen caused hollowness to spread throughout my being, and while awareness settled in my mind, I could feel a cold wetness splatter across my flesh.

Memories came flooding in next.

Were they my memories? Or were they dreams?

Screams of terror and sorrow echoed within me, thoughts and images of dying and affliction consumed me completely, and I am unsure what to make of them.

“No, no! It was supposed to work!” a deep, troubled voice bellowed.

I strained to listen to the stranger, my body—spirit?—dropping and jostling, maneuvered by force, but I could not move away from the unexpected torture I felt.

Weight landed on my chest, warm ragged breaths huffing across my chilled flesh, and the stranger cried out in anguish. Heavy pounding slammed hard over my sternum, but I was unable to stop him.

“Useless! All of my hard work is now down the drain!”

The voice screamed, his heat disappearing as quickly as it had come, and I heard him stomping away, swearing and grumbling until the only noises I could interpret were rolling thunder and the pattering of water—No, wait—rain from above.

Lying there alone was overwhelming. I did not understand why I had been discarded so easily, a passion unexpectedly washing over me, wondering what I had done wrong, and that determination and will immediately jump-started me into action.

Gasping for breath, my eyes snapped open, greeted by rain pelting my face, and every inch of my frame burned with soreness. Grunting and groaning, I swiveled my head, wishing to avoid what I now knew was rain from blinding me, and I struggled to escape from the surface I was strapped to.

Puffing out a labored huff of air, I allowed my skull to thud against the hard metal beneath me, and I pondered what was going on and how I was alive.

One moment, I was not here, my thoughts and feelings nothing but a void in the pockets of this plane of existence, and the next, I was lying on this slab of metal, confused and consumed by fear.

“Strength is yours, child. Use it,” a whispering voice addressed me, startling me, and I jumped in shock.

Unsure of the origin of the voice, I paused.

As the rain slowly dissipated, it allowed me to search my surroundings for the unknown vocals, but I found nothing.

Swallowing thickly, my tongue—have I always had this tongue?—dry and laden in my mouth, shifted against bones and gums, and with a guttural gurgle, I effortlessly tore my arms from their immobilized state. My skin, stitched and grafted together, pulled taut, the seams twinging almost imperceptibly, and my fingers—are they truly my fingers?—twitched from the sensation.

Sitting up, my body does not feel like my own; it’s long-limbed but stocky in the middle, though I ignored those details for the time being. Reaching out to my ankles, I gripped the steel, and with little effort, the restraints gave way to my strength.

Swinging the discolored legs that must be mine over the edge of my resting place, I pushed myself off the surface, bare feet touching the damp floor too soon, and my knees—though they don’t seem to mirror each other—buckled beneath my weight. Crying out unintelligible words, the skin of my knees split from the impact as I hit the ground in a heap, and I inhaled sharply, lungs expanding with my breath.

Have they always swelled in such a manner?

All of these inquiries and confusions have me crawling up from my position, eyes tracking through the room, and it seemed both familiar and foreign to me.

Was this my birthplace?

Was I created here?

If so, where’s my Creator?

Panting and shivering, I stumbled to my feet, towering over the odd accessories in this room, and I shakily shuffled forward. It’s not easy to control my arms and legs; for some peculiar reason, it’s as if they were separate pieces meshed together to make me whole, and I wasn’t the owner of my body.

It was kind of like I was a passenger of my being, not the driver, which caused my perplexity to overrule my curiosity.

The voices in my skull warred with each other, though they’re not alive; instead, these voices were memories wrapped in inquietude disguised as rage. My mind was splitting, fragmenting into little splinters, and I groaned uncomfortably, unable to form words on my lips.

Hands--mine in the sense that they are attached to me--extended in hopes of navigating the room, eyes adjusting to the dim lights, and I roamed about until I discovered an opening in the wall. Tripping awkwardly, I smacked my palms against the stone, using its solidness to keep me upright, and I set out in search of my Creator.

Hobbling similarly to a newly born fawn, I cautiously explored the enormous structure that seemed to be my home, and as I came across yet another hole in the stone wall, I discovered the difference between it and the one I was previously in.

Furniture, I think it’s called, is scattered about the room. A large desk, bookcases, and even a worn-down table and chairs filled the space. While exploring, my trembling hands touched and prodded at the trinkets and tools strewn on the desk, knocking a few off the surface, and an incoherent rumble slipped from my mouth.

Speech eluded me.

Why must it be so difficult to string my thoughts into noise?

Am I broken?

Hefting myself further through the massive space, I detected more, sight landing on a spot that appeared to be the same as the one I had risen from, but softer, kinder.

