Frankenstein, E Chapter 2: 1 Out, a frankenstein fanfic

Almost 2 years later

Sometimes, even now, I feel as though I will soon wake up and find this all to be nothing more than a horrid dream, or rather, the worst of nightmares; for to accept this reality without doubt would be to submit to death.

I stopped at the end of the hallway in front of a heavy oak door. My breathing was normal but I could not slow my rapidly beating heart. I was aware of nothing more then the cold metal against the hot skin of my side. Slowly, only to make sure no noise was made, I was sure of my decision; I opened the door and slipped inside. The sleeping form on the bed remained undisturbed, its chest rising and falling evenly with deep sleep. Suddenly the boy rolled over, his open eyes staring right at me…..

My eyes shot openand I took in the empty walls of my room. I let out a gust of air sat up slowly, turned and sat hunched over the side of my bed with my head in my hands, massaging my head against the intense ache that was causing it to throb.

"18," I whispered to myself with the slightest hint of awe, then with sarcasm "Happy Birthday." This display of emotion, no matter how slight, was some thing I would only although in the complete solitude of my room.

'Three and a half years. I have been here for three and a half years,' I cemented the fact in my mind. With a sigh I got up and started getting ready for my day, THE DAY. As I did, I reflected on my time at the orphanage, specifically the last two years, since I found out Victor was dead:

That day was the last of my life, my old life. I entered the numbness again and I am sure I will never break free, for this time it was different than before. It is not an absence; I am not gone from this world as I was before. I am not in shock and denial. This time my "numbness" is a result of acceptance. It is a state all human beings should live their life in. I was, and still am, aware of all the pain, of how the lose affected me; of the crushing sadness, and later the fire of rage.

And I accepted it, felt it, and ignored it.

From that day forth I let nothing affect me, never was there even a ripple of disturbance in my calm, serene, perhaps dull demeanor. While a torrent of complex emotions constantly ravaged through my insides in my outward conduct I was lifeless, the living dead. When I finished reading the letter I had folded it up neatly, put it in my pocket, and walked calmly back to my seat. That was how it started.

In those first years at the orphanage, when I thought Victor was still alive, I did not hold much interest for any of my companions, but I interacted with them fair amount. I could have a casual conversation at lunch with some "buds" or participate in some pick up sports game in the free hours of the afternoon willingly with at least a small amount of sincere enjoyment in those pointless activities.

That was something that changed. I did not ignore those who tried to talk to me after, but neither did I do anything to entice the conversation. My favorite response was a shrug or a simple raise of the eyes that signified "I heard you, I just don't care, don't say it again." First the others stopped asking me to join in their activities; then one by one they stopped talking to me all together. I didn't mind, it was easier to keep up my charade that way. I attended my classes without missing a day, but put in no more or less effort than was absolutely necessary. If it were not for those rare times when the professor would call on me in class I might have forgotten the sound of my own voice completely.

The headmaster had not been so easy to shake off. He was a good man, genuinely interested in the lives and wellbeing of the boys in his institutions. Once a month, about, I would come about in the rotation to spend a couple hours in his office, talking about this or that, that was the idea any way. He seemed to have a special interest in me and our time together, perhaps because I was more troubled then any of the others and that was interesting, or because he'd been a part of the situation that put me here, or simply because he wanted to help, and though I would not admit it, I needed it worst of all. Whatever the reason he had a deep determination to get me to open up in those sessions. He would pick and nab question after question, and the sessions dragged, and soon enough he accepted that I was a locked door; even the most persistent, if they are intelligent, realize when there is no hope for something.

We still had the sessions now but they were different, practically scripted and it was never expected that I speak.

I would knock on the door three times when his voice would call, "come in." His office featured an array of ornate wood work with a square desk in the middle filled with neatly stacked papers. There was a plush rug on the floor and to the left there was a large stone fire place that always crackled with a lively fire on these days. By the fireplace there were two arm chairs. I suspected the room would very warm and comforting, to those who were susceptible to that kind of thing.

Anyway moving on, I would enter and he would be sitting in the chair on the right side of the fire place. I would walk and stand before and he would greet me, "Hello Ernest."

