The Modern Prometheus
Author: Nicole Mello
Date: 2018-06-16 04:00:00+00:00

THE

MODERN PROMETHEUS

THE

MODERN PROMETHEUS

BY NICOLE MELLO

For Henry, without whom there would be no life at all.

“These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike.”

— Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley —

Prologue

My name is Dr. Roberta Margaret Walton. I have spent my entire life captivated by mysteries and true crime, as well as investing myself in helping others. Both of these interests have led me to where I am now, which is trying to both understand and assist those who are deemed “criminally insane.” My entire life, I have been working towards this, my current career. When I was a child, I used to play cops and robbers with my younger sister, and I remember trying to figure out why I would be robbing the fake jewelry store made of my sister’s gummy candies. My backstories always frustrated her, but I loved them.

There was only so much cops and robbers I could play as a child, though, before I had to grow up and realize that I had to move on. I had to become practical, responsible. Initially, I considered becoming a policewoman, or maybe a detective, but I dismissed both ideas. Neither had precisely what I was looking for; finding someone who had committed a crime was not what I wanted to do. What I did want to do was figure out why that person had committed the crime. I wanted to help them understand what they had done. I wanted to understand what they had done, and why they had done it.

I got my bachelor’s degree in psychology from Columbia University. I then attended the Columbia University Medical Center, Department of Psychology; it was there that I completed my psychiatric residency and got my medical degree. I went on to become licensed to practice in the state of New York. From the many studies I have engaged in throughout the course of my career, I discovered what it was that I truly wanted to do: to work with criminals who operated under the insanity defense.

After I earned my certification from the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology, I was able to start working at the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. This is where I am currently employed. I love my work here; being able to work with those who have been pushed aside by society is something I have dreamed of since those gummy-robbing days. I wake up every day wanting to do this job. I am forever grateful that I fought so hard for this job because, if I had not, I would never have met Victor.

Victor Perseus Frankenstein was assigned to me on March 15, 2015. He had been arrested in Dawson City, Yukon, Canada on November 1, 2014 for the murders of Henry Florence Clerval and Elizabeth Mary Lavenza. According to the report made by the arresting officer, Frankenstein was, at the time of his arrest, delirious and hysterical, and seemed to be showing signs of hypothermia, severe malnutrition, and ataxia, which was later identified as a manifestation of his vitamin B1 deficiency. He was also, to quote his arrest report, “raving like a madman” at the time of his arrest, and would not stop trying to explain his situation to everyone he laid eyes on. After several days of being held in Canada, he was extradited and returned to New York, where he was sent to Mount Sinai Hospital to have his physical conditions treated.

Once Frankenstein was deemed physically able to leave the hospital, he was transferred to Manhattan Psychiatric Center, at which point he was placed under my care. Upon reading Frankenstein’s file, I was intrigued; he had no motive for the murders which he had been accused of, but there seemed to be no other possible culprit. His only surviving family member, a sister named Gloria, seemed to have vanished, and left no trace behind. Frankenstein was, for all intents and purposes, alone in this world, and it seemed obvious to most that it was his own fault that he was.

Regardless, as I said, I was intrigued. He had no motive to kill either Clerval or Lavenza; in fact, both of them were people whom he claimed to love dearly. Lavenza was his adopted sister, and Clerval a neighbor and close friend. He knew them both from childhood, and maintained these relationships into his adult life, until their deaths. Also of interest was the fact that Frankenstein was quoted in his file as repeatedly telling police officers and hospital staff: “He’s still out there.” I wanted to know who this mysterious “he” was. Could he be the real killer, if Frankenstein wasn’t? Was he another victim? I had so many questions, and I was far from getting any answers.

The first time I met with Frankenstein, he was hysterical. I attempted to calm him down enough to speak with him, but, to him, it was as though I was not even there in the room. Though he would occasionally make eye contact, he was clearly still beyond reaching at that time. However, I would not be swayed; I remained intrigued, and returned to work with him every day that week, then the next week, and then the week after that. It took a great deal of time, which was to be expected after a nervous breakdown of that magnitude, but he, eventually, began to recognize me and calm down somewhat.

It was clear to me almost immediately that not only was Frankenstein experiencing some form of post-traumatic stress disorder, but also that he was undergoing flashbacks, hallucinations, acute paranoia, extreme mood swings, acute anxiety, and severe panic attacks. Frankenstein often looked to the side, as though there was a person there when there was not, and he would speak to them as though I was not present. He would, on occasion, become violent, and it seemed that he was not himself. I was not afraid of him, though I probably should have been. To me, his extreme reaction to his situation and ensuing nervous breakdown only served as evidence that he might be innocent of his alleged crimes. Over time, I became more determined to uncover his full, true story.

One day, which my professional journal remembers as July 9, 2015, I was in the middle of insisting to Frankenstein that I believed him, as I often was. On this date, Frankenstein stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked directly at me, almost as though he was seeing me for the first time. He asked me what, exactly, it was that I believed. I replied that I believed he was innocent, and that he was “not crazy,” as he would often assert to or at me. He stared at me for a long moment in complete silence; this was the quietest he had been since I had met him. Finally, he said to me that he wanted to tell someone who believed him what had happened to him. He said he could tell the full truth if he was allowed. Again, I assured him that I did, in fact, believe him. He requested that I return to him the next day with a recording device and an open mind. It was the most lucid he had ever been. I agreed.

I returned on July 10, 2015 with several recording devices, my laptop computer, a notepad, and a pen. Whatever it was that Frankenstein so urgently wanted to tell me, I was prepared to listen to and record every word. I was granted permission by the administration to bring him from his assigned in-patient room to my office, though his guards insisted that he remain in his handcuffs. Not believing him to be dangerous, and seeing how uncomfortable he was, I took the liberty of removing his handcuffs myself once we were secured in my office, a fact which I hope the higher-ups at Manhattan Psychiatric Center will be able to overlook, if they ever read this book. I knew I would be more likely to receive information, and a better quantity and quality of information, if he was comfortable and felt safe. I made him assure me, repeatedly, that he would not harm me in any way, nor would he attempt to escape. He seemed offended that I would even insist on such a thing, but became grateful when I removed his cuffs.

Following this prologue is the exact transcription of Victor’s story from that day in July. I have combed through each and every word to ensure that it is verbatim. I want no part of this story to be left out or ignored. Like Victor said to me, you must go into his story with an open mind. At several points during his telling of his story, he attempted to edit my written notes, both in my notebook and on my computer. However, the files on my recording devices remained unaltered, and so the true story, in essence, lives on in this transcript.

Before we began, Victor examined each of my devices and deemed each of them satisfactory. I showed him where he and I were meant to sit, which was a setup that I often used — two seats, close but not too close, with a table beside us. On this table I had my instruments to record the conversation, a coffee for myself, and a glass of water for him. Once he had chosen his chair and answered my inquiry, saying yes, he was comfortable, I turned on the first recording device and motioned for him to speak. Victor Perseus Frankenstein, a man who was, on paper, a villain and a murderer, began to speak. The following is exactly what he said.

Chapter One

My name is Victor Perseus Frankenstein. I was born in January of 1987. My birth certificate does not have an exact date, for unknown reasons, but my mother arbitrarily chose January 1st as the day we celebrated my “birthday.” She had her reasons for it — a new year, she said, meant new life. She loved symbolism. She was a very interesting woman, my mother. Of course, she was not my real — I’m sorry, saying she wasn’t “real” would be inaccurate and unfair to her. What I mean is that she was not my biological mother. Of course she was my real mother. She raised me from the age of four. I, unfortunately, do not remember too much of my life prior to her adopting me, and what I do remember is mostly what I was told.

Yes, I don’t remember much of my early childhood, but I do remember my birth mother. I did not know her first name until I was older, at which point my father told me her name was Linh. Trần Thị Linh. My mother often told me she was beautiful and very kind, but I never believed her. How could a kind woman leave a child, her child? How could I understand when I was that abandoned child? I never understood. I never will understand completely, I’m sure. Sorry, I’m sorry, I keep getting sidetracked. My birth mother. Yes, Linh. I do not think of Linh as my mother, like I said before. My real mother’s name was Caroline. But Linh, as I was sometimes told, looked a great deal like me, and my mother once told me that I shared her spirit and her drive. I wish that I did not.

I do not know who my biological father is. The birth certificate my mother obtained had no father listed, and Linh never said anything to her that would help my mother find him. I’m fine with not knowing who my he is. It’s better for him, especially now, that he stays as far away from me as he possibly can. I would sometimes think about him, though. I wondered what he was like. I had a photo of my birth mother. Only one, but it was enough to at least know what she looked like. She had black eyes, dark hair, slight features and a slim face. My father, the biological father of my imagination, had brown eyes, like mine. In my mind, he was tall, like myself and my mother, and he was cruel, so Linh had to leave him behind. I never really did spend much time thinking about him.

According to my birth certificate, I was born in Biên Hòa, Vietnam. I speak fluent Vietnamese, taught to me by Linh when I was young. My mother said that Linh spoke with an accent, and, when asked, informed my mother that she spoke not only Vietnamese, but also French, German, and Italian, among others, and was planning for me to learn the same. I don’t know if that was at all true. As it turned out, at the time, she only taught me her first language of Vietnamese. It was lucky that my mother — Caroline, not Linh — knew Vietnamese, because I do not know what would have become of me if she could not communicate with myself and Linh.

As I said, I was born in Biên Hòa, and I spent the first two years of my life there. I do not remember much of it. If anything, I remember the trees, which seemed plentiful to me when I was a child in the city. I loved the trees. The city was beautiful in my baby’s brain, and I returned to it once with my family on a vacation when I was eleven. It was different when I was there with Linh. We were essentially homeless then; sometimes, we would spend time with a friend of hers, but we typically lived on the streets. When she finally saved enough money to do so, we moved to New York. She considered America to be the land of opportunity. Vietnam was no place for us to be homeless, and Linh thought America would be better for the both of us.

We were just as homeless in Manhattan as we were in Biên Hòa. In America, we knew nobody, so there was no reprieve from the streets. I remember this time in my life better than I remember my time in Biên Hòa, but I still don’t remember it very well. I remember my mother leaving for periods of time, telling me to stay in an alley or behind a dumpster or any place she thought I might be able to stay for hours or days. She would sometimes come back with something for me to eat. In the end, I had accepted that she had to leave me now and then, because I knew I might get to eat at the end of her absence. After a while, she started to leave me in shelters instead of alleyways, which I was grateful for. After a while, she would only leave me at one particular shelter. This was Mont Blanc Homeless Shelter, which was also, fortunately, a soup kitchen. If anything ever comes of this story, make sure you get that name right — Mont Blanc Homeless Shelter. I want to thank them. It was indirectly, but that shelter is the reason I found the woman who would become my mother.

As I said earlier, Caroline, Linh, and I all spoke Vietnamese. When Linh first met Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein, Caroline was working at the soup kitchen. I remember it so vividly; it was always so crowded, but Caroline was like a beacon. She looked nothing like Linh; Caroline had dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. She was much taller than Linh; brighter, stronger, and kinder than she ever was. Caroline was like no one I had ever met, nobody I had ever seen. What a gift she was to me.

At Mont Blanc, other children — and adults, and the elderly, everyone who was there — would jostle me, push me around. The whole place smelled like beer and soup and sweat and fear. I could barely see anything, being so small, but Caroline pulled me aside to feed myself and Linh. She gave me soup with more meat than my portion was supposed to have, and she gave me an extra piece of bread. Linh thanked her in her native tongue, Vietnamese, because for all her supposed languages she was never any good with English, and Caroline replied in kind. According to Caroline, Linh had been so excited to find someone willing to speak her natural language with her that she returned almost every day. She wanted someone to talk to; she had always been a social creature. I liked going because I got food. Every time Linh would pull one of her vanishing acts, I would make my way back to Mont Blanc. Linh always came back and found me there. While she was gone, Caroline made sure I had a place to sleep and food to eat.

Linh had an issue with staying there at the shelter, in the place where I would sleep when she was gone. I’m pretty sure Caroline wasn’t supposed to offer to let anyone stay there, but she had started to get attached to me, so she made the offer anyways. Linh refused. I think it was pride, but I’ll never know. Every time Linh came back, she took me from the shelter, thanked Caroline (politely, and in Vietnamese), and we left. We went back to the streets. Winters were the worst; the shelters were crowded, so Caroline had to stop offering us a spot to sleep if we didn’t make it in the first-come, first-serve lines. She never talked to us as much in the winters, just because she was so busy. She had her own family, too. Her son often accompanied her, a young child named Ernest. This child spoke very basic Vietnamese, taught to them by Caroline. I talked to them sometimes, but they were six years older than me, and they had better things to do than talk to a little homeless boy whose language they could barely speak. At the time, I didn’t like it, but I understood.

One day, Linh left me. She left all the time, and Caroline would later ask me if Linh was acting differently before she left this particular time, but she hadn’t been. It was just like every other time. The longest she had been gone, before this time, was two-and-a-half weeks. By the time I went to Caroline, Linh had been gone for about nine days. By the time Caroline realized Linh wasn’t coming back, she had been gone for about a month. I was four years old. I had spent a month on a stained, ripped mattress in the corner of the shelter, eating what was left for me, trying not to get stepped on or screamed at or kicked out. At age four, it was hard for me to understand the concept of never seeing Linh again; she was the one person I had grown to rely on. Children that young don’t understand losing parents.

I don’t believe in God, but, if I did, I would believe that Caroline was an angel. She saved me. If I believed in God, I would thank whoever They were every day for her. If I believed in God, I would pray for her soul. I don’t believe in God, though. I sometimes wish that I did. It would make so much of my life so much easier. I would thank God for Caroline Frankenstein.

Caroline Beaufort had had an unfortunate experience growing up. Her mother, Clara, died at a young age, and her father, Perseus, was destroyed by the loss. Caroline, being an only child, was the only one left to care for her father. Alphonse — the man who would become my father — was her neighbor. He was between the ages of Caroline and her father, and he was friends with both of them, but, through this, he became closer to Caroline. As he grew closer to her, he would come over to their house every day to help Caroline care for her sick father. My father was a good, kind man, a loving man; he did everything he could for Caroline, with no expectation of anything in return. Though he had no expectations, he did receive something in return: my mother’s love. She was bound to her father, however, and refused to leave him to marry Alphonse. Alphonse understood, of course. He moved in with her.

My grandfather lived a shorter life than he should have. I didn’t understand when I was younger what Caroline meant when she told me he died of a broken heart. That didn’t make any sense to me, as a child. I was a very literal boy; even from a young age, I was very scientifically inclined.

“That can’t be right, Mom,” I said to her one day. I remember... she sat down at the kitchen table, and motioned for me to sit. I couldn’t have been more than eight or nine then. I couldn’t have understood. “You can’t die of a broken heart. It’s not a real medical thing.”

“Victor, love can be a very powerful force,” she told me. She took my hand in hers. “If anything ever happened to you, my heart would break. It would hurt me.”

“But you wouldn’t die,” I argued. She squeezed my hand.

“But I might wish I would,” she replied. I didn’t understand then. I understand now.

I’m sorry. Anyways. My grandfather died around the age of forty-two. My mother was devastated. She was twenty years old, and her own mother — my grandmother — had been dead for five years. Her father had become her whole world, apart from my father, and she was lost without him. Alphonse cared for her when she could not care for herself. He had seen how Caroline had cared for her father, and he followed her example, bringing her back to herself in a way that Caroline’s father had refused to do after his wife’s death. Alphonse was there for her every step of the way. My parents married right after my mother turned twenty-two.

My father was very well-off. He was well-respected and chose to run for office. You may remember the name Alphonse Frankenstein. He was the Borough President of Brooklyn for some time in the 1960s and 1970s. All of Brooklyn loved him, my mother said; all of Brooklyn loved my father, and every mayor who passed through while he was the Brooklyn Borough President sought his counsel, and every other Borough President respected him. My father, though he had mixed opinions on the man, often told us children about the time he shook hands and spoke with President Richard Nixon.

My father smiled all the time. It’s one of the things I remember most fondly about him. He was so happy, so loving. When he met my mother, he dedicated his life to her. My mother once said she believed herself to be the only reason my father didn’t become mayor, or governor, or president.

As I said, my parents married after my mother turned twenty-two, in 1979. My mother became Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein, keeping her last name as her middle name to honor her father. My father finished his run as Borough President and did not seek reelection, much to the disappointment of- well, everyone, if you believed the stories he and my mother told. They traveled for some time after that. My mother wanted to escape Brooklyn, where she had felt trapped for so long; my father was willing to follow her to the ends of the earth, if it made her happy. It did.

They traveled all over the world; they spent four months in Vietnam, which was where my mother learned Vietnamese. She was very quick, my mother. She was also very immersive, very passionate. Once she set her mind to something, she would achieve it, no matter what. I believe it was left over from not being able to save her father. But she was filled with zeal, with drive. I told you earlier that Caroline once told me that I shared Linh’s spirit and drive. I don’t believe that; I believe I shared Caroline’s. Still, I wish I didn’t. I wish I was lazy, apathetic, and uninspired. Maybe, then, we would have been spared.

My parents were in Minsk when they learned they were going to have a child. My father was ecstatic; he had always had positive relationships with his parents — my paternal grandparents, Mary and Gordon, who I remember fondly — and he had always wanted a family of his own. My mother was conflicted; she was a born nurturer, but her feelings about her own parents were so gnarled at that point in her life that she didn’t know what to make of it, and she was worried. She had no reason to worry, though. My father told me that, when — well, when their child was born, they named them Ernest, but this name was later changed. I will call them Ernest for your benefit until I get to the part of the story where that changes. Anyways, my father told me that, when Ernest was born, my mother looked at that child like they were everything she had ever needed.

“Love at first sight exists,” my father would say. “You just need to see how your mother looked at baby Ernest to know that love at first sight exists.”

I didn’t believe him, like I didn’t believe my mother when she said her father died of a broken heart. Like I said, I was very literal. I’m still not sure that love at first sight exists, but I’m certainly more receptive to the belief than I was when I was a boy.

My mother and my father loved Ernest like they loved nothing else. They still traveled with their infant child, who began to grow up in their travels. When it came time for Ernest to begin their schooling, Caroline and Alphonse Frankenstein returned to New York, and Ernest began school. My father returned to his position as Borough President, a position which he maintained until… Well, until much later. Ernest was an only child for some time. My parents wanted to have more children, but were struggling to do so.

In the meantime, my mother worked for charity after charity, volunteering almost all of her free time to churches, to women’s shelters, and, thankfully, to soup kitchens. You see, she grew up impoverished, as well; she had the love of her parents, and a small home, but not much else. Her past had instilled in her the sense that she had to give back, once she was older and better off, which she was with my father. She loved to give back. She loved to help people. She was the kindest woman you’d ever meet, my mother. An incredible woman.

It was during this time, while she was working for charities, helping the impoverished, with her loving husband and her one child, that she met Linh and myself. Caroline spoke the Vietnamese that she had picked up on her travels, and I’m so grateful that she could. One day, as I said, Linh left. One month later, Caroline realized Linh was never coming back for me. To this day, I don’t know for sure if Linh ran away, if she died, if she was taken, though to where I never imagined. I suppose I’ll never know, now. I miss her, in the most vague sense of the word. She was my birth mother. Caroline became my true mother.

Alphonse did not need to be convinced to take me in. He warmed to me rather quickly once Caroline started bringing me around to her home. He had dark skin, like her, but he had no hair; he did, however, have a bright smile, which he turned on me whenever he got a chance. Ernest took a bit of convincing, but they, too, quickly came around to the idea of having a brother. The three of them grew to love me, and I to love them. They became my family. Caroline and Alphonse officially adopted me in the November before my fifth birthday. They changed my last name from Trần to Frankenstein, which I was delighted to allow. They asked if I would like to keep my Vietnamese name, but, looking to Ernest, I thought I wanted a name like theirs. They were willing to grant me this, and helped me name myself; they gave me the middle name Perseus, to honor Caroline’s father, and Victor, a more Western adaptation of my birth name. I wanted to be a part of their family rather than a part of Linh’s, a broken connection to a person who never seemed to want me very much. I was never able to thank them enough for the kindness they showed me in taking them into their family.

When they adopted me, I was able to officially move from the streets of the city into an apartment in Brooklyn. This apartment would be my home for many years, until I left to attend college. I loved the place. Ernest and I each had our own rooms there until I turned seven, and our parents had their own room, as well. My room was sparsely decorated at first; slowly, I accumulated actual belongings. I put my drawings on the walls, Ernest gave me posters and pictures to hang. My pride and joy was a picture of my new family, blown up and placed in a simple frame, hanging on the wall across from my bed. It reminded me that I had a home. I made sure I could always see it. It was right above my desk when I did homework later in life, near my armchair when I would read, near my toy chest when I would play. I had a beautiful home.

There was a study in the apartment, as well. My father offered to give that up, later, when more bedrooms were needed, but Ernest and I offered to share a room rather than sacrifice the study. His study was the location of many fond memories; my father would read to us in there, would help us with our schoolwork there. His worn armchair in the corner was the setting of many stories told, of confessions made. His desk had pen lines and crayon drawings he couldn’t bring himself to scrub off. We loved that study, worn and old and chilly as it was. My father made it bright and warm.

We also had a homey kitchen, which was the pride and joy of the place for my parents, who both loved to cook and bake. It was a shining room, filled with up-to-date appliances that glistened under the overhead lights. I loved to stand at the counter and steal whatever ingredients I could from dinner and eat them in the corner of our living room. My parents, they had dinner parties all the time, at which Ernest and I were expected to be well-dressed and presentable. Luckily, other couples attending would bring their own uncomfortable children, and we would all play games under the dining room table. That dining room was small, but it was homey, too, and comfortable.

We had a den, as well, where we would watch movies or sit quietly if we wanted a little bit of alone time. My favorite place was probably our living room, though. We were a very close family; where other families might split up when at home, go to their rooms or do work or listen to music and just ignore their parents and siblings, we spent a great deal of time together in that living room.

When we spent time together there, I would be reading almost constantly, pressed into the corner of our overstuffed sofa. Ernest would usually be sprawled on the hardwood floor, working on some project or another — they were very passionate, and dedicated their time to cause after cause, just like our mother. My father would work on whatever assignment he had at the time — he was, of course, the returning Borough President of Brooklyn by the time of my adoption. He was always busy, but he made time for us. My mother would knit, or write, or read, or do all manner of things, as true mothers do.

I was happy there.

