A/N: This is based off of the original novel Frankenstein. Frankenstein is not the monster; he is the doctor. This is just a small piece from the monster's point of view.
(To my "New Lead" readers: Sorry, I still haven't written the next chapter. I think my audition for allstate went okay, but then we decided to go on an impromptu mini-roadtrip, and so any writing was delayed for a day. I promise I'm working on it, but I'm not sure when I'll get it done. I wrote this in lit class on Friday, so I didn't just stop writing that story for this one)
Keep in mind though that this monster is the one who killed many innocents just to get revenge back at his creator, Victor Frankenstein. I feel sympathy for him, but... murdering all those people just isn't excusable by that.
Frankenstein: My Father/Creator/Tormentor
I watched my creator, the one who brought me to life. It was strange; he should have been my "father," the one who would unconditionally give me love, so why had he instead looked upon me with such loathing and disgust?
I knew why. It was my appearance, my inhuman strength. My strangeness. I was an outcast for reasons physical alone. I had been prepared to love and be loved, but instead I was hated, rejected.
All of it was the fault of this man, my creator. He gave me the curse of life, then rejected me as surely as everybody else. Now, he was hunting me, sworn to destroy me even by his dying breath.
It brought me conflicted emotions. Glee: that I had him pursuing after me, finally the attention of the father. Bitterness: why only in hate could I get him to look upon me? And then worst of all, a wretchedness. A wretchedness that made me want to destroy him, that he should suffer for what he had done.
And indeed, I had made him suffer. I had avenged my misery upon his dearest friends, and now he too would suffer through the same misery and loneliness as I. Never as strong though; another's suffering could not match the intensity of my own.
I lamented that day so long ago, when Frankenstein tore apart who would have been my companion. Why had he decided to torment me so, to give me such hope only to snatch it away? The howl of anguish that had erupted from me then – it hurt more than the constant loneliness and inevitable hate that would always follow me. Never would there be a relief from this pain, never would anyone look upon my face without disgust or loathing.
How could I ever had thought of this tormentor as a father? No, if I take glee in this, it will be in his suffering. And so in this, I would finally find my own wretched joy.