Waking
It was done. Victor did not look at it, yet - he could not have said why. Instead, his eyes surveyed the room, glancing off the form on the table. In the dimness, illuminated only by the wax puddles that had once been candles, he saw only glimpses, impressions, continually changing like a lightning-lit stormscape. A tray of instruments, their red tincture in the dark. A cast-off cloak across the floorboards, carelessly swept toward the dirt that lingered in a corner. The single curtain on the high casement, flickering in the draft that seized through the cracked window.
The draft- that cold, more than anything else, returned Victor's perception to the table, and what the dim light spoke of there. The candle stubs, their glow fleeting, illuminating a hand, a limb, a mass of tangled black hair. He should have felt triumph. But somehow the elements of the human form, so complex and beautiful when he had joined them, the veins and bones a puzzle that had never been macabre, seemed here too strange, unwelcome, an intrusion into the seclusion of study. Had he - could he - have made this?
His gaze drew upward, unwilling, to the face. Mottled skin, cracked black lips, translucent grey lids- and then. His breath caught in his throat. Eyes. The creation - he wondered absently why he did not think of it as his - had opened his eyes. Dun-dark, glimmering with small points of yellow light, pupils large in the dimness. All aspects he had crafted, made. But this was new - this animation, pleading, penetrating, the air of something like supplication with which the creature stretched out one hand. Victor stood, frozen but with thoughts electric, racing. What was next? He should do something, no? Acknowledge it? Name himself its benefactor? Perhaps - greet the creature?
But then the sounds began.
In the graveyards, Victor's thoughts had never been disturbed by any of the aural visions trespassers were said to hear. No haunt's howl, no ghoul's cry - such things were superstition. He'd barely registered even the scrape of his own shovel, the dry dislodgment of a bone. Nothing would distract him from his purpose. But here, the noises that issued from this creature's lips - the human larynx was not formed for these. Victor staggered back unknowing, shielding his ears.
"No," he heard himself muttering. "No, I can't."
And he was running, swinging the door back behind him to shut out the sounds, plunging down the few curved steps, scattering his gaze to ensure none of the few rural inhabitants were out, his feet stepping backwards til his shoulders found purchase against the stones of the hovel's wall, sliding down as his legs bent under him and found the icy muck below. His breathing came in shallow gasps, eyes staring unseeing at his own hands before him. He did not know how much time passed, until in the building above, a groan issued, only softer than the unearthly cries before.
Victor started, looked up, breathed one long breath into frozen hands.
"What have I done?"
A/n - oh dear. This does not look to be turning out much differently than the original scenario - but don't worry, it will! My Victor is pretty based on original Victor, with at least half his flaws, and though he is going to overcome them and be a dad or sorts, he's not there yet. But next chapter will have some happy at least :)