Chapter Two

I always craved nature. This was, perhaps, leftover from my infant love of Biên Hòa and the trees that seemed to fill the city, but I always felt happiest out in nature, which was certainly a contrast to my general comfort in my family’s apartment. As a boy, I constantly wanted to be outside; the window to my bedroom was always open, and if my father or mother had had to tell me one more time to come in off the fire escape, I’m almost certain their heads would’ve popped off. Every Saturday, we participated in an activity as a family, and we got to take turns deciding where we would go. Every time it was my turn, I would choose a zoo, a park, or some place in the countryside — a small town, or something of the sort. We even took weekend drives up to the mountains every so often, and I remember those times very, very fondly.

I was something of an introvert for most of my life. It began in infancy, I’d imagine. Spending time with essentially nobody but my birth mother for the first four years of my life had led to an inclination to keep the amount of people around me small, and, as a result, I was more comfortable alone or with very few people. I watched movies frequently, and I read books even more often. I found solace in the written word. When I was not able to go to nature — which was often, because, despite our occasional weekend trips, we did live in the city — I made nature come to me. I loved my books.

I was also very close with my older sibling, Ernest. They were six years my senior, but we were the only children of the family for some time, and we grew very close. Ernest recognized early on my inclination towards science, and they would let me borrow their science texts to read. They lent me all their schoolbooks as they used them, which led to my being more advanced than other students in my class. Ultimately, though, I was much happier for it.

They would also take me to the library, and they showed me how to check out books, and we would spend… so much time together there. Almost every single day, after school, we would hop on our bikes and take off to the library, and we would take the two biggest armchairs by the old fireplace they had and read for hours. I didn’t read only textbooks, though. Don’t think that I was a stuffy old professor from birth. I loved fiction, and poetry was something I really enjoyed. We read all sorts of books; Lord Byron, I liked, and Prometheus was a particular favorite of mine, and I really liked John Milton’s Paradise Lost. The books themselves didn’t always matter, though. I truly just loved reading anything, anything at all.

That was how it was, with my parents, myself, and Ernest, until I was seven. My mother’s love and eagerness to help extended beyond helping me, and it was when I was seven and Ernest was thirteen that my mother adopted another child. Her name was Elizabeth. She was six years old, and she insisted on keeping her last name, and so she remained Elizabeth Lavenza. She did, however, allow my parents to give her a middle name, which she did not have previously, and she was given the middle name Mary, after my father’s mother.

Elizabeth — who insisted that Ernest and I call her Eliza — was not like any other person I had ever met before. I loved her dearly from her first week there. My mother told me she was bringing a new friend home, and so I adjusted to Eliza as a friend, then as a best friend. It only occurred to me later that she was like Ernest; she was my sister, my family. I would never be without Eliza, I was sure of it.

She was beautiful. Eliza’s skin was somewhat lighter than that of my parents and my brother, who were very dark; however, in appearance, I always thought she was more similar to them than she was to me. She was from India, and had had a similar life to my own. Her father, she told us, was very rich and well-known (though, for all we knew at the time, this was as fanciful and made-up as most of the books our father read to us), but her mother was not, and both of them left her to be raised by a friend of her mother’s. This friend, her husband, her children, and Eliza all traveled to America, but, much like Linh, found it was difficult to sustain children here. The family came to Mont Blanc on occasion; when Eliza found herself alone, she returned to Mont Blanc, remembering the kindness of the staff. In particular, she remembered my mother.

My mother had never been one to turn away a child, and she had taken a liking to Eliza as she had to me. When Eliza came directly to her, there was no way for my mother to say no. She discussed it with my father, who, without hesitation, offered up his study as a bedroom for the little girl. Remember what I told you earlier about the study? This was when Ernest and I, so unwilling to lose that part of our childhood, offered to stay in a room together. My mother was so touched by us, I remember. She was so proud. I think that we were more proud of her than she was of us, though.

I moved into Ernest’s room, because it was bigger, so we would be better able to fit, and my mother made my old room perfect for a young girl. Eliza moved in within a week, and my parents adopted her as their own child. It was in 1994 that I gained a younger sister in Eliza. She was beautiful, and kind; she was everything to me. I believe my mother briefly entertained the notion of us falling in love, or something of the sort, but it became clear how much we loved each other as siblings, and she dropped the idea.

Even in childhood, Eliza was ridiculously headstrong. She was always incredibly determined, just like my mother. She was also creative, moreso than I ever was. She would come up with story after story for us to act out, and game after game for us to play. My childhood, up until that point, was very like a sheltered adulthood; my new sister allowed me to play, to explore, to experience childhood through a child’s eyes, and I thank her for that.

Eliza also opened me up somewhat to other children. I had previously been content with just Ernest and my parents, but Eliza showed me that other children could be just as interesting, only in a different way. I spent some time observing my fellow schoolchildren, and found one of them to be leagues above the rest. This child was Henry Clerval.

Henry Clerval was like none other. He was always comfortable in his own skin; from a young age, he wore his red hair long, and he ignored what other children would say about him. He was covered in freckles, I remember, head to toe; he was very intriguing to look at, and always so kind-hearted. He was soft-spoken, but he was vicious when other children pushed him to it. Children could be cruel; nobody understood that better than Henry. He fought back, though. And he never faltered, which I admired. I approached him with the intent of becoming his friend. I spent time with him after school on the playground, on playdates that I asked my mother to help me arrange. Henry took an interest to me like I did to him, though I could never tell you why, and soon I was spending almost all of my time with him and Eliza.

Eliza opened me up to other children, but Henry effectively closed that door by being so singularly incredible. He ruined all of the other children for me; none of them could compare. None of them were as fun, as interesting, as kind. None of them were Henry. Eliza befriended Henry, as well, and it turned out that he lived in the same apartment building as we did, so we began to spend a great deal of time together. As incredible as Eliza was, Henry went beyond this, for me. He was very different from Elizabeth in my mind. I only realized later that I was feeling two very different feelings which I had not yet even begun to understand. Henry was not overly fond of his own family, for reasons we did not understand as children, and which I will not tell you, because it is irrelevant to my own story and I once promised Henry I would never speak of it. I still want to honor that promise. However, because he did not want to spend time at his own home, he spent almost all of his time at ours.

I passed my childhood in this way, with Ernest as my role model, my parents as my heroes, and Eliza and Henry as my constant companions. My mother and father were caring individuals, but they were also frequently busy, which we all understood. Eliza had a very caring, maternal attitude from her first day, and she would often take it upon herself to help Ernest make lunch, or to clean our scraped knees, when my mother was not there.

I have tried to assert it several times without being so explicit, but I want it to be clear, so I’ll speak plainly. I had great parents. Caroline and Alphonse loved us dearly. Alphonse was very busy, of course, with his position in politics, but he always found time for us. We read books together, we traveled together on the weekends. My mother was similar; she was immersed in her charity work, but she always had time for us.

“Charity begins at home,” she said. I would laugh.

“We’re not charity,” I told her. She kissed me on the forehead.

“No, but you certainly eat more than enough to be,” she replied, and my father laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. This was the relationship I had with my parents.

I would never have traded it for anything, not if I had known.

Chapter Three

I was an independent child by nature. I did not need anybody to keep me happy or occupied, so I was pleased to be left alone. Henry never stood for that, though. He loved to give me the pleasure of his company. Even if he was sitting in silence, working in one of his journals or reading one of his fantasy books, he was almost always there. When I said I wanted to be alone, Eliza left me alone. Henry seemed to think he knew better.

Henry always had a wild imagination, too. Wilder than mine, wilder than Eliza’s. He was very inventive, very imaginative. I’m sure that, if you went to my family’s storage unit (if it still exists), there would be tape after tape of home videos directed by Henry, starring him, myself, and Eliza. He loved to make up stories and act them out. We did productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream every day for a month once, I remember. He knew the entire show, word for word. He was very bright, perfectly clever. Very quick. Henry Clerval was a singularly incredible human being.

When I was eight, almost nine, we gained another sibling. This one was my parents’ biological child, the blood sibling of Ernest, but we were all treated the same. Our blood didn’t matter. They loved me and Eliza — and, to be honest, even Henry; their hearts were plenty big enough — as much as they loved Ernest and my new brother. William was born in the tail end of 1995, and he was the delight of everyone in our family. He was a joy to us all, and we loved him dearly. He loved us all in return, of course, with the unabashed, untamable love that a child has for his family. Henry was around so often that he was looked up to as one of his brothers. Will — he preferred Will, as he got older — had four older siblings when he was born; only one was blood, but all four of us loved him like we loved nothing and nobody else.

Will was our pride and joy, like I said. My mother, unfortunately, had a rough pregnancy with him, and he was a colicky baby. He cried all the time. He took the attention off of myself and my siblings, which I was content with, being as independent as I was. Will was agreeable and pleasant when he was content, but this was rare, in the beginning. It gave us time separate from our parents, and we developed into our own personalities. Though we were all raised the same, and never treated differently for our genders, Eliza was nurturing by nature. That was just who she was. She grew into that position among us. She was also very creative, and enjoyed entertaining with Henry. The two of them often put on their own skits and shows for me when my family was occupied.

Henry grew into himself very well. His interest in fantasies and storytelling served him well, and he grew into that position, almost as a leader of the three of us. He thought of himself as a knight, I think. Maybe even a prince, or a king. Brave, chivalrous, heroic. He was right, of course; he always was. I was still introverted, still very independent, but I humored him and Eliza. I was quiet, but I loved to spend time with them. We would explore the city when permitted, never going too far from the building, and we would make up the most incredible stories.

Ernest found themselves during Will’s infancy, as well. By the time I was eleven and Ernest was seventeen, Ernest had grown into who they truly were. Ernest and I were still sharing a room, and Eliza shared a room with the baby, because Eliza, at age eleven, didn’t mind at all. I remember the night Ernest explained everything to me.

“Victor,” they said. “Sit down.”

I sat. We had spent the time after dinner that night working on a science project that Ernest had due soon; they were older, but their interests were mostly in the subjects of English and history, whereas I was more talented with the science and mathematics aspects of our education. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, and they sat beside me, and I remember being afraid.

“Are you okay?” I asked. They nodded, and took my one of my hands in both of theirs.

“Victor, I’m going to tell you something. I understand that you’re going to have questions, and I want you to feel free to ask them. You just have to keep an open mind, okay?”

This wasn’t making me any less afraid. It sounded like they were dying; their voice was shaking. If they were afraid, why wouldn’t I be? Ernest was my role model; I looked up to them like I looked up to no one else. They were much stronger than me, much older than me. I was afraid when they were afraid. But I listened to what they were saying, and I knew it was important, so I nodded. They looked down at my hands, and they explained to me that they weren’t a boy like I was. They felt like a girl, just born in the wrong body.

This is a concept some people still don’t seem to fully understand today, but, at eleven years old, I felt I comprehended it well enough. Ernest wasn’t dying, like I was afraid of. I had studied gender in school and in my textbooks, and I thought I had a fair enough grasp on it. It took getting used to — as anything does — but Ernest stuck with it, explaining it to me, answering questions when I asked them for several weeks afterwards. I told them I loved them, that they were important to me. We had always been very close. They laughed, and hugged me, and cried, so I cried. I loved them very much.

Like I told you earlier, the two of us read a lot. We read books all the time at the library, and we both enjoyed the works of Ernest Hemingway. You might know — or you might not; a lot of people don’t, it’s not a big deal — that Ernest Hemingway’s child, Gregory, changed their name to Gloria. When Ernest asked me for helping choosing a new, more feminine name, and we agreed Ernestine just seemed lazy, we spent some time thinking on it before I suggested Gloria to them. They laughed until they cried, or maybe it was the other way around. Anyways, in the end, Ernest changed their name Gloria. They changed pronouns, ‘he’ and their slowly-integrated ‘they’ to ‘she,’ so I’ll use she now. Gloria was still the same person I had always known; she was just my sister now, instead of my brother.

Gloria needed help to tell our parents. She was nervous about it; our parents were very kind-hearted, but this was still the 1990s, so it made sense to be a little anxious, a little afraid. Eliza was there, and Henry, because he always was. Will was three. Gloria told my parents what she had told me, and she explained everything that she understood, and my mother and my father embraced her. They were very open-minded people, and they loved us all so much, it really didn’t even matter to them. What mattered was that we were happy and loved.

I switched bedrooms with Eliza, so Gloria and Eliza shared a room now, and I was with Will. Gloria put a lot of work into it over the years, and, finally, she got the body she needed. She looked so much like our mother afterwards. Will never even knew her as Ernest; he called her Glo once he could talk, and my sister was thrilled. Once she figured herself out, she was happy. That’s all I wanted. My parents were happy. She was happy. I was happy.

Glo’s revelation and her fearlessness were inspirational to me. I began to inspect myself; I wasn’t transgender, no, but I knew something was different. I think children always know when they’re a little different than the others. It was around this time that I began exploring what I was telling you about earlier — my love for Eliza. Like I said before, I thought, for a little while, that I was supposed to fall in love with Eliza. For some time, I thought I had. I mistook my feelings for her; I was subconsciously normalizing myself for my society, trying to fit into the context of the world I saw around me. After Gloria’s announcement, I realized that the world around me was not all just one way, that there was normal to become. There was, actually, so much more.

My love for Eliza was nothing more than a brother’s love for his sister. I realized that at this point. I was fairly certain of other facts, as well, but I was still eleven years old. I couldn’t be expected to know everything, or to understand myself completely. Who does, at eleven? But at least I had gotten that far. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with myself, more at home in my own skin. I talked to Glo about more personal topics now, and I did so more frequently. I felt that I was able to. Henry, also, helped me through this time, as did Eliza, but they were my age, and going through their own discoveries of their own selves.

It took time. These things do.

Chapter Four

My childhood was happy and carefree with the Frankensteins, who were the only people I had ever known as family; Linh had only ever been something of a benefactor to me, and a poor one, at that. By this time in my childhood, she was mostly a distant memory. I never received a great deal of affection from her, but, with the Frankensteins, I was home. I was loved, I was safe, I was happy. Even then, I knew that wherever they were was the best place for me.

My interest in science grew exponentially once I entered into science-specific classes in junior high school. Of particular interest to me was the study of biology. After my first discussions with Gloria, I absorbed any information I could on sex and gender, and then further, approaching topics like evolution, disease, ecology, cell biology. I was also fascinated by genetics, by electricity, and by life and death. I was amazed by it. I studied every night, I read every text I could get my hands on. I was hungry for knowledge. Henry understood me. Well, I mean, my family understood me, but Henry got me.

Henry would often stay the night at my apartment. Sometimes he would sleep in my room; sometimes he, Eliza, and I would lay our blankets and our pillows down in the den and watch movies until we fell asleep. It was on one of these nights when the storm happened. I was fourteen; we were watching an animated movie, something with horses. Do you remember a movie like that? I think I only remember these pieces so well because of that night. Anyways, we had fallen asleep watching that movie, and I remember waking up because I felt like I was too warm. Usually, we would get tangled in our blankets, or one of us would roll onto the other, so I woke up prepared to shove Henry or Eliza off of me before just going back to sleep.

What you should probably know about the den in my family’s apartment was that it was just like a bedroom. It had four walls. It had a door to the rest of the apartment. It had a fire escape outside of the window. It was closed off. Our apartment was fairly high in the building, as well. That night, there was a horrible storm, and our building — which was taller than a lot of the buildings around it — got struck by lightning. My interest in lightning and the power of electricity was made more dramatic by this but, at the time, I wasn’t thinking about lightning. I was thinking about fire.

The fire got to the room we were in. My father told me later that they tried to get to the door, but the fire blocked it. My father said he trusted us to be able to get out through the window and down the fire escape, but my mother told us later how terrified he truly was that he couldn’t get to us. The fire had eaten through the apartment, and smoke was already filling the den. Eliza had childhood asthma, and always had weaker lungs than us; she was unconscious in minutes. Between Henry and I, we were able to break the window and get her onto the fire escape. Henry used our blankets to tie Eliza onto my back, since I was the larger of the two of us. We got all the way down to the ground, where the firefighters took Eliza from me and pulled Henry and I over to one of the ambulances to treat us for smoke inhalation.

I remember, at age fourteen, looking at Eliza, rousing from unconsciousness, and at Henry, covered in soot and coughing up smoke, and feeling the sharpest, most horrifying terror I had ever felt before. I realized then that I could never lose either of them. I realized, then, the separate feelings I had for Henry, which I had originally thought were meant to be for Eliza. I was in love with Henry, but how can you explain that to a boy who’s barely a teenager? That he was in love with his only friend? No, I couldn’t risk that. I could barely understand it. I just knew I could never be without him.

That fire, as I said earlier, pushed my interest in electricity into a very sharp light. I researched all I could on it, and it bled over into my studies of biology. I was so conflicted over my feelings for Henry that I threw myself wholly into this new interest, and I dedicated all that confusion and frustration to working through my hobby. Henry stayed my friend, as he always was. The two of us, at fourteen years old, didn’t know anything. Not like I know now.

They rebuilt the building. I only saw Henry at school when they were doing it; he was staying with family, and I was staying with family. I thought I needed the distance from him after what I discovered, but it turned out that that only made my feelings worse. My family commented on it every now and then, how I seemed to be a little sadder lately, a little more withdrawn, a little quieter; I responded by withdrawing further.

It was only when we were able to move back into our apartment building, and Henry was returned to my daily routine, to my daily life, that I was pulled somewhat out of that empty state of being that I had entered into. He came back to me, and he stayed in the corner of my bedroom, like he always did, and he read his books, and he played games with Will, and he wrote poetry, which he read aloud to me, all while I studied and worked on invention after invention, project after project.

I chose to focus on my renewed interest in electricity instead of on Henry, a decision which I regret deeply now. I regret... I suppose I regret not spending as much time with him as I possibly could have. I hurt for every second that I wasted apart from him. I ache for every single moment that I missed by not being with him. I was so frightened then, but if I had known then what I know now, it would have been different. I would have loved him how he deserved to be loved, from the very beginning. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know then what I know now. I regret it. I regret it so much.

Sorry. I’m sorry. Anyways. Around this time, when I started exploring this new facet of myself, and Henry and I were entering high school (Eliza was one year behind us), we started to explore different interests, searching out career paths in the way that high school students will do. It was during this time that my studies in nature, science, and electricity continued in earnest, and I began navigating towards becoming a doctor. I kept studying these topics while Eliza explored herself and began striving towards nursing. Henry investigated the worlds of drama, of writing, of filmmaking, and the like. He was so captivated by storytelling; I wasn’t surprised at all. I thought it was impractical — well, we all thought it was impractical — but you couldn’t stop Henry.

Nobody could stop Henry. He was a force of nature.

Chapter Five

My high school years passed as anyone else’s did. I remember a few stories, which I want preserved. Since I see you clearly plan on using my story for some other purpose, I’ll tell you some of them. I want to preserve my memories of my family and of my dearest, closest friend; I want people to remember them as they were, not as what they became because of me.

My mother, as I told you, did a great deal of charity work. I also told you that, when I first met her, Gloria was working at Mont Blanc with her. This was something my mother did often; she would bring us along with her. Of the four of us, I think I went most often. As Gloria got older, she stopped having the time to spend on this activity, which wasn’t necessary for her. Will was, for a while, too young, and then he never ended up going very much before it was too late. Eliza went most frequently after me, I would say; she was, as I’ve said, naturally maternal and nurturing. I went very often.

Perhaps it was leftover sentiment from my rough beginnings, and the way this affected me. I knew how important the work we were doing was, because I had been on the other side of it, and it wasn’t easy. I wanted to be able to help other people the way my mother helped me and Linh. Plus, you know, I wanted to spend time with my mother. She was usually doing charity work, so the only way to spend extra time with her was to tag along when she volunteered. It was worth every second, though.

I was always interested in people. It was probably an overlap from my interests in biology, but people fascinated me. The human form, too, fascinated me. I loved to learn all about people, and the people who came through places like Mont Blanc, or wherever else my mother was volunteering that week, were diverse to the extreme. I could observe so many different types of people when I volunteered with her. I had sketchbook after sketchbook filled with drawings of the people that I would meet when I was volunteering. Their stories were incredible to me, but their forms moreso. The range of the human body is truly astounding; no two people, I think, are exactly alike in appearance. Not even twins.

Once, my mother took me back to Mont Blanc. I remember enjoying going there, but, in my childhood, I was constantly afraid that I would see Linh there and that she would make me leave my family and go with her, so I always went to Mont Blanc with a degree of hesitation and anxiety. On this one particular day, I remember, I was drawing a particularly large man; he had tattoos everywhere I could see, and I was so fascinated by them. He noticed me.

“What’re you drawing?” he demanded. He had a very deep voice, and it startled me; I had been very focused on my sketch. I looked down at the drawing, then up at him.

“You,” I answered. There was no point to lying. I was much smaller than him, and he could see the sketch if he leaned towards me just slightly. I turned the sketchbook around to show him. He examined it for a moment before he laughed. I smiled.

“That’s a great picture, kid,” he said, before continuing on his way down the line. My mother left her position behind the mashed potatoes and came to see what he was talking about. When she asked, I showed her, and she embraced me.

“Victor, I didn’t know you liked to draw,” she said, and I shook my head as I pulled back.

“I like people,” I told her. “I like to put people down on paper.”

My mother smiled and kissed me on the forehead. “It’s always something new with you, Victor.”

She returned to the mashed potatoes. I abandoned my sketchbook to follow her and help her pass out the food. I don’t know why this one incident, in particular, sticks out in my mind, but I remember my mother in that moment. She was incredible to me. She accepted everything I told her, everything I did. She was born to be a mother, I’d say; she was born to love people unconditionally. She did it well.

My father, you’ll remember, was a very busy man, being so important to Brooklyn as he was. He was well-respected, too, which only consumed more of his time, because people wanted to see him. He was gone for days at a time, it seemed; but, as I told you earlier, he always made time for us, usually in the form of those family outings on the weekends.

My father was rather spontaneous, when he set his mind to it. Sometimes, without warning, he would pull all four of us out of school — and Henry, too, most of the time — and take us out to lunch and a movie. That was just his way. It was like a reward, for us. We went to school, we did well, we got good grades, so we could afford to miss half a day to spend time with our father. He would also take us on these weekend trips, where we would do whatever activity we picked for that vacation.

My favorites, like I said, were the outdoor activities, even if I was physically unsuited for the great outdoors. Fishing, camping, hiking — anything that allowed me to be in nature, I loved, and, in turn, my father loved the opportunity to teach us how to do those activities. Sometimes, though, per the requests of Gloria, and, eventually, Will, he also took us into the city for our excursions. We might go to a museum, or a show, or just to get lunch at a much nicer, larger place than we were used to. Still we might also go on a road trip; New England was right next door, and the seasons could be breathtaking there.

My father recognized, in each of us, our individual interests, and what activities we took particular likings to. While we still had the group outings, of course, to spend time together as a family, he would also take us on individual trips with him as we got older. One time, I went fishing with him. He woke me up at three in the morning on a Saturday when I was sixteen so that we could drive out to some lake in the woods he had found upstate. We sat in that boat for hours, but we weren’t quiet, which was probably why the fish didn’t bite very often. My father and I talked about anything and everything that day. I remember this day, in particular, because my father decided to ask about Henry.

