I'm a modern creature, made to imperfection by my master. Made for a time bereft of beauty and truth. He chose well, making me the Cain to Proteus' Abel. No one can see me and love me. Only one made by him can endure the sight of this hideous face and form. I killed my brother, because he was so bright and beautiful and so trusting. He'd have loved me perhaps, or would he have shied away from my countenance? No matter, I killed him to hurt my maker and hurt he was. What he felt was a fraction of the hurt I can cause and it very nearly broke him. Oh father, I am not done.
My work has barely begun; its design is already formed perfectly. I will take everything from my creator unless he gives me an eternal companion. He could not love me himself, so he must make a woman from someone's ribs. He so likes to play god anyhow. Oh father, I have only begun my work. I could have loved you but now it's much too late. I was born into an age that lacks poetry and grace. You, father made me into your image. I will make us both burn. Fire is so poetic don't you think?