If I am only to be known as the Monster, we shall for a time call him simply, Doctor. The Doctor had made me ages before all of this merely to see if he could. There had been little to no consideration of should and even less time spent on any kind of cohesive artwork that is the human figure, that would be my figure. I have made my peace with this and bear him no ill will regarding the various puzzle pieces that I am comprised of. I was broken and he pieced me back together, but he did not heal me. Although it should be noted, dear reader, that I am whole only because of mismatched and jammed together pieces and as rough as that sounds it, and by it I do mean I, look far rougher. Rough or not, this is the story of how I came to be healed, and even more vulnerably so, how I came to be known.
After some revisions to my initial existence, and likely a brain transplant (I am not privy to such details nor do I wish to be), my mind is as sharp as a newly sharpened pitchfork. Let us be honest with one another though, not all pitchforks are sharpened, but having a fair bit of experience with some that are I can reliably tell you that there are those that can be quite sharp. Regardless, I grew to become lonely and wanted for a companion. I conveyed such to the Doctor. Here now you may see a contradiction to what others may have had to say. Do not believe all that you have been told or read. He did not outright deny me, nor did he immediately set out to undertake such a request. After several discussions that spanned the philosophical, ethical, and practical of creating another such as I, he was the one to yield. I think he wanted another go of it to be honest. He couldn't argue himself a man of science if his experiments were never replicated. But this time he showed a bit more finesse.
Before the Doctor eventually accepted my request, his assistant, whom I loathed completely and absolutely, once teased me, playing on more of my vulnerabilities than I care to admit. "So ugly old Mr. Frank is wanting a Mrs. Frank? You think that'll fix you? Who could ever want you?! Besides, if you don't kill her again with that mug of yours I guarantee you'll end up breaking her too, just like—" The Doctor hit him over the head before he could finish his thought. The damage had already been done though and it was a long time before I broached the subject again. I do think that whole ordeal played its part in convincing the Doctor, and so I do not regret being the subject of his idiot assistant's taunting. It mattered not. I would not suffer them for long.
I no longer worried about hurting anyone unintentionally after the revisions I'd undergone. But it is true that I worried still about being rejected. Even if we were the only two of our kind, she could, with more than plenty of reason, despise me for asking for her existence, for bringing back into all of this. We are not consulted on the matter of whether or not we would like to be born the first time. It was the same for my second birth. And being born into this existence is arguably a bit more of a curse than our first. We had discussed this, among many other issues, ad nauseum. But through my selfishness I still longed for another like me. As much as I hated thinking of it this way, the words had stuck, I longed for my Mrs.. I didn't know how unlike me she would be, and how perfect and necessary that would be for us both.
The doctor promised me a companion, swearing that it was only a matter of time. While I believed him, trusted him, I did begin to grow impatient. Naturally, the Doctor had been right. He was our god and we had but to listen to him to be blessed by him. It was simply a matter of time before an opportunity presented itself. She was a young woman from a nearby village. An innocent, no more than twenty, if that. She'd been strangled for rebuffing the affections of a young suitor and that was more than I wanted to know at the time.
She was perfect. Flawless skin (save the minor marks around her neck that I would grow to adore in my own peculiar way), pouty lips, long black hair that had changed after the Doctor brought her back. The electricity made it crimp and stand quite nearly straight out (she grew to love this). That was all I could see of her right after she was...I do not feel it fair to say she was created or born again. Not in the same way that I was. My body had been damaged, wounded, dismembered and I had been sewn and stitched back together. Without a doubt in my mind I had been created by the Doctor. She...she was as perfect as the day she was born the first time. She was merely an angel, brought back into this world to live again.
She'd been taken from this world too soon and, to our delight, was a grateful angel. Her mind, her body, she knew all of her had been cheated. She knew she'd been robbed of a life and was grateful for another go around, even if she didn't know why. Regrettably for me, however, she was grateful to the Doctor. And he in turn reveled in this gratitude and spoiled her like a father would his only daughter. He'd buy her the most luxurious of dresses, he'd bring her the most scandalous of romance novels (his library originally had very few of these), he even taught her how to want for more than a simple farm girl could have ever hoped for, her wish was his command. That isn't to say she was ever rude or uncourteous to me. Far from it. But her pity wounded me in a way that would stay with me long after she had decided to.
Where I was stiff, she was elegant. Where I was hideous, she was gorgeous. Where I was experienced, she was naïve. It was in that naivety where the Doctor had instructed me to make some headway. I longed for this beautiful creature, my very own Aphrodite, with every inch of my grotesqueness. But I needed to be patient. Something the Doctor was all too keen to remind me of. I despised how he treated her. I worried she'd become smitten with the old man. I should have seen it wasn't like that. She was merely another experiment to the Doctor, and she knew that more than I ever realized.
But my anger comes out in the usual way, and I have the Doctor to thank for helping me channel my fits of rage. Not that she would ever know, but I avenged her death. I did so with a glee that perhaps I should not be proud of. I have no regrets for ending that coward's life in a similar fashion to how he had ended hers. When the Doctor realized my passion, my obsession, he became more than simply my savior.
Here again he acted as some bizarre deliverer for our kind, for our love. He began afternoon teas that the three of us would attend religiously. It was through these odd ritual gatherings that we were able to get to know one another. She couldn't even look at me at first. I flew into such rages when I knew she was out of range to witness me in such a state. She was for me! She wouldn't exist had I not insisted on it! She couldn't even bare to glance at my scarred being. It wasn't until much later when I began to learn who I truly was that I realized the horrid selfishness of my ways.
She eventually did begin to glance at me, and it was far worse. The pity in her deep and endless gray eyes pierced into my very soul in a way that pains me still as I write it down, as if doing so cements it into being true once more. I must steal myself from that pain. Knowing the truth of our present consoles me like a healing salve and I shall think of that pain no more.