“So,” he said, in that comfortable way he had. “Henry.”

“Yes, what about Henry?” I prompted, when he stopped. He seemed to think very hard on his next words; I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. My father had a very expressive face.

“Are you interested in Henry?” he asked, finally. I was confused.

“Of course I’m interested in Henry,” I replied. “He’s my best friend.”

“No, Victor,” he said. He turned towards me, to make eye contact with me. “Are you interested in him in the way that I am interested in your mother? In a romantic way. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I nearly dropped my fishing pole into the water; as it was, it slipped out of my grasp, and I had to lurch to grab it. My father snatched me back by the collar of my shirt so I wouldn’t fall into the water. When I was settled again, I looked down at my hands, wrapped around the pole.

“I don’t know,” I answered. I did know, of course, and the answer was yes. He knew it, too. Of course he did; my father was a very perceptive man. He accepted my answer, though, because he and I both knew I wasn’t ready. He nodded and returned his attention to his own fishing pole, but I remember watching him for a little while longer. He had asked so casually, like my answer wouldn’t change a thing, like he was talking about the weather or something, like it was no big deal. I felt relieved, like my chest had loosened. He was the first person I went to when I was finally ready.

Gloria and I, though, always had that six-year gap between us, and, as we grew older, the gap became more and more obvious. I struggled to keep up with Glo’s life, and she with mine, because we had been so close for so long. One of the ways we tried to keep close was one my parents never knew about. Gloria bought a car before any of us did, obviously. She was also — when I was in high school — old enough to take me out of school. She was listed as one of my emergency contacts at school, so she was, technically, allowed to pull me out if she deemed it necessary. Every now and then, Gloria deemed it necessary to take me out of my classes to go out to lunch with her.

Glo always treated me with respect. She never acted like I was a dumb kid, like the other students would sometimes say their older siblings did. She treated me like I was her equal. She talked to me like I was her peer, which, in her eyes, I suppose I was. It felt really good, to be treated that way, so I looked forward to our lunches, where I could speak honestly, candidly, about whatever I wanted to speak about, and Glo would listen without judgement. Sometimes, after lunch, we’d see a movie, or get ice cream, or go for a drive; Gloria always made those afternoons great for me. Once, we went to see a movie — I think it was some new fantasy movie — and we went to get sandwiches afterwards. While Gloria always allowed me to speak candidly, she usually listened more than she talked, and she rarely offered too much of her own life. Today, she was more open.

Glo had been dating someone, but she didn’t talk about whoever it was very frequently, and we had never met this person. She told me about her when we were getting our sandwiches that day. Her name was Robin Avery, and she had a very young son named Lewis. Glo was in love with her, she told me. She told me all about her, and I felt like I had become a true part of her life. I was honored to hear about Robin, to know what was happening in my sister’s separate life. It also served, to me, as something of a wake-up call; my sister had become an adult, seemingly while I wasn’t looking. I was a child still, a teenager, stuck between my infancy and my adulthood. Gloria, though, Gloria had her own life; she went to college, she had a job, she fell in love. It struck me, all at once, how finite my childhood was. I could never go back; I could only go forward. Life is fascinating that way.

Will, as I said, was the delight of our family. My classmates complained about being annoyed by their younger siblings, but it was quite the opposite for Will and I. I was captivated by his growth and development. Watching Will grow up was a singularly unique experience to me. I wanted to do everything I could to influence him, to be involved in the natural process of his life, his genuine maturation. I ended up taking it upon myself to teach my younger brother to read and write. He was ahead of all the others in his class when he entered school, and he was thrilled by that fact. The drive to learn and gain knowledge and information was strong for him, and he would come home to me every day and demand to know more. I was in awe of him; of course, I taught him everything I could, and answered questions every time he asked them. I gave him as much as I could.

On one occasion, I remember, when Will was a boy, he came out of his school with significantly less enthusiasm than usual. Henry and I were waiting outside, among the throngs of parents, to pick him up. Our high school was right next to Will’s school, and we got out a little while before he did, so we typically picked him up to make things easier. Will loved me, and he adored Henry; whenever we were the ones waiting for him, he would run to us, all excitement and smiles and a rundown of everything that had happened to him at school. That day, though, Will all but dragged himself over to where we were standing.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Henry asked, before I got a chance to. He was much more sensitive and aware than I was, and better at dealing with people. Will shrugged. I took his backpack from him, and Henry lifted him up onto his shoulders, like he usually did.

“Did something bad happen at school today?” I asked as we walked. Will leaned down to whisper something to Henry, and Henry nodded before placing Will on the ground again. Without breaking pace, I took Will’s hand automatically.

“Victor,” Will began, then paused. “You’d never lie to me. Right?”

“Right,” I assured him. “I promise, I’ll only ever tell you the truth, Will.” I squeezed his hand and stopped walking, bringing him to a standstill beside me. I knelt down to bring us to eye level. “What is it?”

Will was silent for a moment. Then, “Is there really such a thing as Hell?”

Henry and I met each other’s eyes over Will’s head; Henry’s expression was plainly surprised. He mouthed something to me, but I missed it; I had already refocused my attention on Will.

“Why do you ask?” I inquired carefully, trying to keep the worry out of my voice. Will shrugged and looked down at his feet. “Will.”

“Brian told me that his older brother, Nate, goes to school with you and that Nate said that you and Henry are going to Hell,” Will confessed, in a rush. He rubbed at one of his eyes with the back of his hand, and Henry shifted and dropped down to kneel beside me. He pulled Will close and embraced him. Will buried his face in Henry’s shoulder, then turned his head so he could look at me. I laid one hand along the side of his face.

“Henry and I are not going to Hell, I can promise you that,” I told him. We didn’t discuss religion much at our home, but I didn’t believe in God, nor did I put much stock into any religion. I had just promised Will that I would never lie to him, so I wasn’t about to start now. “I don’t think there is a Hell, Will. Even if there was, I can assure you, Henry and I aren’t going there.”

“Promise?” Will asked. He hiccupped. I brought our foreheads together, something my mother used to do when I cried when I was younger.

“I promise,” I vowed to him. Henry pulled back slightly, and Will stood up straight, wiping his eyes on the backs of his hands. He hesitated, then threw himself at me. I was never very open, not like Henry was, but I did love Will dearly. I hugged him back, as tightly as I could.

“Why does Nate think you’re going to Hell?” Will asked, after he had pulled away from me. Henry and I stood, and we each took one of his hands. We began walking again, Will in between us.

“People assume certain things about people who spend lots of time together,” Henry explained. He was better with words than I was. “When those people are both boys, like your brother and I are, some people don’t always agree with the things they assume.”

“What do they assume?”

Henry looked at me over Will’s head. I lifted one shoulder.

“They assume that your brother and I are dating,” Henry answered. Will looked up at me.

“But you’re not,” Will continued. I nodded. I didn’t say I wanted us to be; I didn’t hint that I wanted anything different than what I had. I didn’t want to make Henry uncomfortable, or to confuse Will if nothing ever actually happened.

“We’re not,” I confirmed. Will looked from me, to Henry, then returned his attention to the sidewalk so that he could watch where he was going.

“It would be okay if you did,” Will commented absently, a little bit later, like it was nothing. “Glo’s dating a girl. It’s not a bad thing.”

“You’re right, Will, it’s not a bad thing,” I agreed. “And, when I do date someone, it probably will be a boy, so I’m glad to know you’re okay with that.”

Will made a little noise of assent. Henry seemed surprised; I thought he knew of my preferences, but dismissed his reaction for the time being. After a moment, Will, seemingly assuaged and feeling better, started to tell Henry and I all about his day, apart from the Brian incident. It was the wrong place, and the wrong time, but that doesn’t stop me from regretting now that I never said anything. I regret every second that I didn’t say something to Henry about my feelings.

You should know that my brother Will was very dear to me. I remember every moment that I spent with him very, very fondly. I miss him every day. Everyone should know that the world lost something incredible when we lost Will. He was going to be such a good man, such a strong, intelligent, powerful man. I could see kindness in his every move. He was so, so good. Doctor, I miss him. I sometimes wonder why he…

I’m sorry, enough of that. There will be plenty of sadness to go around later on in my story; these memories are meant to be my happier ones.

Chapter Six

Let’s see… Eliza. Eliza was as dear as a sister to me, possibly even closer than that. We spent a great deal of time together, even after I realized my feelings for her were not what I had believed they were supposed to be. I told her as much, and she understood. She even laughed, and told me I was her brother, and she didn’t expect anything remotely like that from me. She said I was overreacting. I suppose I was, but I’m a worrier by nature. I always tended to overreact, like she said.

Eliza was a year younger than Henry and I, and she was in the grade below ours. When Henry and I were seniors, that meant, of course, that Eliza was a junior. While we were getting ready to graduate and go to college, Eliza was still exploring her options, and preparing for the both of us to leave. It was November. Henry and I were both eager, so we were sending all of our applications in for early admission. It was frightening for Eliza, and Henry and I recognized that.

It was cold that night; like I said, it was November, and we lived in New York. Henry showed up at the door of our apartment with two thermoses of hot chocolate. He just smiled at Eliza, in that way he had, and the two of us brought Eliza up to the roof of our building. I brought a bunch of blankets, and I laid out a couple for us to lie on, then used the rest to cover us, so we wouldn’t freeze. Henry gave Eliza one of the thermoses, and he shared the other one with me.

“Are you going to forget me?” Eliza asked, breaking the silence, her voice soft. I don’t know if she really believed we would forget her, or if she just wanted reassurance. She had to know how much I loved her, how much we both loved her. She was lying in between the two of us; Henry pulled her head over, so she was resting on his chest. I took her hand.

“I could never forget you,” Henry assured her. I squeezed her hand.

“You’re my sister,” I told her. “I love you. You’ll always be my sister, no matter what. Nobody could take your place.”

“That goes double for me,” Henry teased. I leaned over and rapped him lightly on the side of the head. He laughed. “What? She’s my sister twice as much as she is yours, Victor. The sooner you accept this, the happier we’ll all be.”

I turned onto my side so I could tangle my fingers in Henry’s hair with one hand and hold onto Eliza’s hand with the other. I couldn’t see Henry from that position, but Eliza was in plain sight. Even though there was light pollution, the sky was so clear on that cold November night that we could see a fair amount of stars. Eliza raised her free hand to point up at one particular group of twinkling lights.

“That’s Cassiopeia,” Eliza informed us. Her hand fell back down to wind in Henry’s long shirt. “She was a queen. She was placed in the sky because she said her daughter was more beautiful than all the sea nymphs.”

“Were you her daughter?” Henry asked jokingly. “Is that why you had to be adopted? Your mom’s in the sky?”

“Shut up,” Eliza laughed, shoving at his side. “No, I’m not. Her daughter was Andromeda, she’s over there. But, now, Cassiopeia, on her throne, has to wheel around the North Celestial Throne. Andromeda was bound to a rock, to be eaten by Cetus, a sea monster. She was rescued by Perseus, and she married him.”

“Her knight in shining armor,” Henry commented, lost in his own thoughts, tapping his feet against the blankets. “That’s a nice story.”

“Except for the part where Cassiopeia is still stuck up there,” I pointed out to them. Henry shrugged. Eliza turned her face towards Henry’s chest. I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

“What am I going to do when you’re gone?” Eliza sighed. I pulled my other hand away from Henry to run my fingers through her hair.

"You'll be fine," Henry assured her.

"I know you will be," I added.

"When have you ever not been?" Henry kissed the top of her head. "I'm not worried about you, Elizabeth. You're going to be perfectly okay."

Eliza was, of course, perfectly fine. She was much stronger than she gave herself credit for, and, to be honest, she already gave herself a fair amount of credit. Eliza was one of the most admirable people I’ve ever known. I would never have harmed her; I would never have touched a hair on her head, if she didn’t want me to. I admired her, and, more than that, I respected her.

Henry, on the other hand, was an entirely different animal. He was something so incredible to me, so separate from the world that I seemed to live in, that even thinking of him now, I wonder, could he have been real? Could I have created him in my imagination? But, then I think — no, no, I’m not that creative. I could never invent someone like Henry.

Henry, by the time we were eighteen, towards the end of our last year of high school, had grown into himself. I was a fluke, ending up over six feet tall, and Henry was, at his tallest, just over five, but he filled out in a way I never did. My limbs were always long and awkward; Henry was graceful, flexible, comfortable in his own skin. I don’t want people to only think of autopsy photos when they think of my Henry; I want them to know what he looked like when he was alive. Make sure to include that in your reports, or your books, or whatever you’re going to do with this when we’re finished, Doctor.

I may be biased, but I still don’t think I’m wrong when I say that Henry was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He was my true north, he was the sun. That’s it, exactly it: he was my light, my sun. He always wore his hair long; it was so wavy, softer than any woman’s I knew, and the finest shade of auburn. He often had it loose, falling around his face until he pushed it behind his ears. His eyes were bottle-green, lively, and engaging, as captivating and expressive as he was. I loved his skin; I remember every inch of it. I could tell you the exact placement of every freckle he had, and he had many. What a blessing he was to me.

He was always so alive; every second of his life, he was animated, moving, working, thinking, creating. He was something to behold. His face lit up whenever he saw someone he loved, or a book he enjoyed, or even something as simple a billboard he found interesting. He was easygoing, simple to please. Henry was truly the only one of his kind. There will never be another man like him, and that is entirely my fault. Now, I did not kill him; don’t look at me like that. I never would have hurt Henry myself. But it is, indirectly, my fault that he’s dead, and just to say those words — that Henry is dead — hardly even seems real to me. Could he be gone? Could the very embodiment of life really be dead? I still can’t wrap my head around it.

I told you that Henry was by my side from the moment we entered each other’s lives. Until the age of eighteen, he held the position of my best friend, my closest confidant; Henry, in essence, was my life. Outside of my family and my studies, it was only Henry. Henry, who loved to read fantasy stories, and act them out. Henry, who wrote poetry every day, who would come to my apartment, and, regardless of what I was doing, read his poetry to me. It was incredible, by the way. He was truly gifted. Henry, who had so much to live for, and so much to give to the world, and so much to do in his life.

At the age of eighteen, our dynamic changed. The role which Henry occupied in my life shifted. I remember the day vividly, perhaps more vividly than the night of the fire. Henry and I were studying for our first-semester final exams during our senior year of high school. We shared a couple of classes, one of which was advanced-placement English literature. Obviously, Henry was doing very well in this class. Also, obviously, I was doing worse than he was, and he was helping me to study. We had a rather old-fashioned teacher, who insisted we take a final exam in addition to the advanced-placement exam, so I was already frustrated.

Henry and I were always very comfortable together. In this instance, we were studying on my bed, sprawled on our stomachs, our books side-by-side. Henry crossed into my space, leaning over my folded arms to point something out in my notebook, and I happened to look up at him at the same time he looked up at me.

Don’t think I’m obscenely forward, or that there was no indication of a possible relationship between the two of us. There was always a glimmer of something there; I didn’t want to hope, and I was horrible with words, so I was never, ever going to tell him. And, as I told you, I was always a worrier, and I frequently overreacted. I was terrified of losing Henry, and I worried about what would happen if I said anything, anything at all, to him about my feelings. Actions were more my forte, and words were Henry’s. When he was so close, in that moment, and I noticed him glance down at my mouth — I saw an opportunity, and I seized it.

We were only eighteen. I know, when you are eighteen, it seems as though you’re an adult, that you know and understand everything. I thought I knew and understood everything, but I didn’t. There was no way for me to have known how completely and utterly Henry was going to claim my life, and I his, though in a completely different way. Had I known, would I have run away in fear? I like to think that I wouldn’t have, for my own sake. Maybe I should have, for his. Maybe it would have been selfish not to. But I suppose I’ll never really know, so there’s no point to dwelling too much on this point over anything else.

Like I said, I saw my opportunity, and I took it. I leaned in — very slowly, because I wanted to give him the chance to move away, if that’s what he wanted — and our noses touched, very lightly. He inhaled, shakily, and shifted enough that he could tilt his head to the side. I pressed forward before he did; I think he was afraid of scaring me off. I don’t blame him for that at all, I had always been very skittish with contact. He was probably recalling the time that a girl had tried to kiss me in the cafeteria on a dare, and I ran away, straight into a pull door. He laughed at that for days.

Anyways, I was the one who initiated the kiss. I wanted to have him so desperately, and, in that moment, possessing him consumed me. It was my first kiss; if it wasn’t his, he never said anything about it to me. It was, obviously, our first kiss. I didn’t really know how to kiss, apart from what I saw in television and in the movies. Henry seemed much better at it than I was. I kissed him very lightly, very carefully. He shifted on the bed so that he could better reach me. I may have initiated the kiss, but Henry was the one who took it and ran with it. What I started as a very soft, hesitant bit of pressure, just the barest press of my lips to his, he transformed into something much, much more.

Whatever passions I held for Henry, Henry seemed to hold in equal measure for me, based off of his response. He reached up to lay his hand alongside my face, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone. He pulled back from me, but not far; I could still feel his breath fanning over my lips. I thought I might manage to keep him if I just tried hard enough. He could be mine.

“Victor,” he breathed to me. My eyes scanned his face, memorizing what he looked like from this close. He had a freckle in the iris of his right eye. “I didn’t know-”

I couldn’t wait anymore, I honestly couldn’t. His reaction was enough basis for me, but his words brought fresh validation, and I kissed him again, our second kiss, the second of many. He was very eager, as was I. He pushed at my shoulders until I was on my back, and the back of my head knocked into my textbook, still open on the mattress. He lay half on top of me, his hands bracketing my body, supporting his weight as he held himself up. He would only break the kiss to breathe, and, even then, he would just move back in, as though we had never stopped. He finally had enough of supporting his own weight, and he climbed fully on top of me, lining our bodies up as best as he could with our foot of height difference. I wanted to keep him there for the rest of our lives; I wanted to keep him all to myself, have him never leave my side, have him there until we died. I thought I could have that, could have him.

His knees settled on either side of my waist, and he used his new leverage to track kisses down my face, down my jaw, down my neck, down my chest. I finally stopped him, threading my fingers through his long hair and pulling him back up until his face was even with mine. I adored him, the love of my life, my world, all mine.

“We could’ve been doing this for so long,” Henry laughed breathlessly. "Oh my God, Victor. Why didn't you do this sooner?"

“Why didn’t you?” I said back. He laughed again, pressing his face into my neck. The right words were there, on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t say them, not yet; I didn’t want to scare him. I wish I had said them. I wish I could have had him longer. I wish he had known how long I had loved him, how much I loved him. Now… Now, he’s gone, and I don’t get to tell him. I don’t get to tell him how much I wanted him, what he was to me.

We were eighteen. We lost our virginity to each other. Not that night, but soon afterwards, closer to Christmas. I remember it. But that’s just for us. I’m sorry, but that’s just for me and him, I can’t tell you, it can’t go in whatever report you’ll write or whatever you’re going to do with these tapes. I’m sorry. He deserves better than that.

I’ll do whatever I can for him now, and he deserves… deserved so much better than me.

Chapter Seven

Shortly before I graduated from college, tragedy struck my family for the first time in a long, long time. My mother was diagnosed with eosinophilic meningitis. I don’t expect you to know what that is; I didn’t know before it was identified in her. We learned later that she contracted the illness through contaminated lettuce she had in a salad she made for herself for dinner during one of the longer days at the shelter, because she hadn’t wanted to leave, even just to get herself something else to eat. Three other people from the shelter that day were diagnosed with the same disease, for the same reason. In my mother, it developed to the point of a neurologic sequela, and that was it. We lost my mother in a matter of days.

Do you know what it’s like, to lose someone so quickly? I was eighteen, Eliza was seventeen, Glo was twenty-four. Will was only ten. She was diagnosed, and she died within the week. There was nothing we could do to stop it. My lively mother, who had always been the light of not only our lives, but the lives of so many of the homeless and helpless of Brooklyn, was gone, just like that. The light had been extinguished. It was jarring. How do you deal with something like that? Your parents are supposed to be there until they’re old and grey, until you’re old and grey. My mother was supposed to meet her grandchildren, she was supposed to retire. She was supposed to live for a long, long time. When I lost her, everything I thought I knew changed; the entire world shifted, dropped itself on its head.

Besides all that, it was the twenty-first century. How could they not have saved my mother? How could there not be something to keep her alive, to cure her? Why wasn’t the food cleaned properly? Why didn’t my mother leave for dinner that night? It was times like these that I wished I could have believed in some sort of god, because then I could believe that this was how it was meant to be, that my mother was meant to be lost at this exact moment. Then I could believe she was in some sort of Heaven; not here, but still somewhere, still existing in some capacity, in a paradise perfectly suited to her. I couldn’t believe that, though. I knew there was nothing else, but I couldn’t understand quite it. Who can understand losing a parent when they’re young? And my poor brother, poor Will. He was only ten. How was he supposed to process that?

This was a trying time for us all. I loved her so deeply, and, in response to her death, I suppose I withdrew into myself. I entered a different mindset entirely; more focused, certainly. Perhaps one might say a darker mindset, which I could agree with. I threw myself wholeheartedly into my explorations of the human body. Never before had the distinction between life and death been so intriguing to me. I dedicated myself, body and soul, to learning all that I could about the two, and the veil between them. Soon, my self-education turned to teaching myself how to remove that veil, and attempting to move between this world — the world of the living — and the one of the dead, if there was such a thing. If a living person was kept alive simply by a heartbeat and an operating brain, with a few functioning organs thrown in, surely a dead person just needs those to be reactivated. Surely, I thought, that’s all I needed to do. It had to be.

My explorations of science, of electricity, and of the human body soon turned to something else altogether. I began studying, in essence, how to reanimate a body. My attention quickly turned from that to something greater: I wanted to create life. What started as a desire to return my mother to me morphed into something… uglier. I wanted to create new life. I started to become the very God that I didn’t believe in.

It was then that I decided I no longer wanted to be a doctor. My interests didn’t turn in that direction anymore; my inclinations were headed down a far different path. Though, if you think about it, a doctor’s job is to preserve life, and was I not doing the same? I was protecting life. I’m not trying to defend myself, just to explain myself. In the end, I have no defense for what I’ve done.

After my graduation from high school, I started to pull away from my loved ones. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. At a time when my family needed me most — I was, apparently, a rock to them, a position which I still don’t understand — I abandoned them, and withdrew into myself. I’m ashamed now for what I did, but I can’t change the past. I pulled away from them. I began to ignore Glo, who I had always been so close to. Will… Will was only a child, and he loved his mother, and he loved me. He didn’t understand. I wasn’t grieving correctly. I wasn’t doing what I needed to do. I was doing what I thought I needed to do. My poor father, he had to comfort everybody, while also dealing with the loss of his beloved wife. He deserved better.