I would simply nod and then take the other chair to which he gestured. With a sigh he would reach up and take our current book from the mantle, or if it was a day for a new one he would get up and walk up and down the book shelf that covered the back wall until he found one that particularly appealed to him. Then he would read aloud, for several hours at least. In the beginning I think the stories he picked were meant to inspire me. They all told different versions of a tale where the main characters would have troubles in his life galore, but in the end in a miraculous turn of events everything would wind up okay. Then later he moved to classical pieces of artistic literature and enlightening works of scholars. Now he read the darker pieces of those who, like myself, cast the world in shadow. I could see his reasoning, perhaps a mirror would work where hope and elegance and intelligence had not.

But it was still all the same to me. Sometimes I would listen, and others I let my mind wander as I watched the fire slowly consume its food. Light, life, energy, darkness destruction, death, in the end it was all the same.

When he would finish for the day he would put would put down the book and we would both sit in silence for a few moments. Then he would take in a deep breath and breathe it out "Well then, how 'bout that?"

I would raise my eyes from the fire to meet his steady cause but never did I say a word. I watched his face fall ever so slightly as his slight hope failed him every time.

In truth if I were to admit to the depths of my feelings I would have to allow that disappointing the kind man hurt me. He was a good man, I revered and cared for him. But such affection was against the rules I now lived by, and its expression would not be tolerated. So, I would hold my gaze steady while he tried to pierce my cold exterior his. Finally, after and immeasurable moment he would get up, come over, and place his hands on either of my shoulders.

"Well, Ernest, my boy, I think we are done then, unless there is something, anything, you wish you discuss?"

I wonder if he would have changed his wording if I would have opened up; for there was definitely nothing I wanted to discuss, but there was certainly much I needed to. Yes, I wonder, but I doubt it. It would have been like being trapped in an inescapable room, and someone on the outside trying to help you out, and then they suddenly have a shovel, only to but the ground is pure granite rock; the impossible has only become slightly less hopeless.

Anyway, I would stand up, every time, stand before him for a moment, then walk out of the room without a word.

Overall I lived for nothing but to not not exist, and I made it so that nothing and no one would, or could, live for me. After about a year this way I had a great revelation.

I had experienced no more loss, no extremes of pain and grief. No dramatic change had shaken my world. Every time before when I had thought all that I could lose had been taken from me, I was struck again, in a way I had not thought of, prepared for, or imagined possible. Now I had not simply accepted what I thought was nothing, but pushed everything away, so that I had less than that; and I had succeeded.

You must have nothing, so nothing can be taken from you. It was my new philosophy and I followed it like the obsessive subject of a dark religion.

Almost immediately after I came to this conclusion, as if the world were trying to test the strength of my tie to it, Leo came to the orphanage.

Leopald Francais Cogsworth was a remarkable specimen of a boy. He was handsome and friendly, well behaved and cheerful. He had an intense work ethic, always stood for what was right, and was very responsible. He was 17 when he came to the Geneva Home for Orphaned boys after both his parents were lost to same unknown disease.

Leo, as he preferred to be called, was off the kind that people were automatically drawn to. He charmed the teachers and enchanted his companions. He had an air of light about him, an atmosphere of untainted hope which intoxicated all those who for so long had been living in the same boat of misfortune. He had suffered as much as most of us, but from some glowing spirit within he seemed to draw strength to not just merely carry on, but to be truly happy.

He was one of a kind, and he was too good for this harsh world. He could have had anyone he desired as his friend, the popular, the athletic, the smart, but he chose me, the social reject; it was his one screw up he couldn't charm his way out of.

I tried to ignore him at first as I did with all the others, but he would not be deterred. When I would not speak would carry on the conversation, pausing at points to look at me, then. as if I had said something he would let out a joyful laugh and pronounce "Of course," then continue on as if my non-existent input had inspired him with a new topic.

In spite of myself I found I enjoyed listening to him. Soon I didn't care that my face displayed my interest and emotions. Once I even laughed with him.

At first it was quite comical; I believe I frightened him for a moment as that sound so unfamiliar to me, then and now, choked its way up my throat to make a noise that sounded somewhat similar to an animal being strangled. But soon he realized what it was supposed to be and the greatest joy became upon his face and a triumphant smile spread across as his face.

His laugh, like a choir of angels so melodic it was, rang out pure across the fields behind the orphanage. And the sun which shone behind him seemed to make him glow and reflected over his golden tinted hair to make the appearance of a halo, and suddenly before was a glorious sight, a fallen angel.

So I laughed hard and long, because I wanted to relish that sight. I laughed because this once I could, and the more I did the more recognizable a sound it became and memories of happier times flooded back to me. But mainly I laughed, because I did not want to cry, because I had cried so much and I didn't want to anymore.

