A/N: This was written in response to a prompt on the comment-fic lj community for "Frankenstein; the Creature; he was made, not born - but made from what?" Thanks go to aestivali for such an awesome prompt.
He had been a creature made, not born, and his creator had eschewed his right to a name. He spends his days trapped in a lonely and cold existence, searching for an identity, knowing he has a right to live, but unable to convince anyone else of such.
He's a patchwork person, this he knows, an amalgamation of many parts stitched together like a macabre puzzle. A shoulder, from one man. The thigh of another. And he discovers that each piece possesses its own memories.
Sometimes, at night, the ghosts of his body whisper to him their secrets.
One hand knows the curve of a violin, the easy dance of fingers over tense strings. The other wraps around a blade with such familiarity. There's artwork inked over his left hip, just next to the stitching. CLARA, it reads, and he wonders if possibly a part of her resides in him too.
The other day, he'd awoken from a restless slumber, and discovered a dead right leg. This thing, this log, attached to his torso. A horrible thing. It wasn't his. It couldn't be. A man should know his own limbs. And yet…
Perhaps he is not in want of an identity. Perhaps, instead, he carries too many.