Eliza. I can never apologize enough to Eliza. She became the comfort that my sister and father sought, as well as becoming a mother to Will. She was the rock that I was expected to be. I let them down. I let her down, I let Henry down. He, of course, understood; it was his way. He always understood me. He knew I was grieving, and that I had to process things. He still came to my house everyday, but I would be so deeply engrossed in my studies that I was mostly silent. Out of deference to me, he wouldn’t speak very much. I barely registered his presence, sometimes. I regret how I treated him; he deserved so much better. He was mine to take care of, and I had completely forgotten my responsibilities towards him.

Henry still wrote his poems. He still packed for college. He still came to me, kissed me, slept over at my apartment. He would bring me to my bed, sometimes by force. He would lay down, and he would curl himself around me. I was much taller than him, but I slept in a ball, tucked under his chin. I was afraid. I was upset. He helped, slightly. He would wrap himself around me and he whispered to me until I fell asleep. I barely registered him. I barely registered anything. Nothing meant anything to me, then. I was consumed.

Like I said, Henry still packed for college. I was planning on attending Harvard University, in Massachusetts. Henry applied, and got accepted, but he decided to go to the Pratt Institute, in Brooklyn, and study creative writing. I never asked why he wasn’t coming with me. At the time, I could hardly bring myself to care. I care now, but it’s too late. I left as planned. Eliza ended up going to NYU the next year. She wanted to stay close to home, close to her family. Close to our family.

Anyways, I remember the day before the day that I left for school. Henry came to me; I was waiting in my living room for him. Even though I was in the family room, rather than my bedroom, I was still so involved in my studies. He removed the notebook from my hands, and he tilted my face up towards him. I remember his face in that moment; I remember his exact expression distinctly. It’s one of the very few things that I actually remember from that time. He looked… He looked incredible, like he always did, but what I remember most is that he looked afraid. He looked so, so terrified. I remember staring back at him and wondering why he looked that way. I wanted to fix him. It was my job to fix him, and I couldn’t. He kissed me like it was the end of the world. In a way, it was.

I left the next day. I left for Cambridge and I didn’t look back, because, as it was, I could barely look forward. I thought I knew what I had to do, so I did it.  Glo helped me move in, then returned home that night. She embraced me before she left. I wish, now, that she had taken me back with her; back then, however, I was just ready to get started on my further education.

I should have turned back when I still had the chance.

Chapter Eight

As I said previously, I changed my mind about becoming a doctor. My attentions were now focused on much darker passions. At Harvard, I was able to customize my own degree. I took advantage of this opportunity and created my own field of study. What my degree ended up being was my own special blend of classes from the fields of chemical and physical biology, biomedical engineering, neurobiology, and, of course, human developmental and regenerative biology. This allowed me to properly explore and utilize the fields of study that were most pertinent to me at the time, for my newest plot. It was a couple of months into my time at college that I finally began to form a true, solid plan to create life out of death.

During my time at Harvard, my interaction and correspondence with my family mostly took place online. The close relationship that I had once shared with my sister Gloria was gone, or, at the very least, fractured; Will seemed to think less and less of me with each conversation. My father loved me unconditionally, as fathers do, but I could tell our relationship and our dynamic had shifted dramatically. Eliza navigated her senior year with aplomb; I’m proud of her now. I should have told her then.

Henry and I, aside from corresponding online, sent each other letters. It was Henry’s idea, of course; that was just his personality. He also was responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of our continued interactions. I rarely saw him in person. I almost never went to New York, and he was only occasionally able to come all the way to Massachusetts for any extended length of time. We never “broke up,” in any traditional sense, if you could have said we were together in the first place, but I sometimes wonder if it would’ve been kinder to him if we had parted ways. He said he loved me, but he deserved better than me. I said I loved him, but I didn’t love him enough. I wanted him more than anything, but I had lost my way.

I wasted time while I was existing without my family. I wish I had time to waste now, but I don’t. I wasted all of that time, and I don’t regret anything more than I regret the time that I could have spent with my family, and with Henry, that I spent instead on this horrible project. I became single-minded in my focus; I had a one-track mind. Everything in me was centered on lifting the veil.

I became introverted, moreso than I ever had been before, and I never actively sought out any potential friends at school. My roommate in my dorm room freshman year moved out after two weeks, for whatever reason, and I was left by myself. If you know anything about people, you know that they are, by instinct, group animals; I could not be solely by myself, and still nobody had shown themselves able to fit into the small, small world I had constructed for myself. As it turned out, one of the only people whom I spoke to during this time was a professor of mine.

Professor Jane Waldman was a very kind woman. She encouraged my studies, helped me to explore my options and my chosen courses. She supported me at this time, even if she did not know what she was sustaining me through or what action she was encouraging. Even though it was entirely my fault that I was alone, I still felt it keenly, and I appreciated her occasional presence. She would sometimes assist me in my studies, but there was only so much I could tell her. The more vivid details of my plan were secret; only I ever knew all of them.

I excelled at Harvard, which surprises me even now, consumed as I was by this idea I had. I suppose it was just a by-product of my intense studying. I consistently made Dean’s List. Other students in my classes sought me out to ask for help, for tips on how to do as well as I was, for me to join their study groups, on and on. I declined every request. Professors reached out to me often, but I denied them, as well, save for Professor Waldman, and I still sometimes ignored her. I would like to say that I was not quite myself during this time, but sometimes I fear that, instead, I may have been the truest form of myself.

I got the highest grades, achieved the highest honors. It didn’t matter to me. I should have felt proud of myself, like a normal person would have; Henry would sometimes tell me how proud he was of me. It didn’t matter. I kept working, working until I had to eat, or I had to sleep, and even then I barely noticed that I had to fulfill such base survival needs. My own self became nothing to me, a far, far second to the project with which I was so consumed. I needed to achieve this. I needed it so desperately, Doctor, I can hardly explain it to you. I studied throughout dinner, whenever I did pause to eat; nobody joined me, so graphic and unbelievable were the diagrams that I spread out on my table, so dark and frightening was my subject matter. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was a successful end product.

In my third year of school, I successfully reanimated a once-dead cow heart that I had successfully stolen from a local farm which had lost several cows that year due to a lack of grains. The organs I borrowed were not missed, don’t worry; the cow meat was tainted by their weakness, starvation, and ensuing illnesses, but their hearts were strong enough, and useful to my project. I needed an incredible amount of electricity to animate just that heart, and I realized that I would need to generate a great deal more if I was to animate an entire human being. I was then struck with an idea — lightning. My long-standing interest in lightning and electricity, ever since that fateful storm during my childhood, was finally useful to me. I simply had to harness the power that only a bolt of lightning could produce.

I will admit: by this time, I had completely forgotten my original, primary objective. The only reason I had strayed down this path in the first place was my mother, and I had nearly forgotten her in my madness. What would she have thought of this horrible desire that had consumed me in such a way? I didn’t think about disappointing her. She would still have loved me, I’m sure, but what mother wouldn’t have been at least disappointed in such a son as I had become? I hardly thought of her at all, and I’m ashamed of that. But it’s the truth, and I’m endeavoring to tell the entire truth here, to tell you the whole and complete story.

Because of my chosen degree program, I was able to obtain an internship at a local hospital. I’m not proud of what I did, but it is what I did, and it had to be done for the sake of what had become, at that point, my life’s work. I cited my interest in the fields of biomedical engineering and of biology, and they chose me as one of their interns. It was so easy. It shouldn’t have been as easy as it was. It was so wrong, it should have been the hardest thing I had ever done, and yet, I barely thought twice about it, except to consider how lucky I was to have the opportunity in the first place.

I found the hospital morgue on my second day on the job. There was barely any security, and there was hardly ever anybody in there. It wasn’t a very large hospital, and nobody liked to linger in such a horrible place. I only took from unclaimed bodies; I wasn’t a monster. Not then, anyways. The bodies that went unclaimed, that were going to undisclosed locations the next morning, I took pieces from in the night. Nobody noticed; if they did, they didn’t care, or they didn’t say anything. I took parts that I thought would create a perfect specimen. I had a goal; I was going to create life. I thought, if I was going to do it, I may as well do the best job I could. Better than any false God someone might believe in, I would create a life with my own two hands, the first person to do so, and it would be beautiful.

Originally, I built a woman. She looked something like my mother, looking back on it. She was beautiful, I always thought, and I sculpted her as though I was the artist my mother had seemed to believe I could be. I was not ready, though; I built her, with my own two hands, from heel to hair, and, when a storm came, I tried my best to animate her. I failed. I swear, to this day, I got a hint of a pulse, a twitch of a finger. She was my first child, and she was stillborn. I still wonder today what might have happened had I succeeded in giving her life. I miss her; I think she may have been my one chance at a success story. A perfect woman, in the image of my mother; a being who Eliza could have helped me raise until she was fit to join society. My daughter, who never got a chance at life. I tore her apart after my failure. I could not bear to look into her face, and I could not bear to bury her.

I returned to the morgue a month later, and began retrieving new organs. The organs I chose this time were in top condition, the best I could find; even better than the organs that went into my daughter, I thought. He was going to have a strong heart, stronger than hers. I decided on a man this time; my inclinations towards the female form were always iffy at best, I convinced myself, and a woman was far too difficult to get right, anyways. I was able to persuade myself that a man would just be easier to sculpt, easier to create. Creating him was less of a personal struggle for me, after the losses of my mother and of my daughter. There was less for me to get wrong; he would be less of a failure, I thought. He might get a chance at life. I could focus on the rest of the project with relative ease after that. I began creating a man, rather than a woman, and he was beautiful. He was everything that I was not. I was going to create a life greater than my own, greater than the lives of anybody currently living. I was wrong, but that was my goal.

I didn’t make him in my image. It was only after I finished that I realized I was subconsciously intending to make him look like my mother, like I had believed my daughter had, but I failed in that with my son. He had dark skin, and dark eyes; the irises were almost as dark as the pupils. He only had very short hair, but what he did have was as dark as his eyes. He was meant to be handsome. Learning from the shortcomings and failures of my daughter, who had appeared almost normal, I found incredible difficulty in making him of an average size. Of course, this was because of the incredibly intricate detailing that is necessary when creating a functioning, living human. He had to be substantial, far larger than an average human in order to compensate for my work, and his final height ended up being about eight feet, four inches. It didn’t matter, I thought. If an above-average height was all the difference that was necessary to create my living child, so be it. It had to happen. I had to do it; nothing could stop me, not anymore. I was insatiable, unstoppable.

I was a God.

Chapter Nine

He was meant to be handsome. He was not. So much stitching had to be done, so much work, so many details. A human body is incredible, dynamic, complex, as I’m sure you could guess. The brain, especially, took some work. He had so many scars, so many sutures. He was never going to be beautiful, I realized early on. It had only bothered me for a moment; I barely thought about it after that. My goal wasn’t to create beauty. Beauty already existed, and humanity had created beautiful things before. My goal was to create life. Like with his height, if it had to be this way, then it had to be this way. I sacrificed his beauty for his life. Still I continued.

By this point, I was almost entirely out of contact with my family, with Eliza, with Henry. Nobody paid me visits any longer. Henry tried, but I kept him at arm’s length, if not further. I didn’t want them to see what I was doing. Worse, I didn’t want them to distract me from what I was doing, or, heaven forbid, stop me from creating this life. I couldn’t be stopped; I would rather have died. I was a man obsessed. I felt the loss of my loved ones, but I ignored it as I ignored my hunger pangs, or as I ignored the headaches and drowsiness that came with my exhaustion. It didn’t matter; these were human obstacles that weren’t supposed to get in the way of such an incredible task as the one I believed myself responsible for completing. It was my quest. Nothing could stop me. I was entirely consumed. I didn’t care, Doctor. I just didn’t care. I couldn’t afford to care, not when I was that close, and I was so close.

I’ll save you the gory details. If you ever see a photo of the man — the monster — that I created, you’ll be able to see for yourself exactly what I did. But I won’t describe them. I created his insides, then his outsides. I had steady hands, hands that would’ve been useful had I become a doctor or a surgeon as I had originally planned. I plotted out each and every stitch that he received, and delivered them carefully, so carefully. I was nearly done when I received the invitation in the mail.

Gloria was getting married. The knowledge was jarring to me; the world that I had been living in before I moved away for school had become a distant memory to me, and I hardly, if ever, thought about it, consumed by my project as I was. I was jerked out of the world of my monster, and tossed unceremoniously back into my past life. I replied, and said that, yes, I would be attending her wedding. How could I miss it? Whether or not we had not spoken much in the past couple of years, she was still my sister, and I had to go.

I secured the project to such a degree that I had absolutely no need to worry about it while I was gone, but I still worried the entire time anyways. Besides being a worrier by nature, my fear of discovery and my anticipation of success had gotten the better of me, and I was barely human — barely anything, in fact, apart from my drive to achieve new life.

Gloria was to marry Robin Avery, the very person she had told me about what seemed like all those years ago. They had been dating this entire time, and Glo was very happy, Eliza and Henry assured me when they picked me up from the train station. Robin had been spending a great deal of time around the house, I gathered, and they all adored her. They loved her young son, as well. Young Lewis. Lewis took a liking to me when I arrived at my old apartment, which had once been my home. I had returned that first summer, but eventually just ended up staying in Cambridge the entire time after that, save for Christmases, when I had no excuses. It was just easier, and it gave me more time to work. The apartment was barely changed from when I left it.

Lewis, like I said, took a liking to me. That was startling. I had not spent time with any children since Will had been a young child, and Will was a teenager now, a young man in his own right. Lewis, age six, was a surprise to me. Henry thought it was hilarious, but, then, Henry was searching for anything that could make him smile, when I was around. I was aware that my appearance had changed somewhat. Afterwards, when I looked at a picture of myself from that time, I realized how gaunt and starved I actually appeared. I must have terrified my family, let alone Henry, who still claimed to love me. I loved him, but I didn’t think about that. I didn’t have time for that. I didn’t have time for him. What if he tried to stop me? I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t afford to keep Henry around. I didn’t break up with him, but I know he would have been happier if I had. Would I have been, though? I don’t know anymore.

Lewis was easy to be around, and he was relatively quiet. After he decided that he liked me, I offered to watch him most of the time. It gave me a chance to separate myself from the adults who sought to engage me, entertain me, or otherwise occupy my time in a way I believed I just couldn’t afford. Lewis didn’t take too much attention to look after. I, somehow, found myself distracted by him immensely while I was home. I had forgotten the interest I had taken in Will when he was so little. I was captivated by the way that young minds and bodies learn and adapt to the world around them, and I couldn’t yet connect the dots enough to understand that this was a part of my obsession with creating life. This was why I had been interested in life; this, right here. The living part. My resolve was born anew. I had to create life.

The wedding initiated, for lack of a better word, a feeling of sadness in me. I was embraced by the people I had pushed away, and I remembered how much I adored my family. I realized how much I loved them, how much I missed them. But this was only a detour; I was still focused on my project, and, once the wedding was over, I said my goodbyes again and returned to Cambridge. I would not return home until after I was finished, I swore. I had to finish this ultimate project, assigned to me by fate, by destiny. By myself.

It’s clear to me, now, that I should have stayed. I should have clung tightly to those feelings of love, and I should have remained with my family. I should have abandoned that demon that I was building, and I should have abandoned Harvard, and I should have abandoned the man that I had become. So many things I should have done, and only one horrible thing that I did do. One of my biggest regrets is that I lost my family for a second time when I returned to school that day. I should have realized what I wanted, and I should have stayed in New York with them. But I didn’t, and I know that I have to live with the consequences of that decision, but it can’t hurt to wish that I had stayed, can it? Wishes and memories are all I have left anymore.

I returned to that collage of corpses which I was building, that masquerade of life. After spending time with the child, Lewis, I realized that I had to name this being which I was giving life to, as a mother does to her child. If he was to be a proper man — or if, as I hoped, he was to be more than a man, a new being, a new form of life — he was going to need a proper name. I went through lists upon lists of names in my narrow moments of free time. I tried just picking a name at random, opening my books and shoving my hand in, adding whatever name I landed on to the list. I tried Shakespeare (Orlando, Caliban, Lysander, Proteus, Horatio), I tried Byron (Francois, Ali, Juan), I tried Shelley (Ozymandias, Adonais, Prometheus, Atlas). I found nothing suitable. Then, I remembered, and I returned to Paradise Lost, which I mentioned previously as being a childhood favorite. I’m sure you’ve read it; if you haven’t, I recommend that you do. My mother read it to me, and I read it many times on my own.

Anyways, I named him Adam. It was suitable. It was more than suitable. Adam had been the very first human, and my creation was also the very first of his kind. Adam was sculpted by God, and, for all intents and purposes, I was this creation’s God. Milton said Adam was “the first human, the father of our race.” My creation was to be the same. Adam was the perfect name for him, and so, from then on, I called him Adam. He was the first of his kind, the first of whatever you could count him as. My sentimentality, I realize now, led me to choose this name. It was my remaining humanity that led me to choose a name in the first place, a decision which I originally disguised as only logical. I never recognized any sort of parental instincts in myself, but I realize now that they were there. I wasted those; I was never a father. Maybe that’s what I was doing. I don’t know; a psychologist would have a field day with me. You, I’m sure, are thinking about it now, coming up with your own list of what could possibly have been wrong with me. I have my own list, in my head. It could have been anything. Maybe it was everything.

Please withhold your diagnoses until the end, if you can, and thank you for your patience; I appreciate it very much.

Chapter Ten

Not long after the wedding, my creature was finally finished. My creation, my son. My Adam. At last, he was complete. He lay, day after day, on that makeshift bed which I had created for him, as I waited for the perfect storm to arrive so I might finally animate him. I was constantly checking the weather, hoping, delaying, and waiting. Always waiting. Finally, the day came. A tremendous storm struck, which was horrible for everyone — except for me, of course. The streets were nearly flooded, trees were about to be pulled up by the roots, and I moved Adam to his slab. I turned on my makeshift machinery, the bastardized crane-like mechanism that I created out of other machines which I had cannibalized. I organized everything, set the stage, and I waited, again. I got soaked, and I was freezing, but I hardly felt it, so strong was my excitement. It warmed me. I could barely think of anything else; I was out of my mind.

It worked. Lightning caught my conductor, and surged through my life-giving machines. It was difficult, all of it, the entire setup, moreso than it had been with my daughter, and perhaps that was where my failure laid with her. However, I did it all that night, and it worked. I’m still in awe of the fact that this entire thing was possible, that it actually, really happened, because it seems so unreal. If it seems unreal to me, the person whom it actually happened to, I can only imagine how unreal it must seem to you, who deals with the ravings of madmen every day, so I thank you again for your open mind, your patience, and your silence while I speak.

My rigging was rudimentary at best, but it was effective. I lowered Adam back down to the shingles of the roof, broke down my stage, and returned everything to my room as quickly as I could. My room, which I was the only occupant of, had become my laboratory, and, as difficult as it was, I got Adam back into the bed he had been in. I kept up the electricity surging through him with my made-from-scratch portable machines, but it was not easy, not at all. I did my best, and, fortunately, it was enough. That night, on March 20th, 2007, at 3:38 in the dark, storm-drenched morning, Adam was born. He had been animated; he was alive.

I was, at first, ecstatic. I had created life; the sole focus of my life was finally fruitful, and I was successful at last. The product of so many years’ toil was here before my eyes, and I could barely believe it. Would you have believed such a thing? Could you have? It was incredible to me, almost unbelievable, but there it was.

Then, he opened his eyes — his hideous, horrible, bloodshot eyes — and the joy that I felt left me as suddenly as it had come. Horror took its place. Looking into his eyes, and at the expression set deep into them, I feared how terrible he could be, how ugly and how monstrous; I feared that this was not the wonderful life I had set out to create. It seemed, in fact, to be far from it, and I struggled to reconcile this product with what I had imagined for so long. I had dreamed of a child for myself, like Will, like Lewis, or like my daughter. He was nothing like them.

He was an abomination. He raised himself from his bed, and he lunged at me, his limbs stiff and awkward, like a zombie, like a corpse straight from a scary movie. It horrified and shocked me, and I had the immediate instinct of fight-or-flight. I fought. I attacked him. He was so new, so helpless, and he crashed through my window, falling several stories to the ground below.

I cleaned up the disaster in my room as quickly as I could, sweeping up glass shards and disposing of machinery pieces, hiding what I could not destroy, before I left to retrieve him. I didn’t want anyone coming to my room while I was gone and finding the leftovers of my failure. I hurried outside to where the body should have fallen, only to discover that the corpse was gone. He was nowhere to be found. I searched for hours in the freezing rain, in that cursed storm, calling his name, even though he probably had no idea it was his, before I was forced to return to my room.

I collapsed in my bed once I got there, worn to nothing by the events of the night. I couldn’t process what had happened to me; I was dead on my feet, and I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, which was a largely unfamiliar feeling to me by that point. I had terrible nightmares, though I don’t remember exactly what they were about, anymore. I could probably venture a guess, and I imagine you could, as well, and we’d have corresponding ideas. I was woken from my nightmares by a tremendous weight falling onto my chest and shaking me roughly. I looked at whatever it was only to find a huge, disfigured hand there, clawing at my shirt, and I fought it off immediately. It withdrew.

In the darkness, I could barely see; I grappled for my glasses, and, after locating them, shoved them onto my face hard enough to scrape the skin off my nose and temples. I could see a shape, a shadow, giant and horrible, before my eyes adjusted to the dark. It could only be Adam, returned to the place of his birth. I should have recognized this is a sign of intelligence, of true life, but, again, I was filled only with an automatic, instinctive terror. I was frightened, and I attempted to fight him off once again, a natural response to waking up to what I perceived as an attack. Adam was probably more afraid of me than I was of him, though. I know this is usually what an adult might tell a child about, say, spiders, but it seemed to be very true. He fled once again. I was, for a while, unsure of whether or not that was a dream, if the whole night was a dream. I’m now sure that it was not. That night happened. That moment happened. He was alive, he had returned to me, and, now, he was gone.

That experience, coupled with the hours I spent in the cold and rain, launched me into a sickness that I couldn’t recover from on my own. I’m sure I almost went insane. I was so horribly ill, so weak, but I refused to leave Cambridge, where the beast was likely still wandering, just in case he came back. Eliza could not come to me; she was too far into her first-year program to stop at that point, and she sent me apology after apology, which I accepted. I told her not to worry, that I would be fine, but we both knew what a straightforward lie that was. Gloria offered to come, but I declined; she had a family now to think of, a son of her own, and she couldn’t spend an indefinite amount of time nursing me back to health. Will could not see me, not in this state, so that ruled out both him and my father.

