I admit it, no book has ever made a greater impression on me than this. The storyline of my one-shot follows the plot of the book, which is absolutely unreached by any of the movies. Set in the surroundings of Perth while the Creature is waiting for Victor Frankenstein to travel on.

On special request divided into more paragraphs for enhanced readability. Thanks for mentioning that, I'm always thinking in book-pages, not in puter screens... ;D

Disclaimer: My heartfelt thanks to Mary Shelley for writing such a wonderful novel.

Living on Dreams

It had been a long, wet and uncomfortable night – or it would have been uncomfortable to anyone else but him, to anyone who was not used to the life he was leading. He had passed the last day in the southern hills, enjoying the freedom and peace of the countryside after having rambled through the streets of Perth for days on end, where his creator was staying with a friend. Cities had become an abhorrence to him ever since he had been forced to pass a considerable time in London, lurking in the shadows, creeping through narrow, dirty streets to remain unseen at any cost, always tense and alert to follow immediately as soon as Victor would travel on again. Such overcrowded places were hateful to him, where men assembled in closeness, even the lowest and most repulsive among them more or less accepted by their fellow citizens, whereas a being like him they would drive away without mercy.

So for one day he had dared to flee the town, to leave the abandoned, ruined house that had become his retreat during their stay in Perth, trusting that Victor was going to stay for some days longer still. He had set off before dawn to avoid any encounter with early risers, had, at the usual quick pace of his, crossed the gentle hills outside of Perth which, cut into irregular rectangles by the shapes of low drystone walls to separate fields from meadows and patches of woodland, were to the southwest, only a few miles from the town's borders, limited by a row of higher hills, untouched by farmers' hands except for some sheep scattered over their heather-grown flanks to graze. There he had for a full day enjoyed the sun again and the growing and living things he so cherished, until evening and rain had caught him unawares. Halfway back from the hills, he had decided to spend the rest of the night in a coppice that had promised a little shelter from the weather and had made his bed in the relative dryness beneath the panoply of interwoven branches to return to Perth the following day.

But when he woke late that morning, he felt no pressure to return so quickly, for the weather had cleared up again, and the air was filled with the rich, earthy scent that always follows the rain, and with the sounds of the birds that had still not ceased to greet the sun although it had already climbed high in the sky, drying the dampness from the leaves and allowing still more flowery scents to saturate the air. He gave a yawn and stretched to chase the sleep-induced stiffness from his limbs. The leaves beneath him rustled when he turned and unwrapped from his cloak that, only moderately soaked, had kept him more or less dry during the night. He hung it over a branch to dry while he went to search for a well and something edible to make up his breakfast. At first, he found neither of it, but instead, meandering between the trees, discovered that the coppice, itself embraced by a stone wall, seemingly belonged to a large estate, forming a natural barrier between the park and the softly rolling hills outside, for soon the woodland that marked off the estate from the surrounding acres ended and a wide lawn stretched in front of him. He cautiously remained in the cover of the trees, watching out for any people who might be out and about, then bypassed the open area. The grass field slowly changed into carefully pruned parkland which, in turn, formed the immediate environs of a large, light-grey stone mansion. Intricate paths meandered between hedges of boxtree, yew and other bushes, feigning naturalness but getting more and more elaborate the closer they were to the manor. He could hear the sound of water close by, and when after a moment of hesitation he had made certain that really no-one was near, he left the coppice. A rippling fountain between climbing roses it was that had attracted his attention, and there he satisfied his thirst before he plunged back in the cover of the trees. But not without, in a longing gaze, taking in the view of the manor not far off, a symbol of consistency, of familiarity, a much-valued home to whoever lived here. Not long, he consoled himself. Patience...

He had not meant to, but he spent the rest of the morning in the coppice that surrounded the park. The thought of returning to his bolthole in Perth did not do much to draw him back. To his astonishment, the tenseness that had ruled his life during the past months and had concentrated during the time in town had vanished here in the open air. Surely Victor would not leave today, and even if he did, he would be heading further north. There were few roads that would allow a coach to conveniently travel on, and he would find his creator again. One more day in these peaceful surroundings would not be too much... Sustenance he found very little in the close environs, but that did not bother him much; as his fare had never been plentiful, his body was used to the feeling of hunger and soon ceased to complain, appeased by a handful of hazelnuts and a few late raspberries. When he would return the following day, he would find plenty of fare along the way at this time of the year, for not only the numerous rowan trees bore fruit in plenty, but also many other shrubs. But this day the quietness of nature and the sweetness that seemed to be in the air were enough to satisfy him; they were what kept him from leaving and made him spend the hours in joyful idleness, indulging himself in the peacefulness of this sun-soaked day, dwelling on thoughts or, if they grew too disheartening, just enjoying the blooming life around him.

