It was perfect.
The array was drawn in straight mathematical lines, interconnected with due scientific uniformity, each rune and stroke of chalk in it's proper place. The chemicals had been measured, weighed, balanced, over and over, with a kind of obsession reserved only for the most dire of causes.
What went wrong?
The smoke cleared, the wafting energy of transmutation response overwhelmed only by the stench of desperation; of a broken soul's lament; of human stupidity.
A blood splatter.
A light flash.
A primitive gut-wrenching scream.
What went wrong?
The unearthly body rises itself from it's array of birth, a grotesque caricature of what it was meant to be. Ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes; though nothing is where it should be. Acid air is forced into the lungs with a gasp that no devil would suffer himself to hear; a hand extends forward, with flayed skin, twitching erratically at the sting of the air to it's exposed nerves. The heart contracts. It drags itself forward, now uneraseably in the world it was never meant to live in.
It's creator understands too late; beholding with core-striking terror the manifestation of his own ignorance; his weakness; his sins. Both creature and maker are paralyzed with the pain that made this unholy birth possible.
They are disgusted by each other, and themselves. The moment hangs in a morbid freeze, a macabre image of missing soul and missing body.
The creature reaches forward as though beseeching, imploring,
"Why?"
It torturedly asks 'why' and never recieves an answer for it's soulless existance. It continues to wonder, and never know. It's suffering becomes hate. It becomes a plague upon the cruel world that never gave it a chance to be complete.
The creator lives with the guilt, and weight of his deed, deep down knowing he is worth no more than the abomination he created.
And so come forth from the tragedy a nonexistant soul, and a damned one.
Dear God, what went wrong?