In the end, it was Henry who came.

Henry left his home, his education, and his new life without me behind, and he came to Cambridge for me. I hardly remember those four months that he spent nursing me back to health, but I remember the day he first arrived. I was in such a state that I screamed at the sight of him, and I attempted to fight him off, believing that he was a hallucination, or a trick by Adam, though, in retrospect, that didn’t make much sense. I wasn’t myself, and I was far from my right mind. Henry stayed with me. He didn’t have to, but he did. He brought me back from the brink of death. Would it have been better if I had died then? I sometimes wonder. Sometimes, I wish I had died then, but I didn’t. I didn’t. I wish I had died.

Henry dragged me, kicking and screaming, back into the world of the living. After the first month, I barely moved, barely spoke. I once asked Henry if that made it easier or harder to treat me, but he would just shake his head. He usually just said that nothing was ever easy with me. He was at my side constantly. I could never thank him enough for what he did for me. He had no reason to come, and no reason to stay. I didn’t give him the love and respect that he deserved. He said he stayed because he loved me, but I think it was his personality and his morals that really fueled him through those months. He could never ignore someone who needed saving, and it was plain to him that I needed to be saved. He was my knight in shining armor, just like he had always wanted to be. He didn’t know that he always had been. It seemed to me that he was mine once more; I had no intentions of releasing him from my possession again, now that I was returning to life.

Once I was well again, and I was myself, Henry decided to stay. He reapplied to Harvard, and they accepted him. Of course they did, genius that he was, charmer that he was. He transferred his credits, and he moved into my room. He had cleaned out every piece of evidence from my experiment. Whether or not he knew, at that point, what I had done, I had no idea; if he did, we didn’t talk about it. He came to me, and he embraced me once again, and I could never thank him enough for that. Henry was everything to me, and, without him, I would have been absolutely nothing, both then and now. I needed him, and, lucky me, I had him.

Henry could have saved me, in that moment. I firmly believe that he could have. I could have made the whole thing out to be a terrible dream, and chalked it up to that. I could have passed my life like that, could have run away from everything. Couldn’t I? Why not? Henry made me happy; he could continue to do so, and I could come back to myself and make him happy in return. We could have had a life. Henry made me happy. Henry made me forget. Henry made me feel born again. I loved that about him. I loved all of him, of course, but I loved that in particular. It was unfair of me to want that from him, but that didn’t stop me from wanting it. It didn’t end up that we were able to have happy endings, but I did do my best. Nobody can say that I didn’t.

It was a short time after I was healthy again that Henry and I rekindled what we once had: our high school romance. It returned to us tenfold; I was much more intense than I had been as a teenager, weathered by my experiences and worn by the weight I now carried on my shoulders, and Henry was romantic and desperate for me, for my touch, for my love, even though I still don’t know why. I wasn’t immensely happy, because I wasn’t capable of immense happiness anymore. I was, however, the happiest I believe I could’ve possibly been, and the closest to happy as I could’ve gotten after such an event as Adam’s birth.

Henry rescued me. That’s it, in essence. He rescued me, and I remembered my love for him, beyond just a cursory acknowledgement of the fact that I loved him. It was ingrained in my being, my love for him, and I just accepted it as fact, just something I knew. Now, I was able to experience that love again, and it was incredible in a way nothing else was to me anymore.

Henry, in his way, was everything to me, and he took that in stride. His life meant the world to me; I was obsessed with him. I don’t know if he knew, but he was perfect, in every way, in every capacity. He was normal. That was all I needed. He took me on dates, out to dinner, to movies. I hadn’t seen a movie since before my mother had died. We went to school, and we went out, and we lived. I was happy. He seemed like he was so happy.

We had a long talk, though, once he thought I was capable of it. He told me that he was unhappy with me and with what I had done, and I apologized. He wept. I did not. I did hold him, though, and I told him I was sorry, over and over. I didn’t have an explanation, I told him. I didn’t have an excuse. I made a mistake, I said, the worst mistake of my life. I should never have pushed him away, never; he was my everything, and I had remembered that. I made him my everything again, so that I didn’t have to deal with what I had done. I pushed Adam out of my mind, and I focused on building a brand-new life for myself.

I tried to be normal. I did. I tried not to be weighed down by what I had done, but the knowledge of it alone? The possibility? The awareness that I could create life, and that the very life which I had created was out there somewhere? It was so much to handle, too much for any one man. I felt as though I was split into two people, and that was very difficult to maintain. Henry knew; of course, Henry knew. He was perceptive, sensitive. He knew I was struggling, and he tried to make up for it by being romantic, by being spontaneous: in essence, by being himself. We went out camping in great green woods together almost every weekend, him and I, because he knew how I loved it. Returning to nature was refreshing for me, and I basked in every moment of sunlight, every strike of wind against my face, every crunch of grass and leaves under my feet. Those days in the woods were, I think, my last good days.

Henry and I planned to get married. It was a tentative thing, and we didn’t have a date set or anything, but we had rings that Henry made for us at a renaissance fair with a metal tradesman, and he called me his fiancee. It was enough. It was a plan. It was moving towards a normal future, a normal life. I wanted Henry to have that. I wanted that for myself, too, of course; I wanted that normal life. We could be together, I thought. We could adopt a child, and that was how I could create life from then on.

I thought I could have Henry and keep living, I really did.

I thought that I could have it all.

Chapter Eleven

I was so, so wrong. In January, just over nine months after Adam’s birth, Gloria called me, and she told me that I needed to come home immediately. She could barely get the words out, she was crying so hard, and breathing so heavily. I demanded to know what was happening. Henry took the phone from me, and attempted to calm Glo down. He got the information out of her before I was able to, and all the blood drained from his face; his skin was so white, his freckles standing out against the ghastly paleness of his face, and instantly I knew that something horrible had happened. It took a lot to do that to Henry. He was crying, but nowhere near the hysterics Glo was in, probably because he knew I would need him. He told me what happened.

Will. My beloved brother, the light of my family’s life. He had been killed. I had been trying so hard to be normal, to be happy, and any hope of that ever happening vanished alongside my brother’s life. I could hardly believe it. I had just created life that past year, and, though terrifying, it was exhilarating, it was incredible. I had almost entirely forgotten the other end of the spectrum, that end which had claimed my mother so quickly. Could it really have come for my brother? I could barely believe it. It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t process it.

Henry continued on to tell me that our next-door neighbor, a young woman about our age by the name of Justine Wawetseka Moritz, a name which you might know, was believed guilty of the crime. This only made the whole ordeal that much more surreal. Justine was a playmate of ours as children, a lovely girl who showered our playdates with optimism and joy. She was someone who I might consider an acquaintance, or maybe even a friend, in my younger years, even considering the limited scope through which I saw friendship, and the distance I had placed between myself and my old life. I had forgotten her as I grew older, but, in my youth, I had spent time with her. I knew her. She was a dear friend of Eliza’s, and still was, at that time, I’d imagine. I couldn’t believe it.

Henry was invaluable to me during this time. Though I didn’t see Will as often as I once did, or as often as I would have liked, he had been something like a tether to life for me. While he grew, I was sure that there was still growth in this world, still purity, still goodness. Will was not just my brother, who I loved so, so much; he was a symbol in my life, a reason for living. Without that driving force of goodness, what were we? What was I? I lost someone I loved, but I was also starting to lose myself. Henry tried valiantly to keep me above water; he kept me from drowning when that was what I wanted more than anything.

We returned to New York immediately. A change of scenery was, apparently, necessary; though I couldn’t forget what had happened, I already felt a little better once I was away from Cambridge. I should have left long ago, I realized. Henry drove; my usually steady hands had begun to shake more and more with each passing day, and I didn’t trust myself. Henry trusted me more than I did, but he also trusted my judgement of myself. I kept the window rolled down, let the wind blast my face. I let myself feel numb for a little while. Henry allowed it. He allowed so much. I wish there was a God I could thank for him.

We left late, and had to stop at a motel overnight. We were both exhausted, and both so mentally, emotionally, and physically drained. Henry would start crying every now and then, which didn’t help his vision at all. We pooled the cash we had on us at the time and got a room with a double bed. It didn’t matter; it could’ve been a twin, or it could have been a California king, we would have taken up the same amount of space on it. I was missing a piece of myself. I curled up on the bed, trying to suppress the sensation that I had a vital chunk of my body gone. It didn’t work, but Henry tried his best to help fill the void. I knew he must have missed Will as much as I did; he was, in essence, a brother to him, as well. Will was the light of our lives. I couldn’t cope.

I also couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Something beyond the loss of a child, and the accusation that had been cast on Justine; something more was wrong. I feel now that, if we’d been able to look at the big picture, at the whole frame, we could’ve seen a dark stain growing larger and larger, getting closer and closer to us, almost close enough to taint our images. I couldn’t explain it. I tried to articulate it to Henry; he listened, and he nodded, and he told me that I needed some sleep, that I needed rest.

“Everything will be better in the morning,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Neither of us believed what he said. How could we? But, true to himself, he was trying. So I listened, and I nodded, and I shut my eyes. I tried to sleep. I couldn’t. I don’t think he could, either. We left as soon as dawn was cracking over the horizon, a broken egg spilling yellow. I took the wheel over from Henry; by this point, he couldn’t stop crying. I had already started to let the numbness settle, so I wasn’t crying much, and my hands had begun to steady. This probably wasn’t a good thing, but, while it was happening, it was, at least, useful.

I’m a cautious driver. We were in New York by eight, and got to our home in Brooklyn before nine that morning. We hurried up to the apartment; I found myself expecting Will to answer the door, as he had every time I visited. Though it had not been often happened, he still came, every single time, to greet me with a hug and a smile and a hand with which to drag me in. Instead, this time, a red-faced, tear-stained Eliza opened the door. She embraced me immediately, throwing her arms around my neck and tugging me down to her level. I stooped over to hug her back, holding her as tightly as I could. We stood there in the doorway for some time, her crying noisily into my shoulder while I held her and tried to be the rock that I wasn’t when my mother died. Eventually, Henry moved over and took her from me, switching her grasp from my neck to his. I left their side to seek out my father.

I came across Will’s bedroom first. It had police tape over the threshold, but the door was shut. I had a compulsion, in that moment. They say curiosity killed the cat, but you never hear the second half, which is: “but satisfaction brought her back.” I pushed the door open and maneuvered around the yellow caution tape, careful not to disturb it.  I was silent as I entered the room, and still the closet door opened, as though whoever was lying in wait heard my footsteps and knew it was me.

Adam was there. I don’t know how he escaped detection by the authorities; I can only assume, now, that he waited and returned to the scene of the crime once everyone was gone, and he knew that nobody would enter the room, save me and my morbid curiosity. My son seemed to know me better than I knew myself, though I had no idea how that could be. He had been all but dead to me then, save in my memories and my nightmares. Seeing him alive was jarring. He noticed me in a split second. I think he only wanted me to see him, not to confront me. He immediately ducked through the open window and vanished down the fire escape. By the time I reached the window and climbed out of it, he was already out of sight.

I knew then. I knew immediately what had to have happened. I had no proof of it, and yet I was so sure of my theory that I felt sick, like I had a lead weight in my belly. I knew that Adam had killed Will. My abomination which I had released into the world, my wretched monster that I had given life to, my own son, was the very thing that had killed my brother. Adam killed my brother. I killed my brother. It was my fault, all my fault, and I was barely able to stumble out of Will’s bedroom, slamming the door behind me, before I was on my knees on the floor, gasping for air.

Henry came to me at once, as did Eliza, the two of them having heard the door slam, and my frantic, desperate attempts to get enough air into my lungs. My father was still nowhere to be found, as were Gloria and her family; it was just the three of us, for the time being, and I debated telling them not only what I had just seen, but what I had done, what I suspected regarding Will’s death — the whole of it, everything, everything that had happened.

I did not.

I knew how I would sound. Regardless of how much they loved me, it sounded absolutely insane, and I was in no condition to be trusted just then. I certainly would never have believed it, were I them. They might love me, but they also knew me. It was not outside the realm of possibility that this was my tipping point and that I had just lost my mind. I kept quiet. I didn’t tell them. I let them comfort me. Henry helped me to slow my breathing, to calm down, as he was so good at doing. Eliza rubbed my back, held my hand. She pressed her forehead into my temple and whispered and cried.

My father and Glo returned home not too long after. It turned out they had been down at the police station, being questioned about Justine. I wanted to leap up, tell them that Justine hadn’t harmed Will, that she would never have laid a finger on him, but what evidence did I have? I had only just returned home, and I knew nothing of the details of the murder. I continued to keep quiet, and let my father lead us to the living room. He embraced me, then Henry, then sat us all down. The room was silent; never before had I endured such a bitter silence. My mother would have known what to say. Will would have been able to make us smile. The hope was gone. I longed, perhaps irrationally, for the presence of Gloria’s step-son; a child could help, I thought. But this was no place for a child, even beyond the crime scene and the intense black depression that had settled over us. It was unsafe now; my beast knew my location, and I was so sure that he was seeking my blood.

I didn’t say anything. I truly believed nothing good would’ve come of that. The guilt over my not having said anything still weighs on me today, a physical burden in my chest, pressing into my lungs, suffocating me. It only barely loosens telling you the truth now. I didn’t know what the right decision would have been to make then. I still have no idea what I should have done. All I know is that I should have done more.

If I had said something, surely they would have thought I was crazy. Wouldn’t you have thought I was crazy? You probably think I’m crazy now. But, my point is — if they thought I was crazy, and then they incapacitated me — put me in a hospital, or a home, or confined me to the apartment — who would have stopped the demon? Nobody else knew what I knew, so how could they even begin to protect my family? It was impossible. I made the decision that I believed was right at the time. Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty.

I was called upon as a character witness in Justine’s trial, as was the rest of my family, and Henry. Eliza delivered an incredible speech on Justine’s behalf. Eliza had become something of a mother to Will in my mother’s absence, and she cried throughout the entire discussion, which moved the jury. I was sure that her words could have saved Justine. If the woman who was like a mother to Will seemed so sure of Justine’s innocence, how could Justine be guilty? It seemed fairly cut and dry to me, and I almost began to relax, though I still felt guilty, since it was my fault that Justine had to go through that ordeal in the first place.

I spoke as highly of her as the rest of my family did, though I did so with a bit more passion. I had more at stake than they did; I wanted to ensure that Justine was found not guilty, because a guilty verdict for her would be a sentence for me, as well. I wanted to confess to the crime, if only to spare Justine, but it didn’t make sense: I had an alibi. I was too far away to have possibly committed the crime. They didn’t know of the extenuating circumstances, and how could they have? I don’t blame them.

Justine panicked. I wish I had been able to talk to her more, to tell her to remain steadfast in her assertions of innocence. I knew she was innocent, which made it much easier to believe her, whereas my father, my sister, and even Henry were finding it hard to suppress their suspicions. Eliza remained just as sure as I was, though I have no idea where she pulled her strength from. Perhaps it was from sheer virtue of being Eliza.

But, yes, Justine panicked. She was always very in touch with her culture, being Algonquian, and she believed in not only her own innocence, but also in forgiveness. The interrogators got to her; they brought up her beliefs, and said that, if she confessed, she would be forgiven her mistakes. She had not committed a crime, but she panicked, and she confessed to a crime which I was sure she did not commit.

That was it for poor Justine. The trial had had the possibility of swinging her way, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that the evidence against her was just too strong. And, of course, how could I forget the nail in Justine’s coffin? Only one day before his death, Eliza had given Will a trinket of my mother’s. It was valuable, but it reminded Will of her, and Eliza and my father thought that was worth more than any monetary value. It was a locket which had a picture of our family on the inside. My mother wore it always, and Eliza after her. Will loved it. Will was also found strangled the next day, while the locket was found in Justine’s bedroom.

Eliza blamed herself, I could tell. She did not believe Justine to be responsible. What she believed was that someone had broken into the apartment — while she was at the grocery store, and Will was home alone, because he was old enough to be alone for half an hour — and was looking for money or valuables. Instead, they found Will, a child, with a valuable around his neck, and it just went badly from there. That’s what Eliza believed. She was close; there was a break-in, and Will was found alone. I don’t know why Adam stole the locket, or how it ended up in Justine’s apartment, but I was unwavering in my belief that Adam had committed the crime.

Justine fell out of the jury’s favor with the confession, understandably. They didn’t know her like my family did, and they didn’t have the knowledge I had. Like I said, I don’t blame them. All signs really did point to Justine. She was convicted of first-degree murder, and sentenced to life in prison without a chance of parole. The traditional sentence in New York for first-degree murder tends to be twenty-five years to life, but Will was a charismatic child, well-loved and undeserving of his fate, and that just made it all the worse for her. I had stolen her life from her; inadvertently, and indirectly, sure, but I had.

When the judge announced Justine’s sentence, I had something of an out-of-body experience, I remember. It was like I had separated from myself, and was floating somewhere in the air above the event, watching everything happen. It was such a tremendous blow, I found myself numbed. I wanted to throw myself at the feet of the judge and confess to the crime, to tell the judge everything which I had done, regardless of how insane I sounded. I leapt to my feet; Henry’s hand on my wrist stopped me from going any further. He was firm, and he removed me from the courthouse. I was silent. I returned home with what remained of my family.

I was guilty, sentenced to life.

Chapter Twelve

I was not myself then. I was the furthest from myself that I had ever been, I believe. I had committed a great wrong. I broke laws, both in the legal and in the scientific senses. My own brother was dead because of me, and a woman I considered a friend lost her life to confinement because of me. I was a monster. Before that day, I had never felt such an overwhelming desire to take my own life. I wanted to escape everything. I felt as though I couldn’t physically withstand everything that was happening; it was like my chest was being crushed, my heart mutilated, my mind destroyed, all at once. I wanted to die, and only two things saved me from that.

The first was the knowledge that, if I was dead, it was the same as it would have been if I had been arrested or institutionalized: nobody else knew about Adam. I was the only one who could stop him. However guilty I was, Adam was guilty twice over. He was the one committing the crimes, not me, even if I was the one who created him. He had to be stopped; only then would all of these disasters finally end. I, and I alone, could stop him.

The second thing was Henry. I had never outright lied to Henry before; I frequently lied to him through omission, which I’m sure you’re well aware of, but still. I could never lie directly to him. He had such a gentle, trusting way about him. If we were able to, I would have us bring him here, and you could look into his face and try to lie to him. You wouldn’t be able to. He just had that way about him.

Henry sat me down, and he asked me to tell him what I was thinking. I told him as much as I could. I told him I wished I could die. Henry broke down then. He had always been much stronger than I, and I had never seen him fall apart like he did then. I feel guilty about it now. I didn’t even think about Henry; I only thought that the world might be better off if I wasn’t in it, and that, of course, I would be relieved of the pain I was experiencing. I didn’t think of Henry, and how he might feel. He considered us to be inextricably linked, bound to one another. He couldn’t stand the thought of life without me, he said. He wouldn’t have been able to bear it.

“I love you,” he said to me. We were sitting in my old bedroom, I remember. We were on my bed. He gathered my hands in his and pressed his forehead to my palms. “I love you, Victor. You can’t leave me. You can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I said to him, softly. I didn’t want to break him. “Henry-”

“No, Victor,” he interrupted, and his voice was firm, almost angry. Henry had never been this truly angry with me before, though he had more than enough just cause to be, on many occasions. “I can’t live without you. I won’t.”

I could never understand why Henry loved me as he did. I will never understand it. Henry himself — that’s a love I understand. I completely understand my own love for Henry. He was an incredible being, incomparable, beautiful, singular in body, mind, and soul. I was nothing. I was a monster, a demon of a man, and I pushed him away constantly, whether I was aware of it or not. There was no reason for him to love me, and still he did. I never knew what I had when I had him.

“I won’t die anytime soon, Henry,” I assured him, even though I had no way of knowing this, and I was almost sure I was lying. “But, if I did, you would have to keep living. Do you understand?”

“No, Victor-” he tried, but I interrupted him.

“No,” I said to him. “No, Henry, I can’t bear the thought of a world without you, even more than you can’t bear the thought of a world without me. The world needs you.”

Will was like a beam of light, but, for me, Henry was the sun. He was necessary. Henry eventually agreed, that he would keep living if I didn’t, but he made me promise the same. I did it for him, but I didn’t believe it. If Henry died before he was an old man, I knew, in that moment, that it would be my fault he was dead, and that was a pain I would never be able to bear. I couldn’t think of a world without Henry; it didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t.

We made love that night, in my childhood bed, like we were in high school all over again. It was desperate, I remember. The freshness of Will’s death and the trial added an edge, that anguished realization of mortality, how easy it was to lose somebody. My talk of death had only exacerbated that feeling for Henry, it seemed. It was dark and rough, nothing like when we were in high school, or even when we were in Cambridge, but Henry seemed to be reassured by it. It was like the sensations gave him a comfort, reminded him that we were both still there, both still together. It helped him, I think.

Henry and I wanted to stay with my family for a while after that, so we did. We only had what we thought to pack and bring with us when we left Cambridge, but it was enough to get by until we had the opportunity to return and pack up everything. We stayed there for only a week, as it ended up being. We thought we would be there for much longer, but we had no way of knowing what was going to happen. If I had had a crystal ball, a lot of things would have been different.

Anyways, it was only a week after that night that we received the news of Justine. She had obtained a power cord at commissary, and she had hanged herself with it. She left behind no last words, no note. One moment she was there, and, the next, she was gone. That was it. Justine was dead. Two people dead — that I knew of, I thought, and then dismissed the thought, because I couldn’t handle the thought that he was on a spree, and these were only two of his victims. I went almost mad with guilt. Will was dead, Justine was dead, and I was at fault entirely. I couldn’t handle it. I nearly went insane.

I fled. Alone. I ran. I’m not proud of it, but I ran. The guilt was too much for me, and I went north until I reached Canada. I crossed the border into that northern country, and I wandered alone for a time. It was better this way, I thought. I wasn’t thinking straight. If the demon was following me, then he was away from my family now, right? That’s what I thought. If he wanted me, he was following me. I wandered about Canada, penniless and half-dead. I was in Montreal when Henry finally caught up with me. I don’t know how he did it, but, if anyone could have, it was Henry.

I told him he had no business being with me, that I was a monster of unholy proportions and that I deserved to be separate from humanity, that I deserved to lose everything. This was surely what Adam thought, though I did not voice that particular opinion. Henry, of course, disagreed vehemently. He insisted on accompanying me. There was nothing I could say or do to stop him. I told him that, if we were to really do this, I couldn’t be in a city, that I had to leave. Henry recognized in me my desire to return to nature.

Going to nature was always incredibly satisfying to me, and this was not lessened by everything that had happened. If anything, I would say the feelings I had towards it were stronger now, because I had almost nothing else to live for. It led me to appreciate nature more, I think. Henry and I went to the Laurentian Mountains. I never told Henry that we were hiding, but I think he suspected it. He was smart; he must have known.