I had realized several things in Leo's joy. He was an angel, fallen to test me, to show me the truth, to cement into my life that theory which I had so proudly proclaimed at first, and now scorned, what I would have given to be wrong.

In Leo's laugh and mine I saw every joyous time I'd shared with my family, only to have it ripped away. In his shining appearance I saw someone too good for this world, and would be taken from it harshly and unjustly, only after the cruel world had found a way to shatter his irrepressible spirit. In my laugh I saw the truth, the deception needed to do what is right since most have not made the revelation I have. I realized that Leo would die, and I could either let it happen so that the world corrupted him and the end caused yet another loss to me, or I could do it.

I could control everything. I could send him back to heaven where he belonged and I could thwart the pain that loomed to attack me on the horizon. I would remove the problem before it could become one; and it would not hurt if I were to do it because I knew it was right, this was justified, because I loved him.

That was why I laughed; I was going to kill Leopald Francais Cogsworth, my only friend in the world.

I wasted no time once I knew my task. That night at dinner I snuck a large meat cleaver from the kitchen. The only one who noticed my absence was Leo, and he swallowed easily my bathroom lie; in his innocence and my deception I saw again the beauty of my plan, it was like the black night swallowing the light of the day…natural.

I laid awake in my bed until I presumed it to be midnight. I rose without a sound slipped out my door soundlessly and made my way down the chilly corridor with its marble floor and stone walls.

I froze dead in my tracks; waiting for him to do something, anything, perhaps inquire why I was in his room at this hour of night.

But nothing happened; his breath kept coming and going the same way. He was not awake; he slept with his eyes open. Of course! If this was my test why should it not be as difficult as possible? Why would it not be that I would have to look into his eyes and watch his light leave the world? I proceeded to his bedside and took the knife from my side and roamed over his body for my spot. Finally, my hand hesitated with the knife hovering right over his heart. I was not cruel; I would make it fast; I only wished he would not have to suffer at all.

I looked into his clear, pure eyes for a long moment, and then, with a sigh, used my other hand to put a sheet over his face.

I was not a coward; I would have gladly held his gaze through the event. But I was not strong enough to kill him fast enough where he would not have a chance to see me, and he would not be able to understand. I was doing this so that he may not know the corruption of the world; what sense would it make for him to die in the presence of what he would have believed to be betrayal, wrongly so true, but to be understood.

Sometimes when one does what they know is right for someone else when they don't they say "I'm sorry" but I wasn't.

And so I thrust the blade home in his sacred heart, muffled the half scream he let out with the sheet, and held it there until his thrashing stopped. I did not have to wait long. I used the extra sheet I had covered his face with to wrap his chest and ease the pooling of blood onto his bed.

Then I placed the blankets back over his still form, tucking him in like a sleeping child. I looked to his face. It was frozen in surprise and shock, but there was no terror, fear or pain; I smiled slightly to myself, I had done well.

I turned his head so that his neck, which had been at an awkward angle, rested his head neatly on his pillow. I closed his eyes, shut his mouth and stroked his soft hair, so easily could he have been sleeping.

I leaned down and whispered, "Your welcome," in his ear, then turned, and walked away.

Leo's "murder" caused quite a stir at the orphanage, but of course there was no way to figure out who was to blame, "because no one was" I thought to myself, "it was nature's course."

To the surprise of many I did speak at his funeral, I felt I owed him that much. It was he who had proceeded my final understanding, and for me that he had ever had to endure this cruel world, so far from the paradise where he belonged.

My reflections came to a close I straightened my tie, otherwise all ready for the day, and the sun had taken a fair position in the sky. I doubt any of the other students were up, seeing as it was Saturday and we had no classes, but I suspected the headmaster would be hustling about in his corridors, preparing for another day. In fact, more than doubt and suspect, these were things I was confident of and counted on. I took the pack, which held my few possessions, from over the chair and slipped it over my slim shoulders. Then I strolled leisurely through the courtyards to the main building, went inside, and knocked on the headmaster's door as I had so many times before.

"Come in," he invited.

I stepped into the familiar room and saw him sitting in a chair by the fireplace, drinking a cup of tea, perfect.

He glanced over as the door opened and jumped up quickly in surprise when he saw that it was me.

"Ernest, my boy, what an unexpected visit! Welcome, of course, but so early, is there something you need?" He gleamed at me intrigued by this break of rigid routine. When I had spoken at Leo's funeral, elaborately and willingly, it had rekindled his hope to unravel me, as though he had been given a loose string to pull, but it had quickly been dosed back down as I went back to my silent self the moment I stepped down from the grave. Today, with this break of pattern the process began again, but of all days today I would not disappointed the kind, good man. I would give him everything he desired. That is the only way it worked.

