Alright! I am so sorry for the delay. I was studying and preparing for a pharmacy tech exam and my face erupted in pain. I have spent two weeks trying to get it resolved and after being misdiagnosed twice I went to see an oral surgeon. 10 years ago I had jaw surgery and for whatever reason, one of my plates and screws decided to act up. I am having them removed in a month so hopefully the pain will go away. Worry not! I will be fine, it should not be an intense surgery and I am going home right after it as far as I know. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :)

Chapter 15

The evening had not gone according to plan. Not even a little. Well, perhaps a little: Georgia agreed to be his wife. She had finally seen what he looked like and didn't recoil. It was the best thing that ever happened and was ultimately the reason everything went so horribly wrong. Amelia Rizoli, the beautiful Italian who hovered near him until Georgia arrived, was dead and her father was full of anger and grief; if he saw Felix he was sure to descend into madness. A special night ended with the murder of an innocent woman, the arrival of an old benefactor, distorted beyond hope. And Georgia was away from him once more.

Felix was rendered unconscious not long after the police arrived. Several officers fainted at the sight, filling Felix with some strange excitement before being subdued. Unlike Rossignol, Felix savored the attention his grotesque form was receiving. Before Felix was taken away, the officers bound him in more chains than was necessary. Rossignol was sure Felix was now chained to a wall in a damp cellar hidden in one of the old buildings past the prison and away from the public.

Nothing seemed to work when he spoke, Felix understood nothing but Agatha, whom he mocked and imitated, and Georgia whom he believed was dead by his hands. The only thing Rossignol did manage to accomplish from the night was raising the curiosity and suspicion of nearly everyone he came in contact with. If not for his friendship with the captain of the police force he was sure things would have been far worse for him. They questioned his relationship with Felix: how did they know each other and for how long? Rossignol lied to them and claimed that he hadn't seen Felix in eight long years. How could he tell anyone that he had lived in this cruel world for only three years? Or that what he assumed was his birthday was five days ago. To the Italians he knew Felix, his wife, Agatha, and their daughter, Eva, eight years ago. There was no one to contest his statement. And he was just as clueless as everyone else about Felix's mission.

That didn't stop the horde of questions. Was Amelia targeted because of her close proximity to Rossignol or was Georgia's name simply mentioned around her that led to a mentally deranged Felix to assume she was his target? Witnesses didn't see him until he attacked her. Given that she stood close to a servant's entrance, they believed he had been hiding there. Every staff member and servant of the hall would be questioned in the morning if not that very evening. A beautiful night had unraveled so horrendously. But as it stood, Rossignol was only accused of hiring a servant that either didn't like him or had a grudge against Georgia.

Felix would be executed, Rossignol had no doubt about this, there was nothing that could be done for him. Rossignol's only fear was that they would discover Felix's origin and his as a result. Would they come for him? Would he be strung up for slaughter? Or was his mind merely being cruel to him?

Rossignol sat in his small, inconspicuous apartments several streets from the inn where he housed Georgia. It was modest, he merely slept there. No one ever visited him, not that he would let them in. It was commonly believed by the locals that he was a man of mystery, and perhaps he was, but he coveted his privacy. Privacy kept him safe from rejection, kept the Venetians from fearing him and rioting. Privacy enabled him to envision a future with Georgia, the only downside was the unbearable loneliness, only Georgia was the cure to such an agonizing existence.

The apartment boasted three rooms: a tiny parlor where he took his meals— the only place the servants were allowed, a washroom, and his bedroom. In the parlor was a collection of upholstered chairs and a sofa built for two, a carved, circular table that would be sent to Georgia's home as soon as he could arrange it, and several oil paintings. A large blue and gold rug brightened the parlor bringing the room to life.

In the washroom sat a tub full of warm water. During the unexpected events of the night the few servants he kept employed made sure he had a bath ready, it was the last thing he expected, but the first thing he needed. Rossignol striped down the layers of clothing and folded each garment as neatly as he could over a small chair in the washroom. This certainly was not the apartment expected for a man of his wealth, but he was new to money and his living quarters went beyond anything he needed or desired.

