In The Beginning: A Transformation

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a short story I wrote in school, where we had to "springboard" from an existing text and create something from it. I chose to write about the first few minutes of Frankenstein's monster's life, and it was my first attempt at imitating Gothic prose.

Submitted: April 27, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 27, 2012

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A A A


I opened my eyes.

It was wonderful, fantastic, this thing called “seeing” (although I obviously was not aware of this term at the time). Having never used my eyes before, I found it somewhat difficult to adjust to this blooming, buzzing confusion invading my vision. There were so many different shades and shapes- and the light! The light was blinding, beautiful, but it burned my eyes as fiercely as it burned my heart- I felt dampness form at the corners of these curious orbs set in my face and could feel it trickle slowly down my rough skin. I soon found that my eyes became uncomfortable, and that this discomfort grew as the seconds passed. I despaired, and closed my eyes-for although I did not wish to deprive myself of the images slowly becoming clearer around me, I was informed by a straining sensation deep within my skull that this was the solution. And oh, joy of joys! I found that this rid me of my discomfort, and that within an instant I was able to gaze at my surroundings with the same sense of ease as at the very beginning. I soon discovered that if I opened and shut my eyes at quick, regular intervals, I could keep them from discomfort and observe, uninterrupted, my environment. Better still, it became apparent to me that this motion took so little effort that no decision was needed. However, I soon encountered another obstacle. The great hulk of my body below my head, from which my limbs protruded, felt tight and under pressure, as though there were a great weight upon it. I felt compelled to part my lips. As I did, a rush of something from the room travelled down my throat and instantly provided relief.

It was a beauty, such a beauty to me, to first understand the concept of movement in the world. To think, that all the beautiful colours and shapes, the perfections of nature’s design, were not only glorious in their original form, but could be changed to move and travel with such balletic fluidity! It was this thought that entered my mind first when I saw my father, my creator, step back from my presence. Such elegance! Such perfection! Each movement of the joints, the graceful arc his arm made through the air; he was like a portrait, a sculpture, but alive! And this beautiful specimen of humankind, this…this demi-god, made flesh… he was my creator, my father! To think that such a perfect creature could have created me! It made me ponder, just for a moment. Could it be that his beauty was reflected in his creation? Was it possible that I was even a fraction as close to perfection as he? If so, the heavens themselves could not constrain the joy in my heart. But no- one look down at myself discounted this theory completely. Where his skin was rosy and pink, mine was gaunt and yellow. My lips, thin and difficult to move, paled in comparison to his full mouth. Yes, I was as tall as him in stature, taller even, but I knew that my limbs would move stiffly, with none of the angelic grace with which he travelled. These comparisons, each one like a stone, lay heavy on my heart. No matter, I thought- my father, beautiful as he is, will no doubt feel as much love and compassion for me as if I were one of his own. After all, how could a creature so perfect in form possess anything less than an angelic nature? I turned my head to look at him, waiting for the warm embrace of fatherhood to envelop me. Nothing. Instead, his lips parted and a strangled cry escaped them. Although the sound was beautiful to me, more beautiful than a chorus of angels, I had no problem deciphering the emotion behind it. Disgust. My father was disgusted with me. He fled, and fled quickly, before I had a chance to communicate my emotions, to tell him that I, his ugly son, meant him no harm, and loved him completely.

I resolved, soon after, to follow him. It took time- to be aware of my various limbs and joints was one thing. To control them, and command them to balance my gargantuan frame, was quite another. But resolution was dead set in me- I was determined that this was simply some misunderstanding, that my father had not fled from me, but left for some other, unknown, reason. I do not know how long I tried to steady myself- less than an hour, as my father obviously blessed me with a quick and able mind- but I knew my father was not far away. Walking was less difficult than anticipated, and I stumbled little. Soon I was at the bedchamber of my creator. I could not help myself but to watch him sleep for a while. It worried me to see his furrowed brow, even as he slept- such an angelic creature should not have such a troubled countenance. He tossed and turned fitfully, and it was obvious that he was being troubled by some night-spectre. Suddenly, his face turned towards me, and his eyes flew open. They sparkled with recognition, and I knew this was my sole chance to reconcile with him. With great effort, I extended my hand, and attempted to replicate the noise he had made earlier. I wanted to show this man that he and I were not so unlike each other, that he could teach me the ways of the world and I, in return, would be a constant companion and an avid admirer. I wanted to show my father that I could be a son. But I failed- that much was apparent. His face contorted in horror, and he shrieked. I was unable to compose myself any longer. What hope was there for me now, that the man who should call himself my father had rejected me so cruelly? Who would love me, if not the man that gave me life? It was over. I would leave.

I was alone.


© Copyright 2019 Abigail Burton. All rights reserved.

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