Frankenstein's Monster (6 page)

Only once in my brief life have I had the opportunity for true companionship. Many years ago I had begged my father to give me a mate. Refusing at first, in the end he relented and retreated to the Orkney Islands of Scotland. He did not know, although surely must have guessed, that I followed him close behind from his home in Geneva to Strasburgh. Then I moved from one hiding spot to another while his boat glided down the Rhine, passing islands, rugged hills, and ruined castles. At Rotterdam, he took a ship to London, and there delayed for nearly five months before he finally packed up box after box of medical and chemical equipment and traveled north.

The Orkneys were the most desolate place I had ever been; I had not yet seen the Arctic. While the largest of the islands was habitable, the farthest were little more than wind-blasted rocks that fought both sea and storm to survive. My father’s choice mirrored the essence of his task: wild Nature to be subdued and harnessed, wild loneliness to be assuaged.

I stayed outside the rough stone hut where he had set up his laboratory. The wind howled, rain beat down, waves lashed at my foothold, thunder and lightning consumed the air—and I thought myself king. I had found my own country, a land savage and alone, apart from men. Soon I would have a companion like myself—life, where there should be no life—someone, something, that would temper my ferociousness so that existence did not hurt as much.

Horror of what my father had already created in me eventually overwhelmed him. How his countenance sickened each time he touched the body!

Then came that final day. As I had done many times before,
I peered into the window of the hut. His work was nearly completed. By chance he looked up and saw me. Pleased that this would be my wedding night, I smiled—a ghastly sight! Terror, madness, and hatred slashed his face like razors. Trembling with frenzy, he destroyed his incipient daughter, reducing to offal the precious limbs of my would-be bride.

An eye for an eye, his Bible says. So I killed Elizabeth—his sister, cousin, betrothed, and bride—just hours after he and she were wed. It was the act that sent him on the hunt that should have ended with my death, but ended with his.

These unpleasant thoughts have a pleasant end in Mirabella. Just days ago I was in despair because I had lost the friendship of Lucio; as if, without speech, Mirabella could never understand me. Now I wonder if I have underestimated her. I have judged her only by her silence, just as many would judge me only by my ugliness. Instead, I should judge her by the rare charity and acceptance she has shown me. She has seen my face and is not afraid. She has seen the beast in my nature and waited for the man to emerge. If I lay my hands gently on her shoulders or encircle her waist, she does not faint or try to escape.

There is a grim humor in this. How did I choose my mate? She was the only one who did not shriek at the sight of me.

Last night a disturbing dream: Dressed in swirling, patterned silks, Mirabella walked toward me without coming closer. Her breath was sweet like honey, smoky like incense; I breathed it in like a drowning man breathes in air. A shadow cast its dark hand over her face, then reached out to touch me as well. Filled with dread, I jerked backward and awoke. I must have moaned in my sleep, because I found Mirabella
stroking my sweaty brow to calm me. I tried to articulate my emotions to her. Even here in my journal, I find it difficult to put a name to what I feel.

Something haunts my dreams.

Haunts …

There is so much death in me I would not be surprised if a ghost had come to lay claim to my heart. Whose heart was it? I had none of my own. A thousand ghosts might haunt me, each one rightfully seeking its hand, its eye.

Some unearthly darkness has crawled out of the night to haunt even my waking hours. I dare not turn around to see.

Last night, after I finished writing and had closed my journal, I sat back against the wall and fell into deep, moody thoughts. Mirabella sat next to me. Absentmindedly at first, I patted her hair as I brooded. The feel of it was loose and soft, and soon I pushed her down onto the pile of rags. She lay shyly beneath my touch, yet did not refuse me, as if she had been waiting for this; as if her decision to stay with me included her decision to allow such intimacies. Feelings and sensations that have lain dead in me came to life, and I was overwhelmed at their awakening.

When I was done with my kisses and stroking, or I should say when I stopped—to prove to her, to prove to myself, my capacity for restraint—I turned onto my back. She tucked herself under my arm and lay her head on my chest. The gentle rise and fall of my breath was like the rocking of a cradle and she was soon asleep.