There was a village in the Laurentian Mountains called Val-David. It wasn’t fair of me to expect Henry to drop everything to live in some cabin in Canada with me, but he did it anyways. We still called my family, spoke with them, kept them updated on our lives, but I never dared to visit them. Henry seemed to be afraid to let me out of his sight for more than a couple of hours, so he never left, either. He talked to Eliza every day. I didn’t feel the need to; I was trying to protect them. I kept my contact minimal.

Henry, like he did when we were in Cambridge, gave himself the task of starting a life for us. It took its toll, I could tell; starting a life for a third time, having to do it all again. He did it, though. People in Val-David were warm, kind, and welcoming, and Henry’s involvement in the community and his charismatic personality opened them up to us almost immediately. We tried to construct a life for ourselves there, a normal one. I really thought we’d be safe there. The shadow of Adam loomed over my head and darkened my every step, but Henry didn’t know, and I had not seen Adam in some time. I felt as happy and safe as I could possibly feel at that point in time.

Henry started a garden, and he grew all sorts of things. He had a green thumb, Henry did, and could make something come alive just by looking at it. I don’t know how he did it in Val-David — it seemed like it was always cold, and there was snow on the ground most of the time, but, if anyone could do it, Henry could. He grew flowers, fruits, vegetables. You name it, Henry had it. He went to the farmers’ market in town every single day, once he felt comfortable enough to be away from me for that long. I think he was afraid I’d run again. I’d be lying if I said that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Once I was more settled, though, he felt more secure in his decision to go away for longer periods of time.

He made friends there. People weren’t always accepting of our relationship, but, in Val-David, if they didn’t accept us, they didn’t say anything. It was comfortable. Henry grew less and less afraid with each passing day, getting happier and happier every time the sun rose. For a time, I lost myself to the nothingness, to the numbness which had been steadily consuming me since Justine’s death. Henry had just been beginning to draw me out of this and back into the real world, his new world, when it happened.

We were both outside, in broad daylight. I was sitting in the grass, propped up against the side of our little house, reading a book that Henry had recommended to me. I’m not sure, but I think it was something about lightness. Very much Henry’s taste in books at that point. He had insisted I read whatever it was, and, once he had succeeded in drawing me out of myself a little bit, I finally did.

Henry was kneeling in his garden, probably weeding — I don’t think he was planting that day. I heard a twig snap in the woods, and I looked up. Henry was humming to himself, one headphone in his ear; I don’t think he heard it. When I looked, I didn’t see anything in the woods, but I was so on edge all the time, so full of fear. I set the book aside in the grass. Henry looked at me, and tugged his headphone out of his ear.

“Is something wrong?” he asked me. I shook my head, but I was still scanning the edge of the woods. Henry leaned back and turned to look, as well. “Did you see something? Hear something? Is someone in there? Is it Etienne? He said he’d be stopping by-”

“Henry,” I interrupted him, my voice low, and he seemed to understand. I stood, abandoning my book and my warm spot in the grass so that I could go towards the woods. I had barely taken two steps, however, before a figure emerged from the woods. I almost passed out then, when I saw who it was. Henry was at his feet in a split second, so fast that I didn’t even see the transition from sitting to standing. He was at my side in the next moment, hand on my elbow, ready to pull me back.

“Who are you?” Henry demanded. My words had been stolen from me; I couldn’t speak, and my feet felt cemented to the ground. Adam took a step closer, and that was all the incentive I needed to push Henry behind me.

“Leave,” I snarled. Adam approached, and I backed up, keeping Henry safely behind me as we moved. “You are not welcome here.”

“Victor, who is he?” Henry asked. Adam opened his mouth. I had not imagined him capable of speech, but it was a day for surprises.

“Yes, Victor,” Adam said. “Who am I?”

“Victor-”

“Victor, haven’t you told him about me?” Adam demanded. As he got closer, I was able to see him in more detail; the sun shone as brightly on him as it did on us, though I thought he belonged to the shadows from which he had come. He wore old, moth-eaten clothes now, but he was still as horrible as he had been when he was born. His eyes had changed so drastically from the dark beauty I had originally chosen; they were terrible to look at, yellow and watery, bloodshot and hellish. He stared through me.

“Who are you?” Henry asked, directly addressing Adam this time. Adam seemed to finally shift his attention from me to Henry, who I could feel edging around me. I adjusted my position to keep Henry behind me as subtly as I could. His fingers dug into my forearm.

“I’m his son,” Adam spat at him. Henry was silent; I didn’t dare to look at him. “I’m the life he created and abandoned. Didn’t you see fit to discuss me, Father?” He said the word in such a twisted, disgusting way, in a way I had never heard it before. It chilled me. “Didn’t you talk about me to your loved ones? Our family?”

“This is not your family,” I said, and my voice shook and betrayed me. Adam could sense my weakness, I could tell. He stepped closer, and I had to tip my head back to maintain eye contact, so large was he. “Leave this place. Leave us alone. Leave, and never come back.”

“I don’t know why you think you have any sort of power over me or what I do,” Adam said. He looked over our heads at the house we had been occupying since our escape. “Do you share this home with anybody?”

We were silent. I could feel Henry shake his head. Adam nodded.

“Good.” He pointed towards the front door. “Go inside, if you please.”

“Why?” I demanded to know. Henry’s grip on my arm tightened.

“Because I have a story to tell you,” Adam answered. I would have said he sounded almost patient, if I didn’t know better. “It’s quite a long one. I would rather we all be comfortable for it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Henry agreed at once. I shifted to look down at him, but Henry’s fingernails almost broke my skin in silent warning. I didn’t move. “We’ll go inside. Don’t worry. We’re going.”

Henry turned first, wrapping one hand around my wrist and pulling me with him. I could hear the tremendous footfalls of the demon behind us after a moment.

“Why are you doing this?” I hissed to Henry, in as low a voice as I could manage, trying to keep my words quiet enough that Adam couldn’t hear.

“Because there’s a gun in his belt,” Henry murmured back. “I don’t know if he means to use it on us, but I’m not about to test him and take that chance.”

I fell silent again, allowing Henry to lead me into our house. Adam still followed behind us; the hardwood creaked under his substantial weight, and, had I been able to turn around, I’m sure I would have seen Adam ducking down under every doorway and stooping to be able to fit in our rooms, all of which had relatively low ceilings, especially in comparison to him. Henry shut doors as he went, perhaps for his own peace of mind. We went to the kitchen, where Henry released me by the table, which I took as a hint to sit down. Henry pulled out one of the chairs at the table and motioned for Adam to sit. The entire situation was surreal; it was like a dream meeting a nightmare, if you can imagine that.

“Why don’t you sit and start saying what you want to say?” Henry suggested, motioning towards the open chair. “I’ll make some tea for us. Do you want anything to eat?”

Adam sat down in the chair and faced me directly. He did not answer Henry. Henry looked between us for a moment before he started digging through the cabinets for our tea kettle. I turned my attention back to Adam, who was staring at me so intently.

“What is it you want, exactly?” I asked him, my voice rough, though the tremble was beginning to settle, under a considerable amount of willpower from me. Adam continued to examine my face. Neither of us spoke. The only sound came from the apple tree outside the window tapping its branches against the side of the house, and from Henry trying to make tea as quietly as he could. Finally, Adam answered.

“I want you to hear my story,” Adam said. “I want you to know what my life has been like since you abandoned me. But, first, I want you to tell him who I am. I want you to tell him what you did.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Why does it matter if he knows? Why does that matter to you?”

“I’ll admit, my original, primary intention in coming here was to talk to you,” Adam confessed to me. “But I’m also very angry with you. Victor, I won’t lie to you — we’d never lie to each other, would we? I like to think not. But, please, Victor, understand how angry I am. I don’t want to take vengeance on you, but I will do what I think is right. At this very moment, I think that it is right you tell this man, whom I have never observed you without, who seems to live in this house with you, and whom you seem so desperate to protect, the story of my birth. I would love if you told him, and please don’t begrudge me this; I’m going to take whatever small, non-violent measures of revenge that present themselves to me, unless otherwise provoked. Do you understand me, Victor? Or would you prefer that I call you Father?”

“Victor is fine,” I answered. I tried to make my voice as strong as possible, but it was still a bit choked. He studied my face.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he noticed. There was a gleam in his disgusting eyes. “Small measures of revenge, like I said. I’ll call you Father.” He jerked his chin in the direction of Henry. “What is his name, and who is he to you? I saw him in the little portrait.”

At the time, I didn’t ask what portrait he was referring to; I was distracted from that detail by his questions and his threats. I feared for myself and for Henry. I wanted to do as he said, until I got an opportunity to either attack him or flee. Otherwise, I knew what I had to do.

“His name is Henry,” I said. Adam motioned with one large, neatly-scarred hand.

“Henry what?” Adam urged. “Full names, please.”

“My name is Henry Florence Clerval,” Henry said, his voice welcome and terrifying as he interjected. The tea kettle whistled on the stovetop, and he shut the burner off and removed the kettle. He spoke as he poured water into three mugs, arranged in an orderly line on the countertop. “I’ve been Victor’s friend since we were kids.”

“Surely that’s not all,” Adam suggested. Henry set the kettle back on the cooling burner and opened a box of teabags.

“That’s all.” Henry turned and offered the box to Adam. “Take whichever one you like.”

Adam did not observe the names or the flavors of the different teas. He chose one at random and handed it to Henry, who nodded. He didn’t ask me. Henry knew exactly what I liked and how I took it. He didn’t think to ask. Adam picked up on that, I noticed, but he didn’t say anything. He wanted to keep a careful hold on anything that gave him an upper hand over me. Henry placed the tea bags carefully in the mugs and set the mugs on the table, one by one. He gave us each a small spoon, then set the small container of creamer and the little dish of sugar at the middle of the table. Each step of the process was painstakingly done, Henry taking the utmost care as he moved gingerly to set it all up. He took his seat in silence. Adam watched him as he composed the tea set and settled, as though Henry was a specimen under a microscope.

“Tell Henry Florence Clerval what you have done, Father,” Adam said, after a great length of time. “Spare no detail.”

Even I, in my muddled, numbed state, could read the threat in Adam’s voice. I could barely bring myself to look Henry in the eye during the length of the confession, but instead kept my focus mainly on my hands. I didn’t want to see his face when he learned of what I had done. I’m still glad I didn’t look; I don’t want to know what he thought when he first heard. He was so sensitive, such an open book, that his emotions would have been plain and easy for me to read on his face. I’m glad I didn’t know. Ignorance can still sometimes be bliss.

I admitted everything to Henry, as I have admitted everything to you today. I told him every detail, under the prodding and urging of Adam, the hellbeast who was now masquerading as my son, my horrible son. I only stole glances at his face now and then, but I couldn’t bear to look at him for very long. I told him of the ideas that came to me after the death of my mother, and the execution of those ideas; I told him about my daughter; I told him of that night in Cambridge; I told him of my suspicions regarding Will’s death. Adam did not comment on any aspect of it. In fact, he remained silent nearly the entire time, offering no insight of his own, much like you are now. He only spoke to remind me of some forgotten detail which he had remembered and I had not.

Henry remained silent during the duration of the story. I mean entirely silent, mind you; he didn’t say a word. He stared at me; I could feel his eyes burning holes in my head, but I hardly dared to look up. There was no positive response, but there was no negative response, either. He remained passive the entire time. I wasn’t quite sure how to take it; how does one take something like that? Tears fell, but I’m not sure why. I wanted to ask, but I thought it would be better to finish — like ripping off a bandaid, right?

When I finished bringing Henry to the same place, knowledge-wise, that I was currently at, the three mugs of tea had gone cold, untouched. I reached out to touch Henry’s hand; he withdrew in the same moment. He seemed almost surprised to see my hands. Without a word, he gathered up our mugs and dumped them all out in the sink. He busied himself with making new mugs with steaming hot water and fresh tea bags. Adam watched him for a moment, like observing Henry was a favorite pastime of his. It made me uncomfortable, to watch his watery eyes following a human being with such interest, such intensity. I looked away, but Adam reached out and snatched my wrist the moment I did.

Never have I felt something so horrifying. His skin was chilled, like a corpse’s, but I could feel the unnatural heat of the blood right under the skin of his palm. I recoiled immediately, ripping my wrist out of his grasp, and Henry abandoned the teapot in a second, shoving Adam’s shoulder back. Adam looked startled to be approached in such a way, but he did not move to attack Henry in return. He probably knew Henry was no threat. His natural curiosity allowed him to watch the situation play out, rather than act.

“Don’t touch him,” Henry snarled. His fingers were digging into the horrible, dark, grey flesh of Adam’s shoulder, visible because of the enormous white undershirt the beast had on. Every inch of him was stained in something, and much of the undershirt — which seemed to have, perhaps, once been white — was covered in smoky grey splotches that almost seemed like ashy. He smelled of smoke and the woods, in a deeply unpleasant way. In contrast, Henry was clean, his fair skin light and covered in freckles, and the contrast between them was almost laughable. His long hair was tied up in a loose bun; Adam’s was thick and unclean. Adam was tremendous and disgusting; Henry was small and pleasant. They were like photo negatives of one another.

“Wait until you hear the whole story before you rush to defend my father,” Adam spat right back. He shoved Henry’s wrist away. Henry was strong, but he was still delicate, fragile in comparison to the beast that sat before us, and I can only imagine that any amount of force from Adam would cause anybody pain. Henry didn’t falter. He stayed in position for another moment, looming over Adam.

“In my house, you will listen to me, is that understood?” Henry said. His tone, it seemed to me, left no room to argue. Adam did not say anything: not a word of agreement, but not one of disagreement, either. Surely he didn’t fear Henry, but he was so manipulative, so eager to play with us and our emotions, like we were beneath him, toys for his pleasure.

“I will tell you of my story, beginning with the night of my birth and ending with right now, this very moment, the present,” Adam informed us, doing a thorough job now of ignoring Henry. Henry backed off, returning to his previous position stationed in front of the stove, where he kept a close eye on the kettle as the water boiled. Adam remained focused on me. “You will pay me the same respect that I paid you, Father, when you told your side of it all. Now, I shall tell mine; you will listen, and be silent.”

He stopped speaking, and looked at me expectantly. I realized, belatedly, that he was waiting for me to agree with him. I nodded, a jerky, unnerving movement, and Adam inclined his head. He was horrid, grotesque and beastly, but he was more calm than I was, in that moment. He accepted the tea when Henry placed it down in front of him, with more force than he had the first time.

With this, he began his story.

Chapter Thirteen

“After my birth, the subsequent fall from the window, and then that scene which you described where I attempted to approach you in the bedroom which served as my delivery room, when you frightened me so terribly, I fled. I was afraid; I didn’t understand it yet, but I was. I just didn’t have a name for the feeling. I didn’t have a basis of comparison. I just had the sensation, overwhelming and terrible, nipping at my heels as I ran. I was a newborn, in every sense of the word but the physical. Obviously, I am — and was at the time of my birth — rather physically imposing. I was not aware of his fact at the time, not as I am now. I only knew myself, and you, Father, and, then, I had not even seen myself. I did not yet understand. I was simple. I was a blank slate, which you immediately snapped over your knee.

“I ran as far as I could until I grew weary. I was in a city of some sort, and the darkness provided some measure of protection. Even in the night time, my figure was imposing, and nobody dared to approach me. Once they get closer, their revulsion was clear, but I didn’t understand it. I just knew it was negative. Basic human instinct, I suppose. I’m not a scientist, Doctor, not like you. I don’t understand the intricacies of the body at the level you do, but I do, perhaps, understand human nature far better than you have ever been able to.

“I eventually came upon a side alley, where I observed a man tucked into an alcove, resting. It struck me as the very thing that I wanted to do, so I did it. When I awoke, the sun was in the sky, and everything was lit. It was incredible; I had never witnessed something so interesting. I had fallen asleep in one world, and woken up in another. As I said, Father, I was remarkably simple in my early days. If only you had cared for me, as a parent ought to care for a child. If only you had loved me, or had taken responsibility. Oh, well — if ifs and buts were candies and nuts, I suppose, eh, Father?

“I saw the man wake up a short time after I did. I was pleased that he, too, made the transition from that dark world to this new, lighter world, and I followed him when he packed up his few belongings and began to move. When I followed him, people seemed to ignore me more than they did when I walked on the street alone. I did not enjoy this location very much, busy and so full of stimulation as it was. It was overwhelming for me, and I felt a desire to get back to you. I felt rejected, but did not understand rejection. I only wanted to return to you.

“I left the man, and I, now alone once more, began to walk again. Walking was something I did so much of, especially in those early days, and, now, more recently, I have taken it up in some capacity once again. Walking I understood; it was something I could do. A sense of direction and a natural inclination towards navigation, however, I did not possess. I could not find my way back to you; I did not know where I was. I had no grasp of language, no reading skills, no speaking ability. I could grunt, but people ignored me, as though I was a homeless man who lost his tongue. People are so indifferent in the city, but can you blame them? The cities are full of empty faces.

“After a time, I reached the edge of a highway, which was incomprehensible to me. I continued along this edge, going along guardrails until I thought to climb over them and make my way into the woods. I loved the woods. When I breached the perimeter of the trees, the sun was half-set in the sky, and everything was dusky. I was in awe. The sunlight was nothing in comparison to this partial darkness, where everything was painted in colors I had never seen before. I was in love, I knew; the world called to me, and I answered.

“I wandered in the woods aimlessly for a time that second night. The moon was full. I looked up, and the love I felt increased tenfold when I laid my eyes on the moon. The night before had been so stormy, I couldn’t see the moon; even if I could have seen it, I was so preoccupied, it’s likely I wouldn’t have. But, is there a chance I wouldn’t notice such a thing as this? I was hooked, addicted; that reflector of light which is closer to us than any other astronomical body was so incredible to me. Nothing could compare. The sun had just hurt my newborn eyes when I looked at it; I had only vague impressions of what it looked like. The moon was kind, gentle. I could almost see a face, if I looked close enough. She lit my path, and kept me company. I learned later that the moon was often referred to as female, as Luna, and it was then that I gave her that name, but I had no words when I first became acquainted with her.

“She gave me the strength to journey on, when I was beginning to lose hope in finding you, Father. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I believed you could give it to me. Were you not, after all, the one who had given me life? I didn’t understand it. I didn’t have the words. But, Father, I knew, in the heart that you so carefully placed in my body, that you would be able to help me. Well, I should say, I thought I knew; clearly, I was wrong.

“I traveled in the woods and forests. If I found myself approaching another city, I detoured; I hated the cities, I decided, and I wanted no part of them. I sometimes stumbled across small towns, but nobody saw me. If they did, they ignored me. I ate what I found; I drank from streams and rivers and puddles. Instinct drove me to most of the actions I went through during that time. I had no concept of self-preservation, save the basics that are inherent in all beings. I did what felt right to me. Luckily, I survived; I did not consume a poison berry, a tainted root, or contaminated water. That was just chance, but I am thankful. I tried to communicate with the moon, my Luna, in the way that infants try to speak to those around them, with grunts and whines, the only noises I understood. They were, of course, the beginnings of words, but I had no understanding of how to construct words, never mind what they meant.

“There is a specific type of nothingness that comes from a life of unawareness such as I lived in those beginning days. They could have been weeks, or months — I had no concept of time for those days, and I could not tell you with any degree of certainty how long it was before I learned about what time was, and how it passed. Everything was new, and there is a certain kind of magnificent wonder to that, one I cannot describe. No human remembers what it is to be newborn and to see the world with fresh eyes, but I, with my adult brain, remember distinctly. I was newborn, but conscious of the world around me. But I was not living, not in the sense of the word that I have since become acquainted with. I was not living any sort of life. I was merely surviving, moving from day to day. I constructed rudimentary shelters, then moved on. I ate when I felt hunger. I drank when I felt thirst. I attempted to find a comrade in the moon, and in the leaves that shifted in the wind, and in the creatures that crossed my path. I did not understand life; I did not understand why they did not reply to me.

“I entered a small town one day, and a woman was grilling something in her backyard when I was passing through it. I was hungry; the ground had not been providing me with any solid nutrition, or anything filling, and the smell of whatever she was making enticed me. I approached her. Upon seeing me, she screamed, knocking the grill over in my direction, and sending a burning rain of hot coals into my face. I shouted in pain and stumbled back; she had retrieved her family and neighbors by the time I was able to look around me again, and they chased me out, fear plain on their simple, open faces. I was terrified.

“It was that night that I first saw myself. I was drinking from a stream, and I caught sight of my own reflection, illuminated by the moon. I was startled at first, before I realized the being in the water moved as I moved. Then, understanding dawned. Not long after, horror followed. I was not like any of the people I had seen before this; I was, truly, monstrous. I was unlike them; I was beastly, I was ugly. To them, I was inhuman, though I did not understand the differences between them and I, apart from the obvious outward divergences. I wanted to understand. I decided to seek out humans who would understand me.

“This was extremely difficult, especially considering my newfound natural fear of humans. My burns began to heal, but it took time. When I was able to look in the stream and not see the horrible redness that defined my face and neck for a time, I decided to try and seek out a human who might be willing to teach me their ways, since I, for some reason, had no knowledge of what I was meant to do, or of my world at all. I had a natural hunger, a curiosity about me that I recognize in you. Like father, like son, I suppose.

“I began my search for a companion in earnest. I stuck to the woods until nighttime, eating berries and roots, drinking river water. At night, I was freed by the darkness; nobody could see my face, or my hideous form. They were not terrified; I was, for the most part, ignored. My stature was still significant, but this was looked upon with surprise more than horror. I searched town after town, but found no one. I am not surprised; my inability to communicate was rather limiting.

“At last, I came upon what I originally thought to be a small, enclosed town, but I later discovered to be a university. For reasons unknown to me, I loved the area. It spoke to me; it was a small piece of humanity, wrapped up in nature, very nearly placed right in the woods. I felt comfortable. It had a great deal of people wandering about, but it seemed as though nobody glanced twice at me. Everyone was different; it was a very diverse population. I decided to stay in this place until I ran out of food.

“After a bit of time, I discovered that, when the darkness came, people would disappear into a number of buildings, all in a row. This never changed; evening after evening, people returned to those very same buildings. It was cold at night then, colder than it had been lately, and this seemed like a logical course of action to try, this shelter that all the others were using. I followed in closely after someone once, slipping in through the open door before it automatically closed, and I navigated the halls as best as I could. I came upon an empty, unlocked room, and it was here that I took up residence.

“I had to leave periodically to obtain roots and berries, but I did not leave very often at all, since I was so comfortable in there. Soon, I found that there were noises coming from the other side of the wall. Not just any noises, either: noises I recognized. People were talking, just like people talked in the streets, in the cities, in the backyards. I put my ear to the wall between the two rooms, and I could hear them more clearly. I found a small hole in the wall, which I could peer through if I climbed onto one of the beds in the empty room. This is where I began to spend the majority of my time.