The butterfly slowly crossed the wide lawn that lay between the mansion at the far end of the park and this shady grove. Gently it fluttered from one of the many rosebushes to the next, delighting in the sweet smell and caressing the tender buds of the flowers that showed their full splendour in the sun of this bright afternoon, their petals embellishing the rich green of the bushes with bright spots of various, vivid colours. The butterfly plucked one of the fairest roses and adorned her dress with it, then slowly set forth to pursue her way towards the grove, not in a straight line, but playfully meandering between the blooming roses before she crossed the lawn. Often had he watched butterflies, those lovely little creatures that seemed to live only to show off their beauty, thus for a short time making the world seem a gentler place, even for one like him on whom no beauty had been bestowed. This woman was like one of them, the loosely flowing back of her yellow gown gently fluttering in the breeze, her eyes turned to the flowers that her hands gently touched and caressed. When she approached, he ducked back into the thickly growing fern and the dense foliage of the rhododendron bushes that had given him shelter during the rainy night and had so far hidden him from men's eyes. She passed not far from him, absentmindedly brushing the twigs of the shrubbery beside the path with one hand, and he held his breath. He could have touched her skirts if he had reached out for them. How easy it would be to take hold of her outstretched arm, frighten her by his looks and then let her pay for the abhorrence she would show, like that girl in Switzerland who he had used as a tool of his revenge. But then he had been furious, distressed by the revulsion everyone showed who saw him, bitterly disappointed because he had realised that what he desired most, to be loved or at least accepted by human society, would never be granted him.

No. His anger had cooled off by now. His creator had promised him a female like him to fill the painfully empty place in his heart, and this hope had calmed his rage. But the time until this dream should finally be fulfilled seemed endless to him. Months had passed, and it did not seem as if the task had already been taken up. His patience had been tried almost beyond bearing ever since the promise had been given, yet all he could do was trust and wait. And remain in hiding, hoping, watching the days pass by just like the humans that he shunned. Although not in many of them had he so quickly taken as lively an interest as in this woman, not only because of her beauty. Her behaviour filled him with sympathy, she seemed so gentle. Could someone who felt so tenderly towards nature not also come to bear the sight of someone like him? He immediately forbade himself to muse on this any longer. He had once hoped to find liking, had thought this hope to be a justified and reasonable one, considering his inborn kindliness and his endeavour to please, but it had been cruelly crushed, leaving his heart, filled with gentleness and warmth before, empty and cold. He gnashed his teeth in anguish at this memory. This had been the first time ever he had felt deep disappointment and, as a result, true rage. Perhaps once, in future, he hoped, he would be able to feel again the love and friendliness towards men that once had been his nature.

He forced his mind to return to the present. When he looked up again, the woman had sat down on a blanket spread on the ground underneath one of the trees, a little bundle beside her, and was deeply engaged in reading a book. He decided to watch her from his hiding place, for if he moved, she must hear him, and he did not want to frighten her. Rather did he wish she would stay as long as ever possible, to further enjoy her presence and the warm feeling it raised within him. So he remained where he was, silent, almost motionless, taking in every detail of her appearance. Her dress was adorned with lace and little silken flowers in plenty, as was the hat that she had now taken off and placed beside her. It was obvious that she was none of the peasants who lived around here, for every inch of her spoke of wealth and good living. She was pretty, as far as he could judge, with a fair face and graceful limbs. Her skin was pale and looked so soft, and her auburn hair was taken up at the back of her head, with a few ringlets coming down that caressed her neck whenever she moved. Every now and again she would stop reading and lean her head back against the stem of the tree, with closed eyes listening to the birds, or reflecting upon what she had been reading, he could not tell. After a short time she would take up her book again, often with a sigh, and recommence reading. One time she buried her face in her hand, and when she lifted her head he saw tears on her cheeks which she quickly dried with a corner of her fichú, taking the neckcloth off then and putting it on the blanket beside her, together with the rose that had until then been placed at her bosom. She then produced from the little bundle some pie and ate a few bits of it, all without even looking up, still completely lost in her book.