I write this by the light of dawn as she sleeps, her face pressed into the warm bedding where I recently lay. My dreams were troubled, but oh, there was the sweetness of
waking to her face. Today when I go out to my corner beneath the gargoyles, I shall stay a bit longer, the more coins to acquire. After I have bought bread, I shall buy Mirabella a pretty trinket. I shall give it to her tonight as a wedding present—then take her for my wife.

…

Mirabella is dead.

I can write no more.

Curse this pen! Curse this habit!

Eight days ago … 
eight days
 … Mirabella was still alive. I sat begging, cheerfully for the first time, spinning plans for the night ahead. Cup before me, I kept my head bowed, even when I was stared at. Uncertain whether it was the building’s landlord or the Austrian soldiers, I did not look up. Even though the hood cloaks my face, any movement at all might attract attention and cause me to be driven off. At last the person moved away.

It was fully dark and the streets were deserted by the time I had begged enough, gone to the Piazzetta to make my purchase, and returned to the campanile. At once I called Mirabella to my side. She smiled and nestled within my arms.
I pulled a necklace from my pocket and held it up, suddenly embarrassed by its cheapness. But what a treasure her face was! She was as delighted as if this cheap trifle were her first and only gift. She put it on at once: the chain fit snugly around her neck like a collar, and from it little charms hung down. She tossed her head to make the charms tinkle like bells, then offered her neck to my lips. I held her close and drew her down upon our bed.

I wanted to lose myself in her, to lose sense of my own dark ugliness.

At every moment I held myself back, aware that I had little experience distinguishing between passion and force. She was a small bird that might be easily startled; worse, easily crushed. I was determined to let her responses guide my actions.

Gently, I began to caress her. With excruciating slowness, I kissed away each layer of clothing. Finally her shawl, skirt and blouse, shoes and stockings, and petticoat lay scattered on the floor. She had on nothing but her chemise, a once-lacy cloth now worn thin. Her eyes were cast down, and I thought that the changing nature of my touch had at last made her hesitate. When I paused for several seconds, she looked up into my eyes and nodded, pulled my face down to hers, and kissed me.

There was a harsh shout from outside the campanile and the door burst open.

“There he is! There’s your deserter!”

Walton
.

Forcing their way in behind him were a half dozen Austrian soldiers, sabers drawn. I knew at once that Walton was the black shadow I had met in my dream.

Mirabella struggled to get up. Perhaps she had not understood the reference to a deserter and thought her wealthy kidnappers had sent soldiers after her.

“Rape!” Walton cried.

The Austrian captain, the very man who had insulted Lucio, drew his pistol.

“Give the woman up,” he commanded. His face contorted as he got a better look at me. “This is not my man,” he said to Walton, and to me: “Who are you?”

“No. Say, ‘
What
are you?’ ” Walton’s eyes looked dazed, the fulfillment of ten years’ chase at last within his grasp.

I stood. The captain’s mouth gaped with astonishment. From the side a soldier grabbed Mirabella and pulled her away. She struggled, striking his face, trying to twist loose.

And in a single dreadful moment: Mirabella’s frantic movements distracted the captain. He turned toward her. She jerked free from the soldier and ran back to me for protection. Walton shook off his trance, seized the pistol from the captain, aimed at me, fired, and—

Mirabella fell dead within the circle of my arms.

Horror paralyzed the captain as he stared at her fallen body. Walton leapt in front of him, gesturing wildly.

“Take him now!” he shouted to the captain. “You don’t realize what he can do.”

“The woman …”

“The woman is dead. And if she was his, she deserves death!”

His savage words impelled me to action. I rushed at him, still holding Mirabella. Thinking I meant to flee with her body, the captain yelled, “Don’t let him escape!” Instantly his men surrounded me, blocking me from the door, blocking me from Walton. I set Mirabella down and with a cry embraced the battle.

Rarely have I so gladly given myself up to violence: it blinded me, numbed me, deafened me. That night, men wore no faces, only eyes to be gouged, limbs to be snapped as
I fought my way to Walton. He hung back, keeping a wall of bloodied flesh between us, then disappeared once he realized I could not be taken.