“The people in that room were appealing to look at and very interesting to observe, even before I had a grasp of their language — which, luckily, was also yours. There were two women who were there most often. I picked up their names rather quickly, as they would respond when that particular sound was made by the other. Their names were Agatha and Safie. Agatha was American, with fair-skin, freckles, wild red hair, and a wide smile. She was gentle, she always wore dresses, and she always had a kind word. Safie was, in appearances, Agatha’s polar negative; she had very long hair that was black and silky, and dark skin: the complete opposite of Agatha. Safie had freckles, too, though, and the two of them were about the same height, but that was about where the similarities ended. Safie was thinner, where Agatha was wider; Agatha had blue eyes, and Safie’s eyes were so dark, they were almost black. Safie was foreign, with an accent, though I did not yet know where she was from. Regardless of their differences, they were, both of them, so beautiful to me. I loved them both dearly.

“Agatha’s voice had a similar accent to the voices of those also in the area, but Safie’s was different. I was not sure why. A man frequently visited the room and stayed for long periods of time. He was young, just like the two girls, and he resembled Agatha. His name was Felix. He walked with a cane far out in front of him, tapping out his path; it took me a bit of time to realize his eyes could not see. He had shaggy hair, the precise shade of Agatha’s, and freckles in abundance, like her. He was taller than her, and his eyes were whitened with his blindness, but their similarities were stark. The fact that they were siblings was unmistakable.

“Felix also regarded Safie with an adoration and fondness that differed in tone and appearance from the relationship he had with his sister. He had a romantic love for Safie, very different than the familial love he held for Agatha. He was tender, and good; he had a light touch, and, like his sister, always had a kind word. I realized that Agatha and Felix often spoke to each other in one language, and Safie would attempt to reply, her voice slower and thicker. She would then speak quickly in a different way, the words shaped differently, and then return to her slow version of Agatha and Felix’s words.

“Safie was learning English. Agatha and Felix were going to great lengths to teach her, and I took complete advantage of the situation. There were a couple of books abandoned in the house which I had taken up residence in, and I stole them, hiding them away in the room that had become my sanctuary. I also utilized the books that Agatha and Felix occasionally used on Safie, though they usually just tried to teach her by the spoken word. That made it much easier for me. I learned English more quickly than Safie did, but she had other work to do, and she already knew an entire other language. I had nothing else but this.

“It took time, even if I was quicker than Safie. I learned word by word, and I still had to figure out letters, sounds, words, sentence structure. I read constantly, even when nobody was in the room next door. I learned English as fast as I could, and I learned that I was in the state of Maine, at a college called DeLacey University. Safie was an exchange student, though I never quite learned where she came from. Turkey, maybe. She was always very vague and withdrawn when speaking about any life of hers outside of DeLacey, and I did not — and still do not — recognize the language she spoke when she wasn’t speaking English.

“Aside from learning a language, I also learned about humanity through these three. They seemed to represent all that was good in the world, all which humanity had to offer wrapped up in three individuals. They worked together, they sang together, they slept together, they enjoyed each other’s company. They laughed, they cried, and I found myself frequently doing the same. I not only sympathized with them; I had begun to empathize, in a way, even though I was probably largely incapable. I wanted to be with them. They were their own family unit; I wanted to join them. I brought berries and roots to their door, which they would examine and ask each other about. They never knew where the food I brought them came from, and I was proud of myself for what I conceived as assisting them, helping them survive their day-to-day lives, since they occasionally did appear to forget to eat.

“I thought of them as my family. They taught me English. They taught me about the world. They taught me how to laugh. They taught me how to live, Father, which is more than I could ever say, can ever say, about you. It was your job to take responsibility for me, and you did not. Though indirectly, this became the job of these three college students. They did not know it, but they were more my family than anybody else, and I loved them dearly. Felix, with his gentle voice, and the music he would play on his guitar, even though he couldn’t see his fingers on the strings. Agatha, with her hard-working spirit and her unshakable kindness. Safie, with her determined spirit and enticing, rhythmic way of speaking. They were beautiful to me. I loved them, Father.

“Once I figured out the English language, I moved on to not only speaking it, but reading it. I utilized the books I found, and came to find that I had three favorites. I use the word ‘favorites’, but I adored them all; I loved to read. There were three that made the strongest impressions on me, for certain. One was a volume of Plutarch’s Lives. One was The Sorrows of Werter. I reread both of those books frequently; they were rather interesting. If you have not read them, Father — or you, for that matter, Henry Clerval — then I recommend you do.

“The last book, which I hold in the highest esteem and which I would not hesitate to call my favorite, was a book called Paradise Lost, written by a man named John Milton. It struck a chord with me at once, as I recognized the name Adam as the name which you called me at my birth, Father. The name made sense; I had been searching for a sound by which to identify myself, like Felix, or Agatha, or Safie, but I had not been able to decide. I didn’t know how names came about; people don’t really discuss that in conversation, as you probably know. I didn’t know if it had to be chosen, or if I already had a name. As soon as I read that name — that name, Adam, right there in front of me — I remembered. I remembered you, and my name, and my beginnings, which I had been struggling to push out of my memory as a bad dream. I did not know what I was, but I wanted to pretend I was normal. That was fairly sturdy evidence that I most certainly was not.

“Paradise Lost, then. Not only did I recognize my name in the book, but I recognized myself in the character with whom I shared a name. Adam was very like me, in that he was the first of his kind. I was not like humans; this, I had begun to understand. I must be the first of my kind, I thought. I was somewhat confused; did this make you a God? You and I did not have the same relationship as Adam and the God that created him. That God was kind and fatherly, which you most certainly are not. But there was no doubt in my mind that I was Adam, and so I figured you must be some sort of deity, some form of God. You were not like that the God in the book, though; you were cruel, ignorant, malevolent. You were the opposite of what I needed, and I worried for my kind. Was I human? Was I more than human? Was this a new awakening, an evolution? The more aware I came, the more questions I had, and, soon, the deeper the questions became.

“Once I recognized in myself the beginning of something new — a life, I would say, which I was not aware of before — I began to make plans for myself. These plans, for the most part, centered around my three neighbors. I already thought of myself as a member of their little family, and the idea was growing rapidly, becoming more and more difficult for me to shake. My strongest desire was for companionship, and I loved these three so dearly. I started to plan to introduce myself to them. That was the first step of my master plan. I imagined it constantly: I would go over, knock on their door (as I had seen others do), they would open the door and see me, and they, being the kind souls they were, would not scream or flee or attack. They would allow me to come inside, and they would hear my story, as I am telling it to you now. They would welcome me with open arms.

“It took me some time, since I had to both develop the plan until I was comfortable with it, but also gather up the courage, the confidence to actually do this. I was incredibly nervous, but I had my plan all ready. I would wait until, for one reason or another, Felix was alone. Since he was blind, he would not startle at my appearance, that much I was certain of. His kindness would allow me to enter and speak to him, and then I would be able to tell him my story. Then, when Safie and Agatha returned, they would be startled — I had no misconceptions, I knew they would be. But, once Felix calmed them, he would allow me to explain myself to them, as well, I imagined. Then, they would embrace me as one of their own. I just needed to be given a chance, that’s all. That’s all I needed.

“I waited for a long time. Months, it seemed, though I’m sure it wasn’t so bad as all that. I was just anxious, and grew moreso with each passing day. When the day finally came that Safie and Agatha left for an extended period of time — to retrieve dinner, because the three of them were studying rather intently and didn’t want the distraction of whatever mess hall they usually got their meals from — I decided to put my plan into action. I left my room, which already made me feel uncomfortable, since it was not night time. Sunlight streamed in from the window down the hall, and my heart was racing as I knocked on the door of the room next door with my massive hand. I could hear Felix’s voice within, one of those voices which I cherished above all others, telling me to come in, allowing me entrance. That voice, those words, were directed at me. I was in awe; I nearly forgot to open the door.

“‘You’re back early,’ Felix said to me. The first words spoken to me since yours, since you called me ‘Adam’ on the night of my birth. I hesitated, then spoke.

“‘I do not think I am who you think I am,’ I said, and my voice was rough, but my words were clear. Felix was seated on the floor, cross-legged, his guitar in his hands. He set it aside when I spoke. ‘I am lost, and seeking kindness.’

“‘You talk like someone in an old book,’ Felix said, smiling. He motioned with his hands when he spoke to me. ‘What can I do for you?’

“This was it. I shut the door behind me, effectively trapping us both inside. My heart was in my throat, pulsing madly. I was terrified, but I was so, so hopeful. I sat down across from him, and fought the urge to take his hands in mine.

“‘I am looking for a friend,’ I said. This, too, was part of my plan; I would describe my situation vaguely, no names, and let Felix draw his own conclusions until I was asked directly. I assumed it would help. Felix cocked his head.

“‘Do you know where this friend is?’ Felix asked me. I nodded my head, then remembered his blindness.

“‘I do,’ I answered. ‘It is actually three friends. I love them dearly, but I am afraid that they fear me. I am rather ugly, and people seem to run from me constantly.’

“‘You sound fine to me,’ Felix said. ‘People can be shallow, you know. People suck. But that’s something being blind kind of saved me from, you know?’ He paused. ‘What’s your name?’

“‘Adam,’ I told him. ‘My name is Adam.’

“‘Adam,’ Felix repeated. My name was incredible in his mouth. ‘Well, we’ll see what we can do about your friends, alright? And you said you were lost?’

“‘I am lost,’ I confirmed. ‘Felix, I don’t know what to do.’

“A beat of silence. Then,

“‘How do you know my name?’ Felix asked, his body tensing a bit. Body language is instinctual, our reactions to one another plain in the way we hold ourselves, in the way our body behaves. I could tell he had just become wary of me, and I panicked.

“‘I have been living next door, Felix,’ I told him. Felix’s brow furrowed. ‘I’ve been watching you. I bring you food. You taught me English. You taught me how to live, Felix. You are my family.’

“‘Oh, my God,’ Felix exclaimed, hurrying to his feet. I, too, stood, trembling with fear. I was afraid I had frightened him; his face seemed drained of blood, and he appeared to be ready to bolt. The door to the room opened, and Safie and Agatha returned. I turned to greet them, and Safie screamed.

“‘Felix, who is this?’ Agatha demanded. Felix shook his head roughly.

“‘I don’t know, but he’s been watching us through the wall,’ Felix answered all at once, his voice shaky with fear. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. The take-out containers that Safie and Agatha had gotten were spilled all over the floor. ‘Get him out of here, call the police, do something, Aggie-’

“Safie was on me at once, spraying something in my eyes that burned them down to my very brain. I shouted, clutching my face as tears streamed down it, doubling over. Safie brought her elbow down on the back of my neck, and I stumbled down. I was being attacked by those I loved most dearly, and I was terrified. I was heartbroken. I fled. I left behind that house, my books, the little home I had created for myself, and the people that I had considered my family for so long. I fled.

“I kept an eye on the house for a long while. The police did come, and they searched for me for a time, but I remained elusive. They gave up after a bit. Safie and Agatha moved out of the house. Felix was there when they left, looking terrified. He had one hand in his jacket pocket, presumably holding some sort of weapon. I was anguished, stricken with grief over losing them. I was also angry, very angry, which I did not yet understand. I wanted them to feel the pain I felt. I remembered the pain of the hot coals, and I attempted to set the house on fire. I failed, succeeding only in scorching my fingers. I finally fled.

“I spent a while in the woods, just wandering aimlessly. At last, Victor, I remembered you. How was I to find you, I wondered? I remembered the details of the city that I had run to after my birth, and so I covered myself — head, face, hands, all of it — and went to a public library, so I could search the details. The closest I came was Boston, but that was enough. My new goal was to go to Boston; from there, I realized you were likely in Cambridge, so I changed course. I researched the area, trying to find you. I asked people about a man matching your description, since I did not know your name. But it was then that I learned who you were — Victor Frankenstein, my creator, my malevolent God, my father.

“I also got a home address for you from your records, but the address was listed as being in New York, not Cambridge. I quickly figured out that this address was separated from your actual living address when you were at school. If I had stayed, perhaps I would have met with you that day. But, as it was, I left again, journeying day and night, heading for New York. I am a determined individual, you will find, and I wanted nothing more than to find you. I wanted companionship, Father. You were all I had left.

“I reached your home. I climbed up the side of the building, as I had seen a young man do on the building adjacent. It seemed safe enough, and, since I was not allowed through the front door, it seemed to be my only option. I examined room after room, until I startled a young boy. He did not look like you. I did not know yet that he was your brother. He began to shout, no doubt startled by my sudden horrid appearance outside of his window. The window was open. I wanted him to stop. He did, after I laid my hands on him. I didn’t mean to strangle him, I swear I didn’t; I didn’t want him to die. I never would have wanted that. But that was what happened.

“My hands got tangled in the chain around his neck, and I accidentally tore it off in my haste to get away from the dead body of the boy. I fled through the window, which was when I noticed the chain, stuck around my fingers. I ripped it free and tossed it through an open window near me on the fire escape. I ran, but, over the next day, my curiosity got the better of me, like yours did to you, and I returned to the scene of my sin. I heard voices, and I hid. Who should appear in the room but you, Father? I was stunned, but, still, I was thrilled. I had not seen your face since my birth, but I had imagined us meeting again for so long. I was delighted by you. I emerged from the closet, and your face turned into one of repulsion at once. All this work to find you, Father, and your first response was disgust. I was afraid; I was disappointed. I ran again, going back out through that open window and climbing down the fire escape.

“Nothing could keep me away from you, though. I kept an eye on you. I followed you wherever you went, staying at a distance, keeping to the shadows. I followed you to the trial of that woman who was accused of the crime I committed, and I wondered why you did not speak up. I still did not realize what man you must have been; I had… What would you call it? Rose-colored glasses. I had those, when it came to you, Father. I wanted so badly for you to be that God which I was seeking, the parent I so deeply wanted. When you fled, after receiving news — though what the news was, I’m not sure, but you seemed distraught — I followed you, all the way here. I waited, until you were presentable again; it took some time. I wasn’t sure what was wrong, but you seemed to improve after a while.

“And yet, as you grew healthier, I grew angrier. You, who had abandoned me three times, who looked upon me as though you reviled me, had been given yet another opportunity to start over. You were getting happier, and I was only more miserable, living in the woods again like I had been in the early days of my life, like an animal. I was no longer newborn; I was not impressed by you, or in awe of you. I was angry with you, Father. With each passing day, I felt more rage towards you. How dare you abandon me and try to carry on like nothing happened? How dare you try to pretend I never existed? How dare you?

“I gathered my courage, again, just this week. After what happened at DeLacey, I was terrified, and justified in that terror, I think. I obtained a gun for myself, just in the case that you became hostile, and it became necessary. I approached you, with the intent of explaining everything to you. I’m surprised to have found in you a captive and willing audience; you’ve listened to the story of my life without interrupting, and I thank you for that, if nothing else. I only have one more thing to ask of you.

“Father, I request a companion. You created life when you created me; surely, I think, you can do it again. I need a companion. And I would like her to be… a her, yes. That’s all I ask of you; surely you can deliver it to me, after all the wrongs you have committed against me, your only son, your greatest creation? I want to love someone as much as I loved Luna. I want an Eve to my Adam; I want another of my kind, to love me as you are loved, to care for me as you are cared for. I am envious of the love and the family you have, even if it has been weakened by my carelessness with your brother. I want that for myself, Father. Please. Then you can go back to pretending I never happened.”

After this last plea, the demon who sat at my kitchen table fell silent, for the first time in hours. Henry had made several more mugs of tea for each of us, if only to keep himself busy while the story of the creature who called himself my son unfolded before us. My mind was reeling; I had so much to absorb, and the request at the end of the story was maddening to me. My life had been destroyed by this beast, and he wished for me to create another? I couldn’t; I wouldn’t. I told him as much.

“I had hoped you wouldn’t say no,” Adam said to me, “because I am rather insistent that this happen, and I have a backup plan, which I wish I didn’t have to defer to. Please, reconsider, or you have to hear it.”

I did reconsider; I thought on it, in utter silence. Henry had stopped moving, standing at the counter, completely still. Adam, surely, could read the hesitation and the rejection in my eyes, and he gave a little sigh, like I was a pet who was not behaving in quite the way he wanted me to. The sound crawled under my skin.

“Father,” he said, and the way he said the title he had chosen for me hung uneasily in the air. “I must have a companion. If I do not, I plan on evening our playing ground, as it were, if I am actually using that phrase correctly.”

My blood went cold, and, try as I might not to jump to any conclusions, I already was. I asked him to clarify what he meant.

“I mean,” Adam told me, “that I will take all of your companions — your family members, your friends, your neighbors, your loved ones — until you are as alone as I am. If you will not make me a companion, you will be alone as I am. Then, we will be each other’s companions. How does that sound, Father?” Adam was silent for a moment. I did not answer him. “Will you reconsider my original proposal, then?”

I was terrified. He was threatening me, in that he was threatening everything I held dear; I didn’t have much desire for money, or possessions, but the people in my life were the only things I had left to live for. I could not allow him to take those things from me, and I almost agreed to his request right then and there, but I caught Henry’s eye, and Henry shook his head minutely, while Adam was not looking at him. I turned my attention to Adam.

“If you give me the night to think on it, you’ll have your answer in the morning,” I answered him. He seemed hopeful; though not quite a yes, this was more than a no, and he was willing to accept it until the next day. He thanked Henry for the tea, unnervingly polite, and extended his hand to me for me to shake. It took me a moment to realize what he wanted, and, when I did, it took me another second to will myself to shake that large, horrible hand of his. He left, but not before making sure I knew that he would be waiting close by, all night, and that he expected an answer first thing in the morning. He ducked under the ceilings and out the front door, which Henry hurriedly shut behind him.

I turned to Henry, reached out to speak to him, but he turned away. I saw Adam retreat to the trees through the window.

I wished I would wake up.

Chapter Fourteen

Henry was silent for a long while. He took an unnecessarily long amount of time cleaning up the kitchen, paying extra attention to the dishes as he washed them. He put them in the rack, and I dried them, quietly, with a dish towel. I wanted him to speak. I wanted him to say something, anything; I would have preferred they were words of warmth, and of kindness, which I was so accustomed to from him, but I would accepted rage, shouting, anger, pain. It would not have been unreasonable; he had every reason to be upset with me. Anything was better than the silence I was treated to as he collected himself and thought. I waited on the outside for any sign that he hadn’t decided to leave me.

We finished the dishes, and Henry only very briefly made eye contact with me before he headed to the bathroom to shower before bed, since the sun had set while Adam had spoken with us. He shut the door before I could reach him, and I sat right there on the floor, leaning against the wall. I waited for so long; Henry needed his time, and I was unwilling to end my vigil. I fell asleep, and I awoke to Henry, his long hair wet and braided back, shaking me lightly by the shoulder.

“Go to bed, Victor,” Henry said, the first words I had heard from him in hours, and I wanted to bask in his voice. I followed him to our bedroom, where we both changed for bed. I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Henry to finish dressing. He tugged his pants up and knotted the drawstrings, then hesitated, his eyes on his hands. His head fell down, and his shoulders shook. It took me a moment to realize what was happening, and I jumped up to comfort him, as he would have done for me, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and leading him to sit on the bed. He tensed under my touch, but tentatively allowed it, so I didn’t push him. I simply left my arm there, letting him know I was there while he cried. I did not know if he was sad, or angry, or frustrated. I still don’t know. I just let him do it.

Finally, he calmed down, the tears ceasing to flow, and his breathing evened out. He seemed calm again, and he lifted his head to look at me.

“Don’t do it,” was the first thing he said. I was bewildered; he had to know what me not doing this for Adam meant. He could not possibly have misunderstood the monster’s meaning when he said he would take everyone from me. It was certain that Henry would be one of the first taken from me; the special attention Adam paid to Henry had not escaped my notice, so surely Henry hadn’t missed it, either, being much more perceptive than I had ever been.

“Henry, you don’t-”

“I understand, Victor,” Henry interrupted. He sounded tired. “I understand perfectly. And I don’t- Victor, this is so much to deal with.”

“I know, and I wouldn’t expect you to-”

“Stop,” Henry interrupted again. “Victor, stop. Just stop.”

I stopped. I fell silent, and I waited while Henry gathered himself. He took a deep breath.

“We’ll hide,” he suggested. “We’ll hide. We’ll bring Eliza with us, and your dad. We can call Glo and ask her to bring Robin and Lewis. They’ll be okay. We’re not going to give in to him, okay?”

It was not okay, not at all. Henry didn’t understand. We had our biggest, and one of our only, fights ever that night. Neither of us was willing to back down; it turned into a nearly-incoherent screaming match, the two of us shouting back and forth at one another, each of us trying to get the other one to understand, to listen, and neither of us was willing to give up our side. I don’t think I could ever repeat that argument for you in its entirety, but I will tell you how it ended.

We had been throwing words back and forth, trying our best to get the other to understand. And, finally, I told him the complete truth. I told him how terrified I was. I’ll admit, I broke down, right then and there, which must have been shocking for Henry. I had never been very emotional before, at least not outright, and lately I had been downright straight-faced. He let me speak, all the way through. I told him how much I feared losing him, especially to the monster which I had created. I couldn’t live without him. Don’t think I’m exaggerating, because I’m not, not in the least. I, very simply, was unable to live without Henry. I pleaded with him to understand that, if it was between him and me, it was always, always going to be him. There is no me without him. He had to understand that; I hope that he did, before the end.

He didn’t relent, or agree with me after that, but we did stop arguing. He seemed resigned to this. He knew I was going to do it; I knew I was going to do it. My mind couldn’t be changed. I had to protect Henry; I had to protect my father, my sister, my sister’s family, and Eliza, especially after I had failed Will. I had to protect them all, and this was the only way I could do it. I want to think that Henry understood that.

He made me lie down in the bed, then he lay beside me. That was how we stayed all night. I think we were both afraid the other one would disappear if we so much as blinked; that was what I was afraid of, anyways. I didn’t want Adam to take Henry from me prematurely. I didn’t want him to leave. I was afraid to take my eyes off of him. I looked at him for so long, I think I could still tell you of the exact placement of each of his freckles, of the way the moonlight moved across his face as the night grew longer, of the rhythm of his breathing, how it would hitch and sometimes stop.

