A Sequel to Frankenstein

I remember my creator’s, I mean my father’s, death. It still haunts me to this very day, no matter how far or how deep I try to bury it. It seems to keep coming back even though it has been more than a centennial since his death has happened. It’s now the year 2022, and I am  still as lonely as when I came into this world.

I have seen changes in this world: wars, droughts, floods, fires, exploitations, redemptions, and isolations. I have even traveled the world myself during those hard times in my life. I traveled to escape from the cruel treatment I would receive from the unfortunate souls who happened to see me. I am too hideous to be seen in the daylight, and far too many humans have tried to hunt me down or harm me in some way. I had to leave. 

I decided the best option was for me to no longer live in Europe, and I was fortunate enough to stow away on a ship to America unseen. The journey was risky and treacherous, but I lay my fate into the cruel hands of God to guide me safely. I arrived in America in what I recall as the year 1914, at the start of what the history books call World War I. I wish I could say my troubles ended as soon as stepped on American soil, but it was only the beginning of my new life and new problems. 

My first problem was that I had no place to stay and no money. I had to survive in the wilderness of unfamiliar territory, but I could easily handle that if I was clearly capable of surviving through the harshness of the Arctic. Fortunately for me, I was able to find a small cottage consumed by wild vines and every color of flowers in the woods. Isolated, untouched by mankind, or so I assumed. As I reached the door, I happened to sneak a glance into the window as to what could be inside. There in a wooden rocking chair across from the soot-covered  fireplace was a tiny, frail, elderly women.  

I was afraid, of what? The petite human? Or maybe the treatment I might receive from her. I was already imagining each scenario where she saw me, and her face would scrunch up in disgust. This was too much for me. I left Europe for what? The same treatment. Oh, how cruel could this world be; this must be my punishment for my father’s death. Maybe this was his way of tormenting me. It seemed like I had been standing in front of this overly ornate oak door for  several minutes before I let my intrusive thoughts win. I was turning to leave when the door to  the cottage opened. Right in front of me stood this elderly woman. She did not scream, run, or even try to kill such a hideous creature as me. She was blind! 

“I’m sorry to intrude on you, ma’am. I am a weary traveler in need of food and shelter. I  did not know that someone was living in this beau-” I was interrupted. 

“I’ve heard enough,” she blatantly stated. “Come inside and have a seat, I can feel that a terrible storm may be heading this way,” she demanded while turning her back to walk inside the cottage. I obediently listened and swiftly entered the petite cottage behind her. I was astounded at how such a person would let me, a stranger she had just met, enter with such kindness and hospitality.  

“What is your name, stranger?” she asked while gently closing the door. I panicked, racking my brain around for a name, until I saw a flash of an image of my father’s face. Guilt started to consume me, a heavy pit forming in my bowels, but it would stand as a reminder of the life I had left behind in Europe. 

“My name is Frankenstein, Victor Frankenstein. I lived in Europe and recently moved to America to start a better life,” I professed, whether it was from guilt or from her kindness. She smiled and softly mentioned that her name was Mary. She looked to be around her late fifties and had no care for her appearance.  

“So, what brings you to Salem, Massachusetts?” she asked. 

I lied and settled with, “It was my father’s dying wish to send me to a better, more prosperous place.” I could feel the sorrow gnawing at my heart for lying to her. I hoped it was enough to convince the both of us.

She sighed and guided herself with her walking stick back into that rocking chair. She was so frail and pale looking; it seemed as if she could be carried away by a gentle breeze. Her hair was a smoky gray with a few stray whites seen loosely braided or what seemed to be an attempt at braiding. Her skin was pale, almost as white as snow,  apart from a few sunspots flecked here and there, and the amounts of wrinkles told a story of her struggle. 

Mary softly announced, “As you may have noticed I am indeed blind and sadly widowed for about a year now. I have no children and no one to help and take care of me. I will allow you to stay if you can help me.”

I was stunned at what she had said. I agreed to her conditions and helped whenever and wherever I could. She sweetly smiled and started to hum an unfamiliar tune. I asked her what she was humming, and she said it was called “Rockabye Baby.” I had a feeling that I was going to like it here; this was the start of a beautiful friendship. 

We rarely went outside and when we did, it was usually just before nightfall. We took leisurely strolls through the wood surrounding the cottage. It was peaceful, silent, and for once I was not alone. Mary would teach me things I did not understand. I could not thank her enough for her patience when teaching me. I enjoyed seeing the wrinkles crease by her eyes when she smiled, and the sound of her laughter turning into a coughing fit sent a wave of ease through me. This is what it felt like to belong, to have a mother.

Sadly, it was only temporary bliss. Our friendship lasted for ten months before her passing. 

Mary’s last words were, “Throughout my life I was mistreated, even by my husband, and I thought my life would be nothing but darkness. Then suddenly, a stranger, you showed up at my door, Victor. I may be blind, but I could hear the sorrow in your heart. You were able to see the darkness like me, so I opened the door to let you in my house. Then eventually you opened up to me, and as fate would have it, the mistreatment I suffered at the hands of society paralleled your own plight.” She took another deep breath and continued. 

“You were called a monster, a demon, but to me, you were my angel, and for the first time in my life, I could see the light because of you, Victor. I think I’m beginning to see the light  again, Victor.”

I held her hand, getting colder by the minute. Her breathing became harder to  hear with each breath. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes and fall. My throat began to tighten. I didn’t want to let her go. She took another raspy breath. 

“Victor, do not cry. It is my time now, and I just wish I were able to see your handsome face. Thank you for being here for me, my dear Victor. I. Love. You.”

Her chest did not rise anymore, and I no longer felt any heat from her sun-spotted hand. I wept and held onto her limp body for what felt like eons.

Eventually, I buried Mary in a field of those wildflowers growing by her cottage. I dreaded this feeling. This hurt more than my own father’s death. I was alone again. Years passed by and no one has ever come by the cottage. It was just me and my thoughts for the longest time. 

It’s currently October 31, 2022, the only time in this country where I don’t have to hide away. I’m fascinated by how far these humans have advanced in technology and society. My father would be amazed by these discoveries, and it makes me wonder, if he were alive during this age, would he be more accepting of me? Then there’s Mary, oh Mary would love what the people call “makeup.”

I have become what people call an “influencer” and have for once in my life become popular. It feels different. It is a feeling I have not felt before. I have learned the ways of modern technology and gathered a great following on my podcasts. At first, they were simple diary entries I would record, but then, strangers stumbled upon them, people who understand the way I feel. I have decided today will be the day I tell them the story of my life, my day of creation. I can finally share my story of guilt, of sin, of truth, and maybe one day, be redeemed. 

“Hello and welcome to my podcast, The Creature. Today, I want to tell all the listeners out there about my story. A story of how one man created a nameless monster. Hopefully, you all can give me the answers I am looking for: Who was truly the real monster here?” I spoke clearly into the microphone, alone in the cottage, untouched by mankind. I steadied my breathing and spoke. The only thought running around in my mind was that the world must know who the  true monsters are.