Standing naked in the warm light of several candles and lanterns, Frankenstein's scarred creation stepped into the tub and sank into the water. A bath could undo any ailment and release the stress acquired over the past few days. He rested his head against the rim of the tub and let the water ease his troubles.

This was how he had woken in such a strange world. The first thing he felt was the copper sheeting of the womb the birthed him, followed by the cold slime of the water that delivered the charge that brought him to life. But the tub didn't protect him, or maybe it had in those few minutes before he took his first breath. The rush of air from his first intake was like trying to clear a room covered in years of dust. The first layer was gone, but nothing seemed any cleaner. It hurt so much for him to breathe, but then it felt great. It felt new.

From the tub he had opened his eyes and first gazed upon the dreary delivery room. Nothing made sense, nothing seemed right or wrong; it just was. His gaze then turned to the sweat soaked father he had come to loath. Victor made less sense than the rest of the room. But in the beginning Rossignol had no questions for he had no understanding. At first Victor seemed relieved and amazed, but such a strange birth had taken its toll on his creation and rendered the creature unconscious. Victor, believing that his creation died, was then able to understand the horror of his deeds and come to be grateful the creature was dead. Fate, however, would not be kind or forgiving for Victor's arrogance.

Fate intervened and Rossignol once again found himself gazing around his birthing room. Pushing himself from the tub was different then than it was now: it had been harder. He discovered quickly that his body knew what to do and how to move. Fingers grasped the edges of the tub and pulled him forward. He was as ungraceful in his movements as he could ever be. The process was beyond exhausting, and his sensations had been severely overwhelmed in the beginning. When he finally left the tub it felt like freedom, his mind was bent towards his creator passed out on the floor. The memory of it was hazy and difficult for Rossignol, but he recalled the look of abject horror and disgust Victor displayed when he came too. Those few moments between them had sent Rossignol fleeing in fear as well.

After all of that, why would Victor make another being more terrible looking and wild? What madness had Victor descended to that would compel him to show Agatha her destroyed husband?

Rossignol sat further in the tub, his knees came up out of the water and he cringed at the sight of them. They were a different hue than his arms; his limbs were from different donors. Did his torso and head once share a connection? He wondered if Georgia would be disgusted, his dark thoughts compelled a frustrated groan from him. He desperately needed her approval and love. He needed her more than he needed food for his belly or shelter over his head. Although she was safely out of Venice on her way back to Geneva, part of her remained with him. He returned to the ball once the police concluded their questions for him and found that her mask remained behind. It sat staring at him from across the tub atop a cabinet.

The pink, white, and gold mask watched him as he bore holes into it with his own gaze. He imagined her green eyes staring at him. Her soft, ruddy lips smiled at him from beneath the nose of the mask. The taste of her mouth still hung on his lips and in the solitude of his bath he wept grievously. His body burned with longing and he lamented his loss. Georgia's skin pressed against his was enough to kill him and if he wasn't with her soon, it would. He could still feel her lips against his; the feeling of his large hand pressed to the small of her back sent shivers down his own spine.

Rossignol clutched as his body and imagined her arms around him, but then he came into contact with the raised scar along his shoulder blade. The creature then stretched himself in the tub. Scars and discoloration marred his body, contorting it beyond the known beauty of many. From the scar circulating him like a necklace came another scar that descended down his chest and torso. The scar ran the length of his body, ending at the base of the now wilting flesh between his legs. Before he could stop it, the creature burst into tears as a wave of anger compounded him.

Rossignol then stood from the tub , unable to gain any comfort from it. He dressed himself quickly and snatched Georgia's mask as he hurried to his room. On his nightstand was her only note to him. Along with superior hearing, his father also endowed him with superior eyesight. Even in the dark of the impending Venetian winter, he could read her words over and over again. Doing so, however, did not bring him the comfort he thought it would. It served only to make their separation more anguishing.

Are you my poet?

Yes! He cried again and again. Rossignol went to crush the note to his chest, but remembered what he had done to the snowdrops so long ago and stopped. His passion would be his undoing. Instead, he gently kissed the letter before setting it atop the pillow next to his. On top of the letter he placed Georgia's mask and stared at it until his heavy eyelids demanded to rest.

"I love you," he whispered into the darkness.