As I write these words, faces flash before my mind’s eye: Frankenstein’s brother, his friend, his bride, he himself worn to fatal sickness, tracking me down; the nameless who, like the Austrian soldiers, unwittingly placed themselves in the path of my rage; even the myriad bodies that comprise my parts. All of these clamor in noisy accusation:
You are death
.

And now Mirabella. I am bruised and beaten, but it is her blood that stains my hands.

The soldiers retreated, forming a loose circle around the campanile to guard me while reinforcements were sent for. In that moment of quiet, I knelt beside Mirabella and cradled her. She was as warm as life. “Wake up,” I murmured. “It’s just a nightmare. I’m here now. You’re safe. You will always be safe with me.”

She was the only one who had found gentleness in me, the only one who had waited for me to be gentle. I clothed her as best as I could, not wanting her nakedness exposed to those who would judge her unkindly, and then laid her body on the pile of rags that had been our bed. Tenderly I kissed her lips, eyes, cheeks; the scar on her neck, so like my own. When I kissed her, the charms on her necklace clinked, a soft but brittle noise, as though all their music had come from her and not the tiny bells, and now she was gone. I slipped the necklace from her throat, where it had rested for so short a time, and fastened it around my wrist.

I took my cloak, pen, journal, and book; kissed her one final time; and left the campanile forever.

What foolishness possessed me to think that I could steal a crumb from life? For ten years, a thin layer of ink is all that has held me back from madness. This time I need to bathe in it, I need a baptism of ink to salvage my spirit.…

I had been so smitten with the prospect of living as a man I had not seen the warning signs. Someone stared at me for too long a time in the palace courtyard, on the Giants’ Staircase, beneath the gargoyles when I begged alone. I thought nothing of it. Being large and misshaped even under my cloak, I am always stared at. I did not even lift my head to see who it was. And before that, Lucio’s wife reported a stranger, badgering the crowds. I did not hear her words. I saw only her hair in the firelight.

I write this now from St. Mark’s Church. Last night, all was dark save for the guttering light of a few candles. At dawn, priests walked down the aisle in reverent silence to say Mass, each at his own side chapel. I squeezed into a pew and huddled on my knees, just another beggar seeking forgiveness. The Latin chant ended, and all of the candles except those in the main sanctuary were snuffed out, yet I remained on my knees till the church had emptied. The side chapels are shadowy. Even though I might be told to leave, no one would think it unusual to find a beggar at the feet of an altar. Perhaps I came here looking for more than refuge, hoping for mercy and consolation, such as the old women seem to find in the unceasing click of their rosary beads.

For me, there is no mercy, no consolation. My only God is my father, and he is dead.

Seized by the conviction that Walton would return that night to the corner where I begged, I threw down my pen and paper and ran from the church. Surely he would be there, at the very spot. At last I would feel his throat beneath my fingers, see his eyes pop, smell his fear; I would hear his last rasping breath.

Down streets and alleys I ran, my feet echoing so loudly I might have been leading a stampede of wild beasts. Nothing remained in me but raw passion.

He was not there. Breathlessly I paced back and forth, possessed by rage.

I was not dead.

Walton was not dead.

Mirabella was dead.

The gargoyles sneered at me. I leapt at the building they adorned and hammered at the face at the corner till skin scraped from my hands, blood mingled with stone dust, and horns and snout snapped off. I clawed my bloody fingers into the tiniest cracks on either side and pulled. The mortar finally yielded, crumbling beneath my touch; the stone slid out. Over and over I ran at the building and smashed the stone against the wall. Though ugly, the face was more comely than mine. I did not stop until it disintegrated into a thousand chips. The eyes, two hollows of darkness, bloodied by the imprint of my battered hands, were the last to crumble.

With Mirabella, I had thought to put death behind me. What foolishness, what pride! Death is my element, my body, my blood. I hesitate no longer. I will kill Walton. I will be the soulless monster he thinks I am. For the sake of one person, Mirabella, I would have made peace with all mankind. He has
denied me that. If I am not allowed to inspire love, then I will cause fear. From now on revenge shall be dearer to me than food or light. I may die, but Walton shall first curse the sun that gazes on his misery.