And so in a way that made all the muscles there sore I pulled my face into a convincing smile and greeted him, "Good Morning Headmaster, I am sorry to bother you so early, of course, but I did have need to speak with you. You see, today is my 18th birthday…"

His face beamed; tangible waves of joy rolled of him as I spoke. Then he interrupted me with a chortle, "Of course it is dear Ernie, and congratulations may I add you'll make a fine young man indeed. But did you think I forgot? Oh, no, no, you merely beat me to the punch! I had no idea you were such and early riser; tis a good quality though. Wait here just a moment."

I let him prattle, nodding and smiling accordingly, then waited obediently and contently. I took advantage of his absence and situated my self in the chair opposing the one he had left. I poured myself a cup of the tea and refreshed his. He returned to the office from his inner chambers after a few short chambers with a small box in hand.

He saw me and the steaming cups by the fireplace, and sighed happily as he took his earlier position. He leaned over and placed the box on my knee, "There now, take a look see in there." He leaned back and sipped his tea.

This was unexpected, I looked down nervously at the box; he owed me nothing. "Sure, really no, you shou---" I tried to say, but he wouldn't have it.

"Now, I have quite enjoyed watching you grow, I will admit that I have a special fondness for you and hope you will indulge me in this. It is not everyday a boy becomes a man!"

It wasn't right. This was a day where I should do no receiving, but I should also give him everything he wants. Of course he would want to give me something. I reached took hold of the box, and opened it. Inside there was a fine silver pocket watch and chain. Quite fancy and distinguished it was the kind you might find in the pocket of a wealthy man. It cost a pretty penny I'm sure, but for all that it was trivial, it was no more than a watch, silver or any common metal, it worked just the same.

"Nice, isn't?"

"Yes sir, thank you, I am quite humbled, it is more than I deserve." I said, conventionally but with real meaning. I placed it in my bag which I had rested at my feet, trivial as it was it would be a nice memoir.

The headmaster noticed now for the first time that I had all my belongings with me and his eyes, which had followed my hands to my bag, flashed to my face. "Are you going somewhere Ernest?" he asked with slight shock.

"Actually, yes professor. That's what I came here this morning to talk about. As I am 18 now I am no longer required to stay at the orphanage. Don't get me wrong, I hold nothing against it, for it is a fine institution and you a good man, but I feel I need to expand my horizons. My spirit yearns to see the world and now that that dream is in reach I cannot wait another day. I come here today to say goodbye, and hopefully receive your blessings on my journeys." These lies rolled easily off the tongue, for although I know he would have most preferred I stay in his company, such words would be much more comforting then the truth.

As I had spoke his shock had turned to enthusiasm, and he practically bounded out of his seat. I rose with him, albeit much slower. He took my hand in his in the formal handshake and then pulled me close so that he might put his other arm around my shoulder and we walked to the door.

"Of course, of course my boy, my blessings and encouragements to you. You were always so smart I should have expected you couldn't be cooped up in a little old orphanage in the countryside of Switzerland. Of course! Go, go, have adventures, explore!" We reached the door and he turned to face me, "And may perhaps one day you could find the time to stop back and share your experiences with your old fat professor from that inconsequential little orphanage?" he offered.

I smiled widely at him, "Of course." That lie was even easier; I had felt the cold sweat on his hand. Soon nothing I had just said to this man would make a difference.

As the door closed behind me I could hear him coughing within. I felt the empty the empty vile in my left coat pocket; he would be dead before I reached the street.

When I stepped out of the main building into the open air I could smell spring in the air. The lingering banks of snow from the winter receded more each day. There was no item in my pack that weighed any significant amount in its own right, nor in contrast to another; yet as I walked the cobble path from the front steps to the street two items in there seemed to me to have an incredible pull.

First there was the silver watch, ticking away quietly somewhere in the bottom.

Then there was a mere piece of paper, yellowing and folded with wrinkles galore, crumbling at the edges. It was the real reason I had decided to leave. The letter was from a sir Robert Walton.

I reached the end of the path and stepped through the wrought iron archway, but turned to look back before I proceeded down the street.

I stared at the orphanage from the street side of the fence for a long moment in the light of the early morning and whispered in an air of awe and triumph…

"I am out."