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I have not always been fond of my creator, and to be fully truthful, even now there burns a deep embittered resentment of him.
I am writing to record the events of last night, November 6th. Jonathan and Mina were out on one of their weekly excursions to the square. It was nearly 8 when I heard the knocking on the door. At length opening it revealed to me one Victor Frankenstein.
“May I enter?” He asked, shying away from the doorframe ever so slightly. Even as it was horribly dim, he wore a heavy cloak to protect him from the sun's rays. At his side was a satchel of great size, and almost unable to close due to the volume of objects which it held.
“You may.” I said, and moved aside so that he might join me. He did, a nearly silent breath freeing itself from his chest as he crossed the threshold.
“If you don’t mind my asking so, what exactly was the occasion that brought you here? Were you, perhaps, in search of Jonathan or Mina?” I asked. He shook his head and made way towards the kitchen table. Once there, he carefully removed various parcels from the bag at his side, revealing what I could only assume were a variety of baked goods, as well as those which were far too carefully wrapped and uniform in shape to be foodstuffs.
With immense curiosity, I joined him in the small, small to me alone, room. Finally, he removed a bottle of what appeared to be wine, and removed his hood. He must have perceived the disdain on my face, as the corner of his lips tilted upward faintly.
“It’s cider. I’ve been informed of your, ah, adversity towards alcohol.” He explained, carefully splitting the contents of the table between us.
“I must ask again, what the purpose of this visit is.” At this, his smile faltered, and his eyes darkened beneath the red lenses he wore within his frames. He unlatched the cloak from his shoulders and folded it over his arms before disposing of it on a nearby chair.
Instead of answering, he once again busied himself with the preparation of what he brought. Carefully, he unwrapped a sort of sweet loaf, before revealing a dull knife and cutting it in half. Then, he spread an almost honey-like substance, if not for it’s opaque and light hue, over the halves. Finally, he procured a small candle and a matchbox from his waistcoat. Placing the candle into the pastry closest to me, he suddenly struck a match and lit the wick.
“It is customary,” He began, hands clasped and set upon the table, eyes downcast. “To celebrate the anniversary of your child’s birth. About three years ago, on this day, you were… brought into being.” As he spoke, I felt myself grow tense. I could lie and say I didn’t know how I felt, but that would be a disservice to us both.
No, once Victor finished, I felt a horrible rage boil within me. We sat a moment in silence, both stuff with the weight of that which had gone unsaid. All at once, I could no longer bear it.
“I won’t forgive you.” I said, barely managing to contain the bile within my words. And he, in all his audacity and horribly self indulgence, dated to laugh at my statement.
“Rest assured, no one is asking that of you.” He replied, eyes finally meeting mine. Wretched beast to unholy monster. The heavy weight of the crucifix around my neck served as a reminder that I was not yet as unholy as he who stood in front of me.
“Then why, perchance, go through this effort?” I motioned towards the spread he had delivered.
“Perhaps I merely wanted to share a part of my culture with you.”
“You should know better than to lie to me, Frankenstein.” I snarled, and immediately he recoiled. Not in the manner I was used to, that of the afraid from the source of terror, but rather as the victim does from his abuser. I breathed deeply, composing myself as best I could. We both were little more than injured animals, barring our teeth for fear of the sting once more.
“Why?” I asked once more, kneeling down so we were on a similar level. His lip quivered as he answered.
“You deserve this at the very least. To know on what day you came to live. To know about your origin in a gentler light than that which I’ve provided.” This answer didn’t appease me either, but I knew it was the honest one. I huffed out a breath and commanded my calm to remain. Again, his eyes fell to the floor.
Quietly, he pushed the wrapped parcels towards me.
“Books.” He said, before collecting his cloak.
“I understand you won’t, can’t, forgive me for leaving you. I will carry that with me to my eventual demise. However, I am not vanquished yet. I have a right to attempt atonement.” He packed his utensils but left the gifts on that table, before going towards the door.
“I’ll be on my way now, if it would please you.”
It didn’t, but he left anyway. That’s simply his nature. He will take the course of action he deems best for you, far before you can reply to him.
Jonathan has since informed me that the pastry he brought me was cake. The books he left were various poems and plays, as well as a pristine copy of Paradise Lost, to replace the one that was taken from me.
Even now, I feel the resentment, the anger and grief that comes with thinking of my creator. How a man can be so selfish yet considerate at the same time is beyond me.
Regardless, I have sufficiently recorded last night's proceedings. I know not why I’ve done so. Writing merely helps me contemplate, I suppose. Still, I am a year older than I was a night ago.
I will ever fully forgive Victor for what he made me endure, but for what it’s worth, he is trying. The least I can do is respond accordingly.
I shall write to him soon, a thanks. And perhaps more.
Just perhaps.