queried. “Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you are regaining your strength, and with luck this new arm that I have crafted will grow to be part of you. And perhaps enough intelligence will develop in your brain so that someday I may learn the truth regarding this curious behavior of yours. We shall see.”
Frankenstein proceeded to lower me once more. Shortly after he left I heard a low but horrible bellowing noise, as if made by a wild animal with its leg caught in a trap. Only after I later felt a sensation of wetness upon my cheeks did I understand that I was the source of this terrible noise. It was the sound of my own weeping.
CHAPTER
5
I became familiar with a routine. A dreary and mostly hellish routine. No matter what the human spirit may be confronted with, we appear to possess the capacity for settling into habits so that we may be able to survive our circumstances, no matter how horrific they may be. After seeing the appendage that was removed from me, I had to confront the fact that my being was something other than that of a man, but still, I stubbornly believed my spirit and sentiments to be human.
Each night Frankenstein would perform his ungodly rituals. During the day I was mostly left alone to contemplate the horrors that had befallen me, with my only respite being when every third day or so I would be raised to a more vertical position. The reason for this, according to my host, was to keep my blood from settling and more rot from occurring, although I suspected Frankenstein also took perverse pleasure in having Charlotte and I face each other. Little could he have suspected that I greatly welcomed the company of Charlotte a fellow creature made equally as miserable as myself. During these brief respites we would converse in our silent manner. While I desperately wished to know what I had become, I made no attempt to extract from her the nature of my appearance. Mostly from Charlotte I received the warmth of human compassion, which was completely absent from Frankenstein, who radiated nothing but mockery and cruelty.
The appendage that Frankenstein manufactured to replace the one that had decayed successfully attached itself to my body. As the days passed, my strength grew, although what I had was still very little. I did however gain the power to move my neck sufficiently to see more of my surroundings. The room I had been placed in appeared to be a laboratory, with both familiar and unfamiliar medical apparatus cluttering several tables. Enough sensation had also returned to my skin so that I determined that a fabric had been lain across my body. My appearance was still mostly a mystery to me. I lacked even the strength to lift my hands to the necessary height so that I could view them.
Not once did I sleep. Perhaps this inability was due to Frankenstein’s nightly satanic chanting. Or perhaps sleep was simply a component missing from the form of creature that I resided within. Or it could be simply that my lack of physical activity left me with no compulsion to sleep. There were other normal bodily functions that were absent within me, most noticeably that I did not receive any nourishment or liquids. I wondered about that, for every known species of creature requires nourishment and water to survive, and I had had neither for over forty days. I suspected that the foul ointment Frankenstein applied to me nightly had been seeping into my body and, in some ungodly way, was providing me the nourishment that food and water would normally give.
As the days passed, Frankenstein’s demeanor grew decisively excited. He scurried about his laboratory, his cheeks flushing a bright pink, all the while remarking that we were soon to be visited by an honored guest. It was late one afternoon when I heard Frankenstein’s voice drifting in from outside of the room, and soon realized he was conversing in French with another man. The two of them must have been in a room adjacent to the one that I was housed in, and I could hear them without much strain through the walls. At first the two men exchanged pleasantries with Frankenstein addressing this other man as “my dear Marquis.” He spoke with a reverence and subservience that seemed unnatural for him. After Frankenstein had expressed his hope that this other man had enjoyed a comfortable journey, his voice nearly tittered in excitement as he commented on the notorious stories he had heard over the years concerning a Rose Keller.
“Bah!” this other man exclaimed angrily. “They made it out as if I had slaughtered and dismembered a roomful of wenches instead of merely flogging the ass of one particularly opportunistic whore! And the way they treated me. A nobleman. All because of a few welts on the backside of a whore? Enough of that. Victor, must you keep me in suspense much longer? I have been anticipating this creation of yours ever since we began our correspondences and you proposed the idea to me.”
“I will be keeping you in suspense a while longer for I have another surprise for you. Really only a novelty, but one that I believe you will find of interest.”
The door to the laboratory opened and Frankenstein entered moving in an excited pace. I dared to lift my head high enough to spot him, but he was too eager in his intentions to notice. Near breathless, he raced to where Charlotte rested and took hold of the bowl that she was within. He exited the room while carrying the bowl in one hand and stroking her scalp with his other. From beyond I heard this other man, this Marquis, shout out in surprise.
“Its eyes! They’re moving! Does it possess intelligence?”
“Sadly, no. She is little more than an amusement. But watch how she suckles my finger when I place it near her mouth.”
There were several moments of quiet, then the Marquis shouting out again.
“How … how do you explain this?”
Frankenstein hesitated before explaining, “My dear Sophie was a whore when she was alive. From Paris. I believe what she is doing now is mimicking behavior that still remains ingrained deep within the recesses of her brain.”
“A Parisian whore, you say? I have been intimate with so many, but I must have missed this one while I was locked away in the Bastille. Why the milky liquid in the bowl?”
“That is how she receives nourishment, by absorbing the liquid through the bottom of her neck. Think of her as an orchid growing in a pot.”
“Fascinating, truly fascinating. Can it exist outside of the bowl?”
“For several hours, yes. After that she would wilt and die.”
“I see that you have taken the precaution of removing its teeth,” the Marquis said. “My dear Victor, please do hand it to me. I desire to have it suckle my finger also.”
My blood boiled as I heard the way they discussed Charlotte as if she were a plaything. During one of our visits together, Charlotte explained to me that it was better for her to lick Frankenstein’s finger than for him to surmise the intelligence that she held. But her eyes also flashed with ferocity as she wished that she still had her teeth so that she would’ve been able to bite off whatever she could of his.
If I had had the power to do so I would have left the table that I was stranded on and crushed both their skulls. When I heard this despicable Marquis remark how he would later make use of Charlotte once he was properly rested from his traveling, I found myself choking with hatred toward this man as I understood his depraved intentions.
They must have grown tired of Charlotte, for the door to the laboratory opened and the creaking of footsteps entered into the room; one pair of footsteps that was heavy and slow, the other all too familiar. I lay on my back staring at the wood-beam ceiling above me. I did not want to give them the advantage of knowing that I had movement within my neck. A loud gasp escaped from the Marquis.
“My God! Is that actually alive?”
“Very much alive.”
“Are … are we safe?”
“Oh yes. Even if he had the strength to rise we would be safe. But for now the creature barely has the ability to raise his hands several inches from the table. Interestingly, he tries to hide this from me. Some sort of animal cunning, I suppose.”
Footsteps approached. The Marquis turned out to be a short and rotund man of about fifty. He was almost entirely bald, his features having a grayish, unhealthy tinge to them and his round, fleshy face seeming almost a caricature of a man who had once been thin and handsome. Timidly, he peered over me, his face awash with fear and curiosity, but even still, a haughtiness pervaded his eyes and lips.
