As a head's up, little bit of violence and abuse in this chapter. But, you can't have a faithful Frankenstein retelling without the monster breaking some bones.
Standard disclaimer: Even if it's in the public domain, I don't own Frankenstein.
For far too long, Eva stood before the door, clenching and unclenching her hands until her knuckles ached, grinding her teeth until her jaw begged her to stop.
She wanted to curse Agatha and her control over Eva and her words. Stay inside. She wanted to curse like M. Schneider cursed God.
Eva forcibly relaxed her jaw and huffed at the door. No, that would do little good. And it would be ungrateful, after all Agatha had done for her.
She'd be better off cursing this Victor, probably. And what good would that do, if he couldn't even hear her? If she didn't even know who he was?
Though she dragged her feet on the floor, she turned her face away from the door and put herself to work as a distraction.
Five hours later, she'd cleaned the entire flat. Twice. She'd swept, dusted, wiped, washed, polished, waxed, and swept again until, if the room were only a little bigger, and better located, it could have been fit for nobility. Perhaps not very choosy nobility, but all the same.
Eva tapped impatiently on the cover of Blake's closed book of poetry, staring at the walls for any sign of further dirt. But she'd been too thorough.
Already she'd tried to read, but frustration and impatience had made her drop the sturdy cover of the book at least three times. Still, it didn't cause anything else that needed cleaning to appear within their single room.
Eva sniffed, annoyed. The tenement reeked, but there wasn't much she could do about that. Not unless she wanted to try cleaning it all, and she could guess how far she'd get with that. If perhaps she only looked a little less uncanny, it might be worth offering her skills to the rest of the tenement.
Assuming that the thick layer of dirt and soot wasn't the only thing holding the building together, of course.
But if it was? She could learn to build, if cleaning wasn't enough. She was strong, after all. She needed less rest, less food than anyone else. She could be useful.
She would only need to hide her face, or find a way to work alone rather than on a team. Surely that couldn't be impossible?
Stay inside.
And what of this Victor? Agatha meant well. But even Eva knew that only one name—and a name like that—wouldn't be much to go on. On top of working and feeding herself, she wasn't likely to have that much time that she could track down such elusive knowledge.
Only Eva knew what he looked like, besides.
She could guess what Agatha would say. That the price of leaving would be too much to pay, even for this.
"Knowledge," she told herself under her breath, "has always had a price." And that price would have to be worth the pursuit. Even if she had to fall from security to do it.
Eva stood up and went to the small trunk at the foot of the bed to reclaim her men's clothing. Perhaps she could pretend she was a male laborer who'd been in some accident. That couldn't be too far out of the realm of belief, considering the little she'd glimpsed of the downtrodden before coming to this tenement.
Whatever Agatha said about not working, about not searching for Victor on her own, it might be worth asking. It might be worth trying.
Just as Eva had tugged on the blue linen jacket, she heard Agatha's soft scolding once more. Stay inside.
But who could stay cramped up in a tiny, dark room for forever?
Pushing Agatha's words out of her head, Eva grabbed the doorknob and plastered on a wide, hopefully friendly smile. She took a breath and turned the handle. The door parted, throwing a streak of light into the windowless hallway.
However, just before Eva could throw it open entirely, she paused. Pictured how grotesque her smile probably looked. Pictured the inevitable contorted mask of terror on the unsuspecting victim of her friendship.
"H'llo?" came a drunken slur.
"Ugh." She slammed the door shut. A squeak of alarm followed, and the footsteps shuffled quickly on. She ignored them.
Eva didn't know how to do anything except help. And no one wanted her to do that.
She had no destiny except to be controlled by others. How could that be her fate?
Next door, her neighbor pounded on the wall and snarled a foreign complaint. It was easy to guess at the meaning: shut up.
Eva said nothing, but her eyes narrowed on the blank plaster.
The meek little voice of his wife spoke up, just barely audible. What was more audible, however, was the smack of flesh on flesh that followed immediately after. Again, and again, and again, interrupting as much as causing the woman's cries.