Tilting my head, I plodded in the direction of the resting place, fixated on the lump sprawled over it, and I grasped at the silky-textured fabric and yanked on it inquisitively.

My conduct caused a reaction, making the lump to shift and growl, writhing in contempt, until dark eyes peeled open and caught me. The person behind those eyes screeched, scrambling fruitlessly to get up, and I snuffed loudly, forehead creasing with mild interest.

“Oh, dear God! Wh-What the--!” the stranger cried out, rushing to stand up.

Lumbering forward, I peered around his resting place, wondering why I could not see him, and he gasped, gazing at me with wide eyes, mouth agape. Shaking his head, the stranger—my Creator?—floundered towards me, his head craning back to stare at me.

“Holy mother, I did it! You’re alive!” the man shouted, startling me, and I moaned in fear and lifted my palms to cover my ears—they don’t feel like mine, though.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m sorry,” his kind voice murmured.

He raised his hands, showing me his palms and calloused fingers, and I removed my hands from my head, fluttering my lids open. Puzzled and none the wiser, I stretched out one of my arms, noting that our hands looked the same.

“Yes, yes! See, we’re the same! I created you! Don’t be afraid,” he urged, allowing me to touch him.

Grunting appreciatively, I nodded as slurred noises escaped my lungs, muffled by the cloth woven tightly around my mouth and jaw. The man chuckled, gently brushing his fingertips over my face before removing the cloth, and I do my best to mirror his expression.

“You are a beautiful Creature. I knew I could do it,” he muttered to himself, assessing me thoroughly as he hummed lowly in satisfaction.

“C-Creator?” came my garbled question.

My Creator laughed in astonishment, clapping and bouncing, and he nodded jerkily.

“Yes, good! I am your Creator. My name is Victor. Can you say Vic-tor?”

My Creator boasted, the last word spilling from his lips slowly and deliberately, hopeful and kind. Rolling my jaw as I pursed my lips, I dwelled on the man’s words, brow pinched together, and I inhaled laboriously.

“V-Vic-Victor,” I murmured, the word foreign in my mouth.

“Good, good! Yes, I am Victor!” the man exclaimed, pointing to himself with a finger.

“Vict-Victor!” I said again, a strained smile tugging at my lips.

My Creator seemed joyful, ecstatic even, and his hands traced my stitched torso nearly reverently, as if I were some prize.

That was the beginning of my life.

I woke to pain that gloomy night and discovered something far sweeter in my Father.

But nothing good ever lasts for creatures that are not meant to be.

**

The previous pain I endured in my creation may have been fleeting, but the torture after was more than my infant spirit could handle.

And my mind became my prison.

Learning to walk came easily, and my motor skills improved under The Doctor’s care, but Father’s increasing frustration in regards to my inability to speak caused tension between us.

His anger grew, festering into something ugly and unwelcoming, and I didn’t enjoy the constant berating and abuse.

“Can you say book? C’mon, son, I know you can do it,” Victor gritted out, holding up the thick volume of pages bound in leather.

“Victor?” I grumbled in answer.

Unfortunately, my response merely angered my maker even more, and he threw the book at me.

The heavy object slammed into my chest, catching the seams of my sewn skin, and I howled in fury as my flesh ripped and blood—has it ever been my blood?—leaked from the torn wound.

“All you can say is, ‘Victor, Victor, VICTOR!’ Is there anything other than my name up there in that foolish skull of yours?” Victor snarled cruelly.

His actions were scary, so unlike the father I met all those weeks ago, and there was only so much I could take.

My fists pounded against the table before me, and I swiped my arms across it, knocking glass beakers and tools on the floor. Gnashing my teeth and bellowing, I stood up, towering over the man, and I shoved him aside, knocking my father into a bookcase.

Stomping away from Father’s screaming and verbal attacks, I concealed myself away in my room, curling into myself, and hiding from the abuse.

I had believed it was a season.

Victor couldn’t be like that forever, right?

But of course, I knew the answer to that question, no matter how much I had hoped for it to never be true.

**

Now that I stand here in my lonely abode, hidden from the world that would never be able to accept me, I understand why mortals hold their lives in such high regard, aware of their fragility.

Death cannot take me, and life shall not ever hold me the same way as it does mortals.

I was built; pieced together.

Assembled on humans’ sufferings, and their corpses.

I am a creature of charnel-houses, an abomination.

Mortals were crafted by God, in His image, beautiful and fierce. But I was constructed by a madman who wished to defy God, wanted to be God, and that is the most damning of all things.

And if God exists as I believe he does, I am unsure why he would have ever allowed a Creature like me to be brought into this world, but I will never know, no matter how much I wish for the answers.

So, for now, I am the Manmade Creature.

I am Victor Frankenstein’s Monster.