And with the same devotion that she was showing in her reading did he watch her, forgetting everything around him. All that was important to him was this woman, beautiful, delicate, and so very close to him. Cautiously did his fingers part the twigs of the bushes to behold her more clearly, trying not to make the faintest sound. Every time she looked up, her gaze turned far away into another world, he froze and held his breath for fear she might suddenly have become suspicious of another person's presence, and only relaxed when she turned her eyes down at her book again. Then he would again devour her sweet looks with his eyes, would gently move a hand, feigning to caress this beautiful picture, would watch every minuscule detail in her appearance and movement to be able to remember it clearly after she had gone again, and delight in the memory of her sweetness also during the hours of the coming night. Watching, beholding other human beings' beauty and happiness was all that was allowed him, and from this he derived some sense of pleasure, albeit always mingled with regret that someone like him would, for obvious, cruel reasons, never be able to partake in those scenes he so enjoyed to watch and to dream himself into. Sometimes the regret outweighed the pleasure, and in those moments he cursed fate for having to lead this kind of life. At other times he succeeded in fleeing reality for a few moments, and then this memory would remain for some time, help him to fight the inevitable moments of utter despondency that sometimes clenched his heart with iron grasp. This moment was one of the latter, for although he knew he would never come any closer to her than he was now, this woman's very presence, her looks, her behaviour and her bearing, all amounted to an image that deeply touched him. Before, he had always admired women for their gentleness and beauty only, but here it was more, something he could not really name, but it enthralled him as nothing ever before had. And this feeling grew with every moment he spent watching her.

The woman closed her book and put it down. She would leave, would put an end to these wonderful hours he had so much enjoyed! But just when he had ended this thought, she changed her position a little, rearranged her skirts around her and lay down on the blanket. Again she recommenced reading, but not for long, she then let the volume sink on her breast and looked up into the leaf-veiled sky, dwelling on thoughts for some time. At last she closed her eyes, her head turned to one side, with one of her slender arms gracefully framing her face. When she had not moved for a considerable time, he began to wonder. Had she really fallen asleep? Although he knew that is was folly, that he should rather seize the moment and leave, unheard and unseen whilst she was sleeping, the same feeling took hold of him that had already forced him close to Justine when she had sought shelter from the rain that night long ago. He so longed to be near this woman. But this time, no malice dwelt in his heart. He would do her no harm, for sure, but to see from up close what so far he had only beheld from a distance was too tempting to resist. Slowly and carefully he moved, anxious to avoid any loud noise that might wake her, until at last he knelt by her side. With heavily beating heart he looked at her, at her face, peaceful and fair, at her chest that was lifting and lowering with calm breaths, then timidly raised a hand, hesitated. To touch her would probably be the most foolish thing to do... But how could he resist so sweet a temptation, he who had always been denied the experience of a gentle touch?

He could, albeit with effort. Instead, he indulged in this woman's closeness for some moments longer. One of her hands still secured the open book that, its cover up, lay on her stomach where the bodice of her dress was decorated with embroidery and yellow, silken ribbons, highlighted by little spots of sunlight that had found their way through the leaves. "The Sorrows of Young Werther", this was the book that seemingly had touched her to the quick and had been the cause of her many pensive looks. Slowly, so very cautiously he moved his hand above hers, as close as ever possible without actually touching and, by this sensation, startling her. He could feel the warmth of her hand, could imagine how it must feel to hold it, enfold it with his, gently, protectively, entwine his fingers with hers in a caressing gesture. Oh, if only a feeling creature like her would be granted him! If only one of her like would grace him with her favour. He would protect her, as such a gentle being deserved, would only show kindness to her, and in mutual affection they would render each other happy...

He struggled to suppress a sigh, forced himself not to make the faintest sound. His breath crossed his lips completely noiselessly, albeit his chest was filled with sorrow that this illusion would never come true unless eventually his reluctant creator would fulfill this wish. At last, throwing all caution overboard, he dared to run his fingertips over the lace frill along the neckline of the young woman's dress. She would not feel this touch, but to him it was a closeness hardly ever experienced, and it made excitement flood through his body which outweighed even the fear that she might suddenly awake. But she did not, not whilst he was there beside her, indulging in her fair looks, satiating his longing with ludicrous daydreams of someone like her by his side, and not when he had retreated to his hiding place again. Nevertheless he simply could not leave; instead, he waited patiently until she awoke again not much later, sat up with a dreamy gaze and, after another bite of her pie, went on reading just like before, unaffected by anything that might be going on around her. Thus time flew by for both of them, and only when daylight had nearly faded and a voice called for her from the park did she stop reading, seemingly unwilling to leave this peaceful spot.

"I am coming!" she cried, hurriedly arose and picked up the blanket, then sped back towards the mansion without a further glance back. Something white remained where she had sat, and when he was sure she had left, he dared to leave his hiding place to approach the tree. Kneeling down, he picked up the fichú she had forgotten, and from its loose folds fell the rose she had plucked. He picked up the flower as well and enjoyed the sweet scent of both, but only for an instant, then he found she had also left the larger part of her pie untouched in its wrapping and, not having eaten anything for the whole day, he set himself to devour what was left. But already after a few moments he started, for hurried feet approached – so quickly that he found no time to hide.