Disclaimer: I do not own, it belongs to Mary Shelley and Hallmark Channel, since this is based on their Frankenstein miniseries. I mean no copyright infringement. Please don't sue.
I have many names and no name. I am called Thief, Murderer, Creature, Monster. Titles, brands, positions I have conformed to fit and yet despise. I am alive, but dead, created and not born, a man and many men, shunned by the world, rejected by my father, despised by myself.
It was not originally his fault. I did not ask to be made, I did not want to be made. I did not wish to be given this face, these body parts, to be a manmade freak, not even one of nature's.
But I have taken the blame from my father, haven't I? I sought to take away from my father all that I had once hoped for, and in doing so, I have also taken the blame from my father as well. It pained me, it strengthened the self-loathing in me soul, but I wanted to make my father see, understand.
I have nothing, except existence, an existence I did not asked for, but one I have the instinct to preserve. I do not want to die alone, hated, scorned, never loved and never wanted. I only wanted a mate, a family, and those were taken from me before I could even have them.
So I took them from my father, made him feel the same pain, the same lonely ache that plagued me.
I know, I knew, it was wrong. I gave in to temptation so many times and sank deeper and deeper, yet I could not gather the strength to fight it off. But sin did not hold me completely, for I felt guilt all through my executed plans of torment for my father, I tried to make sure he stayed healthy even while he sought to kill me, with the right I had given him when I sinned against him.
But did he not sin against me? Did he not make me, a sin, a creature created by a thing of God, a show of God's power, used for ungodly means, and therefore I am ungodly, by his hand? Did he not then promise me that he would commit one last, great sin and give me an ungodly mate, so that we could live in peace, away from God's people? Did he not break his word, to his son, whom he rejected upon demented birth?
For his sins, I suffered, and then for his sins, I made him suffer, and for all those sins, I suffer still. It is a sickening, dizzying, twisted cycle, a circle that will never end even though it has ended in me, for I fear that when my father made me, his ultimate sin, he used such a power, a powerful gift from God, that it has given me life eternal.
It has been decades, and I have not aged, nor have grown ill or sick, or have suffered ailments or signs of years wearing down on my body. It has kept this body, made from decrepit and dead parts and limbs, from decaying even more, kept everything working as it should.
And I am cursed, a twisted, reverse curse of Adam, that not I can never die, because I was born, a sin. Not bathed in sin, but born a sin.
And I have made sure that I keep that, because I could not fight of the temptation of revenge after the world rejected me as I tried, not understanding what or who I was completely, to be a part of it. I only wanted to love and be loved.
Like my father was.
He had all I wanted, and he gave me life, only to take away my hopes and dreams of happiness. I tormented him, I tortured him, and he assumed I hated him.
I wanted to, at times. I would succeed, at times. But I did not completely hate my father. For I became the monster he accused me of being that first time we spoke. I led him to his death, and he left me completely, thoroughly, totally alone in this wretched world, to wander in the shadows and the untouched lands that only God had ever seen before my eyes beheld those forbidden places.
Those lands have been my hunting ground, my home undiscovered. I have claimed them as my own, and humanity has shunned the bitter cold that barely has any effect on me. I am safe in these lands, and I am alone in this desolate place.
It is the price I must pay for existing and for the crimes I committed when I was not accepted. It is my penance, my frigid Hell, my lonely state of existence, an existence I did not ask for, but have the will to preserve for whatever reason that only God Himself knows.
Alone, cold, rejected. Yet I do not wish to die.
For my crimes, I deserve death. But to die without ever knowing the gentle touch of a wife, the blissful laughter of a child from my own seed, to never know love in any form, having seen it in front of me so many times, is it so wrong?
I am a monster by fate and by choice. Perhaps, if I continue to live, I can escape my titles of sin and depravity. And someday find love in one of its forms.