He had done it wrong.
He had underestimated how much it would take to kill himself.
The creature created by Victor Frankenstein lay in the Arctic snow, gagging as his ragged breathing burned his scorched esophagus. One massive hand lightly touched his throat as if to massage the pain away, but his fingertips paused in the act. The tantalizing urge to claw at his throat was nothing less than torture.
Swallowing hot coal had failed. Originally, the creature had planned to create his funeral pyre and lay on it as the flames consumed his body; however, in the icy tundra, there was a shortage of fuel and the blizzard's winds blew too fiercely to permit any form of warmth to have a chance of survival. He was the exception; his body tolerated the cold well, and now he cursed the feature that stalled his appointment with death.
"Frankenstein, thou hast thy revenge," the creature gurgled, shifting so he kneeled on the cold, white snow. Leaning forward, tears escaping from his eyes, he continued to cough up blood and vomit until the coal had left his system.
"Devil, take my soul," he whispered hoarsely, blood flecking his lips as he tried to speak. When he glanced up, a humanoid figure was approaching, his features masked by the whirling snowflakes.
The creature was surprised to see Victor Frankenstein, healthy and alive, standing a few feet before him. With a condescending smirk, Frankenstein looked down on him. The man was freshly shaved, dressed in an unwrinkled, black suit. "Why do you gape, pitiful being? It was you who called me." His dark eyes flashed blood red, and he performed a mock bow. "I am your personal escort." Frankenstein held out a white gloved hand.
"God save me!" The creature said, but his voice died. He recoiled from the intense heat he felt emanating from the extended hand.
The Devil tsked. "Tis too late to ask the Lord for repentance, my friend. I have no intention of losing you." His arrogant expression melted into one of sincerity, of pleading and he now used Victor's voice. "Please, accept my affection. I admit I wronged thee, child, and I am willing to begin anew. You are the only family I have left."
His initial fear and suspicion were blown away by the sudden change, and the creature had only longing, the pervasive longing for acceptance that had plagued him since his creation. With a happy sob, the creature of Frankenstein reached for and grasped the Devil's hand.
"Tricked! Beguiled by the foul Devil himself!" the creature howled, slamming the side of his fist against the burnt orange rock. It cracked, giving way slightly under his inhuman strength, and then he watched as the surface regenerated—smooth, untouched. In the rocky, dark orange cell, he continued to roar with a rage not unlike when the De Lacey's had rejected him. He cursed Frankenstein, he cursed humanity, and the creature continued until a shower of small, sharp rocks were thrown at him.
"Who is there? Who dares throws stones at me in mockery?"
A low, irascible human voice responded, "You carry on terribly, monster, and do blister the poor ears of Iago."
The archaic speech and name sparked a memory in the creature, a memory from happier times. "Iago?" he repeated. "You served under Othello?"
"I did."
"And, through deceit, destroyed him? You are that Iago?"
"I am." This time his voice held a note of pride, of dark satisfaction. Iago sat on a large stone in the darkness, his forearms resting on his knees. "What brings thou to the Devil's palace?"
"Murder of the innocent and trickery."
"Then we are of the same brood."
"Nay, you killed the innocent and would drink the blood from their wounds as water," the creature denied, pointing at Iago and then placed his hands on his chest. "I did not enjoy such waste of beauty."
His human companion whispered in a very slow voice, "You lie. When the bright sun in the child's eye faded to eternal night, did you not rejoice? Did you not utter a happy exclamation? When you whispered love into the maid's ear, did you not murder her with 'mischievous' intent, fully conscious of the 'sanguinary laws of men'?"
"How are you aware of these things?!" cried the creature, caught red-handed. "It has been at least four hundred years since Shakespeare penned thee, and you have been dead longer!"
"Four hundred years," Iago repeated. "The time nears when I return to the agonizing infernal pit of bone-white flames…My lengthy stretch in the waiting room of Hell is over—a hell in itself." Standing, he headed toward the bars of the rocky, dark orange cell and Iago wrapped his hands around the bars, staring through. "Sulfur and brimstone, monster, beyond that broad gate where many men stumble and are assisted in by demons—there lies Hell."
"How long must I wait?"
Stepping away from the bars, Iago folded his arms. "Well, if you speak of the Devil, he appears."
"Very true," agreed Victor Frankenstein, who leaned against a wall in the darkness. Pushing off it with a shrug, he stopped beside the human and the creature, facing the Shakespearean villain. "Iago, I reserved a mission for you, one that requires your delicate expertise. Do not fail me, or the consequences shall be not to your liking."
The creature clamped one hand around Victor Frankenstein's thin neck and squeezed; however, he did not move—not to dig his nails into his hand, not to gasp for mercy, and continued ignoring Frankenstein's creature. He tried squeezing with all his inhuman might…and nothing. Not even an eye blink from the Devil.
Iago snorted at this. "Fare well, monster. Try not to hold onto useless blubbering and silly regrets as the proximity of Hell slowly peels it away from thee like the outer layers of a dirty onion."
With those final parting words, Victor Frankenstein and Iago vanished from the rock-crafted holding cell, and the creature was left alone to listen to the sound of a metal hammer striking bells. He was alone to hear the eerie melody of Hell—the bells, the distant wails and moans—and the ringing silence when he retreated to the seat where Iago had sat in the furthest edge of the cell.
Author's Note: this was written for my English final...Also, quick disclaimer--I don't own any of the characters in this narrative. They belong to their respective authors--Mary Shelley and Shakespeare. I merely fabricated this story for the purpose of passing my English class because it's worth a decent chunk of points.