Her self-control, already at the breaking point, cracked. Heat flooded her body, propelling her to the door, which she slammed open as she entered the hallway. If there was anyone out there watching, she did not see for the haze of red clouding the edges of her vision. The strange curses were louder here, but they fell silent when she shoved on the neighbor's door.
The doorjamb splintered beneath her hands, letting the door swing open on weakened hinges. A man stood before her, brandishing a pan. His wife huddled on the floor just behind him, a round red mark burning her cheek.
While he might have been prepared to fight a moment ago, her neighbor almost dropped the pan at the sight of Eva. She stood rather tall—taller than him. She could only imagine how frightening the rest of her looked besides her height.
"You," she growled, and her voice grew raspier and more menacing than she'd ever allowed it here. "Stop. Now."
He staggered, his lips working silently. His fingers dipped into his shirt and pried out a carved wooden symbol, which he clutched hard without taking his eyes from her.
"I will not ask again," Eva insisted. "You don't touch her." She pointed at the wife, who cowered into a tight little ball with her hands over her head.
Seeing that the symbol was having no effect, the man changed tactics. Eva saw his stance shift, his arm flex. It was an action she was all too familiar with, and her hand had extended before he'd even swung the pan at her. She caught him by the wrist and, with her free hand, wrenched the implement away.
Her eerie touch and the sight of her monstrous hand made him howl and writhe in her grip. Eva couldn't deny that, just this once, his terror felt good rather than mortifying.
The cycle of terror had fallen now on the aggressor, rather than his victim.
However, as Eva considered him, Agatha's words intruded on the red haze filling her brain. This pathetic creature would begin the cycle again when she was gone. And she could not risk coming back a second time—if she could risk coming back at all.
Eva glanced once at the wife. She'd suffer for this, just as much as Eva might. Unless…
Unless Eva broke the cycle, once and for all.
The man's wrist snapped. His shouts stuck in his throat and his eyes bulged.
Pointing at his wife for clarity, Eva grated out a warning, each syllable chopped for emphasis. "You do not touch her." She jabbed her finger again, this time at his other arm. "Or I will know, and I will break your other hand."
At last, he began his howls afresh, his knees bending in pain. Eva finally let go and watched him sink to the floor.
Beyond him, the wife's gaze slowly shifted from her wailing husband up to Eva. But it was not fear alone that made her mouth hang open; Eva recognized the look as shock, rather than terror. Shock—and perhaps, in her eyes, gratitude?
"You should leave," she said, not knowing if the woman even understood her. "Leave, while you can." Before he healed, and lashed out once more.
Eva heard the thud of boots on the staircase at the end of the hall. The immigrant woman wasn't the only one who should leave. But there was no going back to Agatha's room. Not anymore.
Oh. Agatha. What would happen to her? How would she react once she found out? Would Eva's pursuers blame her?
What had Eva done?
Trying to ignore the twist in her heart, swallowing spikes of regret in her throat, she crossed the room, pulling her hat over her eyes, and pushed open the window.
The void between her and the empty street greeted her with a rush of cold air. Eva paused, eyes on the ground.
She had no choice.
Eva climbed out the window and lowered herself as much as she could. Her fingers clenched at the stones and wooden planks of the building one last time. Then, with a pang of regret, she let go.
The fall hurt less than she'd always anticipated, but not as little as would have been ideal. Pain shot through her ankles, her knees. But the joints and bones did not break as she hit the cobblestones, and the fall only knocked her to the ground.
She grunted, rolling back to her feet with her hands on her knees. Panting, she looked up at the open window one last time. She could hear shouting, but only from the tenement. Those around her either hadn't seen, or were merely staring.
But it never stayed "merely staring" for long. Eva forced herself to turn and walk down the street, each initial step a limp.
This was her price, she told herself, feeling her stride become a little easier as the pain passed. Her choice. Her fall. This would have to be worth it.