When dawn came, with the room turning into muted greys, Henry nudged me out of bed. I got ready for the day stiffly; I don’t think there was any way I could really prepare for that day, for what I was about to do. Was I betraying my own species? Was I betraying myself? I forced myself not to think it, but the question was still there: what would my mother have thought? Surely there would have been no pride there. I couldn’t even forgive myself; why would she have forgiven me? Why should my father, or my sisters, for that matter? Why should Henry? Why should he stay? Why shouldn’t he leave on his own, without me? Certainly he’d be even safer then, if he went into hiding, even if he took my whole family into hiding with him. Without me, they’d be so much better off. Without me…

Adam came back as promised, as the sun started rising over our little house in the village. He waited at the front door until Henry noticed him and I opened the door for him. Adam followed me through to the kitchen where he had told us his story the day previous. The room was chilled; neither Henry nor myself had thought to start a fire in the fireplace, or in the wood stove, and the morning was crisp. Adam did not seem to feel it. Henry did; he had a sweater on, I remember. It was forest green, and had once belonged to me, I believe. I don’t know what I wore.

I told Adam that I would do this horrible thing that he asked of me. I told him I would create a companion for him, an Eve, and he requested that I make her beautiful, more beautiful than him. He insisted that he would love her regardless of her appearance, but he wanted to have his opinions and thoughts considered. He promised he would leave after he had her, and that he and his Eve would go to South America, where the two of them would live out the rest of their days in solitude. I accepted this proposal.

It was clear to me that we could not stay where we were. Not only had Henry — and, true, even I — grown to like our neighbors and our town, and wanted them to stay safe, but I also did not have the equipment which I needed to perform my experiment a second time. Henry and I packed up our things, and I led him and Adam down to Maine, to a small town which had a college nearby, a university which had a rather well-endowed science program. Their laboratories were rich in the equipment I needed, and the central hospital in the closest city was willing to hire me.

Henry did what he did last time, and each time before: though he did it more slowly at first, he, again, started to create a new life for us. He tried so hard for us to be normal. It took him time to warm to me again; I apologized profusely to him, asking his forgiveness daily. I don’t like to think that I wore him down, but that’s likely what I did. Henry was a good man, a better man than me, a better man than any other I’ve ever known. It was really only a matter of time before he forgave me, which we both knew, but our relationship was never quite the same. How could it be, after something like that? Our relationship evolved; it suited us at the time, in that new world which I regretted creating for us. Things weren’t so bad between Henry and I after that, but I still wish that I could have spared him.

I told Adam, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to live with us. I cited not having the space, since Henry and I were cramped in our new, small house as it was, but I really just didn’t want him anywhere near myself or Henry, and we both knew that. He acquiesced; I don’t know where he stayed. I never went to him; the desire to do so never crossed my mind. When he had a question, or an idea, or an impulse to see his promised companion, he came by our house, never the other way around. I hoped, viciously, that he lived in the woods, in a hole in the ground, in a ditch. I wanted him to suffer outwardly as I suffered inwardly.

I kept my project confined to the basement. When we were looking for a house, I had been searching for a stone basement, something unfinished and suitable for the job to which I had been assigned. Time constraints, however, as well as monetary ones, restricted us, and the basement that I worked in was a finished one, better suited to children’s sleepovers and parents watching football games, not for the horrible thing which I was building in it.

I built her, piece by piece, in that basement. I borrowed equipment from the local university; they had received word from Harvard of my reputation and my character, and were welcoming to me. They asked me to guest-lecture occasionally; I accepted, if only to keep up the charade and avoid suspicion. I worked at the hospital, too, and did what I did before, taking pieces from the hospital morgue off of the bodies of the unclaimed. I felt sick constantly; I was weak, and revolted by myself. There was nothing of the fire and determination I had felt the first two times I had done this, that this was a higher purpose for me. There was only rage, and fear, and disgust. There was nothing for it, though.

I just had to do it.

Chapter Fifteen

She was coming together. I did as Adam asked, and tried to make her as beautiful as I could. She was white; most of the bodies in the hospital morgue were white, so it was only reasonable, and I hoped that he would not be distressed that they possessed different skin colors. She had green eyes, and long orange hair. That white skin was imperfect; it was scarred, of course, and freckled, and had moles in abundance, but, when Adam saw her for the first time, he was overcome in such a way that he could only nod at me when I asked if she was suitable.

I was working inside her ribcage when it happened. Women, as I said much earlier, are infinitely more difficult to build than men. They have many more working parts, and I had to construct her with the utmost delicacy and concentration. Henry was attempting to help me, handing me instruments when I asked for them, but mostly just keeping me company. He was afraid that I would go mad. We both knew that I already was.

Henry was quiet for a long moment, longer than usual. I looked up at him, and he was staring at the corpse before us, his brow furrowed. I asked him what was wrong. He was quiet for a bit longer, thinking, trying to figure out how to phrase what he wanted to say.

“What if they procreate?” Henry finally asked. “What if they have children, and make more of… whatever it is they are?”

I froze. I had not thought of this. I thought, in making Eve, I would get rid of Adam, and the two of them would be gone until they died. But, of course, Adam would know what children were, and he would want them. If he wanted one companion, what would stop him from producing more on his own? I was effectively giving him a way to procreate.

I didn’t think. If I had thought, I’m sure I could have come up with a different solution. Remove her womb, maybe. Render her infertile in some way. But I panicked, and I tore her to pieces. I was almost attached to her, in the way you become attached to projects that take up a lot of your time and energy; I did not think of her as a daughter, as Adam was so clearly urging me to do, but I did feel regret when I obliterated her. Destroying her, I think, is one of my greatest regrets, now. It was done without a second thought, and there could have been so many other options available to me. I just didn’t think. Because of that… Well. I lost everything, because of that decision. I acted so rashly. To this day, I can hardly bear to think about it. I put Henry’s head and my own on the chopping block that night.

Adam frequently dropped by the house to update himself on the status of his bride. In my mad rush to destroy the body, neither Henry, who was struggling to restrain me, nor I heard Adam enter the house. Henry noticed when the basement door opened, but still I did not hear the monster on the stairs. Henry gave up on me and began rushing to hide the pieces of Eve’s body, which I had destroyed to such an extent that she was nearly unrecognizable.

Adam was suspicious when Henry shouted up to him to wait there; of course, he didn’t wait, and instead came down at once. There was a moment of silence when Henry stopped, part of a bloody thigh in his hands, and watched for Adam’s reaction. I went quiet watching Henry, and Adam was speechless as he took in the scene before him. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he processed what was happening, what I had done. I could see the exact moment when he realized. I stepped forward; Henry dropped the thigh-piece and stood in front of me instinctively.

“Please, Adam-” Henry began, but Adam tossed him aside as though he weighed nothing more than a pound. I remember seeing Henry hit the wall and crumple to the floor, his head bleeding profusely from a fresh wound, and, in those terrifying moments, I was sure he was dead. It was probably just a concussion that knocked him unconscious, but how was I to know that? He was too far from me, and Adam stood between us.

Adam.

He was standing over the pieces of his almost-wife, trying to gather them up, pushing limbs to torso as though he might be able to reattach them through sheer force of will. He gave up on that quickly, logical creature that he was, and lifted her head. Her cheek had burst, and the head was nearly detached from the neck and shoulders. He carefully pulled out the stitches keeping her attached to the rest of her body and cradled her head to his chest. He lifted one gigantic hand and brushed the blood off of her cheek with fat, wide fingertips. The blood stopped fairly quickly; there was no living heart to pump it, no other source of blood flowing through. It slowed, then ceased completely. He cried; the tears were grey, and seemed cold against his skin, but I was surprised that he was even able.

He looked up at me after a moment, still holding the head close to his chest. Her hair trailed down and pooled on his thighs and down his knees as he knelt on the ground. I made eye contact with him, then inched around him to Henry. My heart was racing; my head was swimming. I couldn’t focus. I pressed my hand to Henry’s neck, and I didn’t feel a pulse. I probably wasn’t in the right place; I just couldn’t feel his heartbeat in my panic. But, at the moment, I didn’t feel a pulse, and I became possessed. I flew at Adam, mad, wild, so full of rage that I could barely see. My world was tinted red, and I attacked him. He dropped the head and fell backwards, shock and my sudden weight surprising him into giving me the advantage. I sat on top of him, my knees on either side of his tremendous waist, and I started to tear at him.

It took him a minute or so to realize what I was doing and begin to fight back, but I took advantage of that minute or so. His face was bloody under my fists and my nails, and I nearly gouged out one of his eyes before he grabbed my wrist and tossed me off of him. He threw his weight on top of me and did to me what I did to him before I was able to fight him off of me. I aimed for spots where I, who had an intimate knowledge of his anatomy, knew his weakest stitches and scars to be, and we fought apart. When I was on my feet, he slammed me up against the wall by my throat. I was losing air quickly, gasping for breath; his face was centimeters away from mine.

“I will not stand for this,” he said to me. His voice was filled to the brim with rage and grief; it was spilling over into his face, his hands. He shook violently. “I will not-” He stopped, and took a breath. The breath trembled. He shut his eyes for a moment. “You’re not going to get away with this, Father.”

The way he spit my title — I knew. I knew, in that moment, that I had condemned us all to death. I was disgusted with the both of us. I hoped that he would crush my throat. I hoped that I would die.

“I will destroy,” Adam began, before clearing his throat. He sounded almost human; I sometimes have to remind myself that he was not. He is not. He is not a human. “I will destroy everything you hold dear. I will destroy… everyone you love.”

I gasped for air, the oxygen gurgling and scratching in my throat. I clawed at his hands. He only tightened his grip.

“I will make sure you see,” Adam promised me, in that same voice. It haunts me still. “I will make sure you see every body, every ounce of blood. I will make sure you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that these murders were committed by me and you.” He released me then, and I hurriedly inhaled as much air as I could. I fell to my knees, and he fell down beside me, clutching the material of my shirt at my shoulder.

“You have killed them all,” Adam hissed in my ear. Then, the demon, hell-bent on revenge and spitting nails in his rage, left me in that basement. I couldn’t stand; I couldn’t see. My vision was blackened and blurred, my world was spinning. I was still sucking in air. My hands were numb. My kneecaps were melted. I was nothing, for a significant amount of time. I finally was able to drag myself over to Henry, whose shoulder was clearly dislocated and who was still bleeding from his head wound. I felt around for his pulse again; first at his neck, then at one wrist, then the other. I pressed my ear to his chest, and his heart was beating. I sobbed in my relief, and I called upon what medical skill I could remember at the time to rouse him.

When he opened his eyes, I immediately pulled him to me, and held him tightly. He was breathless, and kept asking me what happened, what happened, Victor, where’s he gone, what did he do, oh, my God, you’re bleeding, are you okay, Victor, but I shushed him, and I held him close. He eventually fell silent and sat up as well as he could and held me in return.

“He said,” I answered at last, “that he was going to take everyone I loved from me.”

Henry fell silent. Then, “He won’t. He won’t, Victor, it’ll be alright.”

I shook my head, but I didn’t speak. Henry attempted to comfort me, but I would not be comforted. In such a situation, who could be? He understood.

Of course, we had to leave at once. The people I loved were not limited to just Henry; my family, still in New York, who I had not had contact with since I fled to Canada — which seemed to have been years and years, perhaps even whole decades, earlier, but which had actually only been a couple of years at most — were not safe. I had to go to them, to warn them of what was coming for them, damn the consequences. Surely, with Henry at my side to verify what I told them, they would have to believe me.

We left all of our belongings behind in that house, bringing only a small shared suitcase with clothes and toothbrushes and the like. We rented a car and drove the whole way back from Maine to New York. It was a mostly silent trip, and I drove the entire time. Henry was still suffering the fallouts of his concussion and his dislocated shoulder, and, besides that, I felt better when I was in control of something. Henry slept most of the way, though I discouraged that, on account of his concussion. I woke him often, and he would have a half-awake conversation with me for a while before falling asleep again. He was exhausted. We both were.

While he slept, and the car was filled with silence (he would turn the radio on when he woke up, and I turned it off when he fell asleep; the sound bothered me), I was alone with my own thoughts. I tried to stay under the speed limit, or at least at the speed limit, since getting pulled over would only delay us further. Being alone with myself, though, was almost worse than thinking of what we were racing towards. I didn’t want to think. I debated crashing the car, though I wish I didn’t have to confess to that. I thought about a lot of things. I imagine that, when a man steps before the noose to be hanged, he has a very similar experience to the one I had while we drove home to New York, except mine was elongated, and I still had to live when it ended. It seemed, to me, to be a harsher punishment than a hanging.

It did end, though, and we reached New York. I parked haphazardly outside of our apartment building; I was sure I would have a ticket when I returned to the car, if I was fortunate enough — or unfortunate enough, I suppose — to return to the car. Henry, still bleary from the car trip but half-shaken with adrenaline and fear, followed me up the stairs to the apartment, since I felt the elevator would take too long. I still had my key, and I forced the door open, startling Eliza, who screamed. I assured her that it was only me, and Henry comforted her. Eliza would not be comforted, though.

“Victor,” she said, over and over again, before she got her wits about her. “Victor, you have to leave, you have to go, they’re looking for you-”

“Who are they looking for?” I asked her. “Why are they looking for me?” I held her face in my hands, forced her to look at me. She shut her eyes. She cried. My heart sank.

“Dad’s dead,” she told me. I fell to my knees, right there. I released her, and let my head fall into her lap. I was too late. “They think you did it, Victor.”

I lifted my head enough that I could look at her. “Why do they think I did it?”

“You’ve been gone, Victor, and they said- they said they have evidence, and they won’t tell me anything, but I know, Victor, I know you couldn’t’ve done it, I know you couldn’t have killed him-”

“Of course he didn’t!” Henry exclaimed, standing from the sofa he was seated on with Eliza. We both looked at him, somewhat startled by his outburst. He had so few of those. “Victor was with me the whole time. We know who killed him, Elizabeth. His name is Adam, he-”

Henry never got to finish. There was a pounding at the door, and then the door was broken in. Someone in the building had reported my return, and the police, apparently so eager to arrest me, had shown up at once. Henry and Eliza both tried valiantly to stop them, but it was no use.

My father, like my brother, had been strangled. I didn’t listen to their descriptions of his death, of his corpse, or of their evidence against me. I wasn’t able to look into the case files later, either; you might be able to do that for me, Doctor, but they never released those files to me. I didn’t want to think about my father’s death. I could barely believe that I had lost him. The more they accused me, the more I fell into the rabbit hole, as it were. They kept telling me I was responsible for my father’s death, and, of course, I was, just not in the capacity they believed. I never argued with them, but I never agreed. I was imprisoned, awaiting a fair trial.

I was allowed no visitors. I was being held for the murders of Will and my father, since they believed them to be linked. If they could have put Justine’s suicide on the list, I have no doubts that they would have, and I would have welcomed it. I deserved it; I was responsible for her death as much as I was for the others. I wanted anything that would start to clear my conscience, though I know now that nothing would.

During that time, I did not see my family. I did not see Eliza. I did not see Henry. I did not know if they were safe, or if they, too, had been killed. I took solace in the fact that, if they had been killed, I surely would have been told about it. Adam seemed to have a single form of killing, and, if anyone else in my family had died, it probably would have been in the same way. I could not possibly be accused again, as I was in prison, and I probably would have been released if someone else had been found strangled. Because of this, I was quite alright being in prison, for the time being. However, I was afraid of what would happen once I was released, if I ever was, or what Adam would do in my absence if I wasn’t.

Despite this small solace, not having any control over my situation began driving me to madness. I wanted so badly to stop Adam, but there was absolutely nothing I could do from my cell. I could only speak with my lawyer, and even to her I barely spoke. I could not tell her the truth. How could I? I had nobody to back up my story except for Henry, and I would not risk invalidating everything I knew to be true. That sense of helplessness pushed me to the edge of the cliff.

Unfortunately for my sanity, I was without Henry, as well. I loved Henry, that I knew, but what I had not known was just how sane he had been keeping me. I truly did not know, at the time, that he was the only thing standing between me and madness. Being alone was what shoved me over that edge that I had been teetering on.

I went insane in that prison, I really did. I lost all sense of myself, even beyond what I had already lost. I was a shell, a walking corpse, which made me laugh. Of all people, who better to become a walking corpse than the man who created walking corpses? I laughed endlessly at that one. I was the ghost that haunted the prison, the shadow that lingered in the corners. I was nothing. Until, I was briefly revitalized, almost born anew, by an idea I had: I remembered what Justine had done during her own time in prison. I obtained for myself a length of rope from the yard; it was mostly buried in the ground, disgusting and wet, and nobody knew about it but me. I found it.

I tried to hang myself that very night. I tied it as tightly as I could, and I broke the little sink in my cell jumping off of it. A guard heard the clatter of the sink and came to the cell, and immediately cut me down. In the minute or so I was up there, though, I felt freer than I ever had before. I thought I had finally done it. I wanted so badly to die, Doctor, you have no idea. You can’t have any idea, and I sincerely hope that you never do.

I was placed under suicide watch for a few days, then kept under a special watch once that ended. I was finally given a date for my trial to begin, and being able to leave the prison was, in itself, a blessing to me. I missed the fresh air; I missed trees, I missed wind. It was raining that first day, and I turned my face up to it. The rain poured down on my face, and I opened my mouth and laughed. It was the most joy I had felt in so long.

My time in prison is a blur to me now, but only because of the monotony. Every day was the same, and my memory of any individual events is tainted by the all-consuming fear and madness that had claimed me during that time. The trial is a blur to me because it happened so quickly, and because, emerging from my insanity as I was, nothing made sense to me. I remember faces, random words, phrases. After seeing the living faces of Henry, of Eliza, of Glo and her family, I allowed myself to slip into a half-oblivion, where life just happened to me. I remember passing Henry, and telling him, in as hushed a voice as I could manage, not to say anything, not to breathe a word of the truth to anybody. I remember his horrified face when he saw me. I don’t remember his answer.

Like I said, the trial was nothing but a blur to me; I barely remember any of the details. If you’re curious about it, you can look up videos or transcripts from the trial. I wouldn’t be offended in the least; I feel like I would want to know, if I were you. I couldn’t tell you how I was acquitted, but I was. I suspect Henry had no small part in it. It helped that, in reality, I had not committed the crimes, though I believed that I had. I knew that it was because of me that the crimes were committed. I didn’t argue with the decision. I didn’t say anything. I just let it all happen.

I was released to Gloria, and she took me back to the apartment. She had moved back in the wake of everything that had happened, along with Robin, Lewis, and her new, young daughter, who I had not yet met. Her name was Lavender. She was beautiful. At first, I wasn’t allowed to be alone with her (which I understood, and never argued with), but I did spend a great deal of time with both her and Lewis. It was easier to be around children than adults, still. I was saddened, momentarily, that it seemed as though I would never have children of my own. Then, I was reminded of Adam. He called me Father; he was the closest I would ever get. I grieved for that, but I moved on.

Eliza had rented the apartment across the hall from Glo’s, becoming her neighbor, and she allowed Henry and I to move in with her for the time being. It took me a while to come back to myself. Henry worked tirelessly with me, as did Eliza, though she also still had a career as a nurse. Henry took odd jobs. I was useless to them. Not only that, but I was also dangerous. Just having me there was painting a target on their backs, but I could hardly leave them, could I? That, I expected, would only put them in more danger. No, I couldn’t leave; it only made sense that I stay.

When everyone went to work during the day, I stayed at home with the children. Gloria stayed with me for the first week or so, and then she went back to work. I know that she had cameras in her apartment, watching me, and I don’t blame her in the least for that. I would have done the same thing. I played games with the children. I helped Lewis with his elementary school homework. I fed them lunch. It was surreal to me. This was what I was meant to do, I thought, very briefly. This was creating life. I had been so wrong; I had not created the life I had wanted, though I had created a life. I created a demon, a monster.

I created something, but what I created was not my intention; it was not this. I had so many regrets.

Chapter Sixteen

After my release, my family and I spent a lot of time together. Of course, I wanted to spend time with them, and that was most of the reason why we stayed so close. A big part of it for me, however, was keeping them safe. As long as I could see them, as long as they were close, I knew they were okay. I had to protect them. I couldn’t find Adam, though I searched whenever I found the rare opportunity to do so. Eventually, however, Eliza grew suspicious; she always was perceptive, just like Henry.

Eliza confronted Henry about it before she confronted me, and Henry came to me to discuss it. He told me Eliza was having suspicions about me, but she didn’t know what to make of it. She was worried, he told me. She was afraid for me. She didn’t want to lose any more of her family. He urged me to tell her what was happening. She would believe us, he told me. She would understand. Maybe, he said, she would even be able to help.

It took a lot of coaxing on Henry’s part. I was not at all willing to tell Eliza anything; I avoided her for a while after Henry told me she was suspicious. He broke me down, though. He really did make it seem as though I should I tell her. She was, after all, my sister, and one of my closest friends for a long time. She was brilliant. She was strong. If anyone could help, why wouldn’t it be Eliza?

It was late at night when we told her, I remember. Henry made tea. He always did, for big discussions like that. Calmed him down. I let him. Whatever he needed, he had. It was late, and it took the both of us to get the whole way through the story. Henry told a good portion of it, with me filling in the blanks where his knowledge was lacking or his memory had fallen through. Eliza accepted it all in silence, until the end. Then, she peppered us with questions, particularly me. She asked how I did it, the exact science of it. She always was curious, and she was still a nurse; I wasn’t surprised she wanted to know more. I told her what I could.

That was a late night. Eliza said we would discuss what we would do in the morning. At the time, I was bewildered. Do? What was there to do, except wait for him to show himself? It had become clear to me that he wasn’t coming out of hiding anytime soon; he was waiting, hiding in the shadows, biding his time. We had to wait, I thought. Just wait and take him down when he came to us, which he inevitably would.

My dear Eliza. The next morning, as soon as I came to the kitchen to fix breakfast, her and Henry were already seated and waiting for me. They had begun making plans while they waited for me to wake up, and had already created a bunch of blueprints, as they were, ready for me to look over. Neither of them was content to sit around and wait. I respect them fiercely for that. They did what I couldn’t; where I was frightened by action, they were only spurred into it. But, of course, I was afraid, and rejected their attempts to discuss a plan with me. I retreated from them, but not for very long.

Henry confronted me, again; he told me of his fears, that he would lose me, that my tentative plan — to wait until Adam came, and then kill him, as vague and unsure as that was — would only fall apart when it came time for it. He was afraid. Henry, though he wore his heart on his sleeve, was never so openly fearful as he was then, and I gave in. I began helping them with their plans. We had a map of the neighborhood, and the areas surrounding it. We would break into teams, two of us going out and searching — always together — and the other one staying behind to keep an eye on the apartments. This continued for several weeks with no hint of him before he came. When he finally showed himself, that day… That was one of the worst days of my life. I can never forgive myself for what happened that day.

That particular day was one where Henry and I were the search team. It was growing late, and Henry and I both were growing tired and disappointed, as happened every day. We decided to return home. Henry texted Eliza, letting her know we were on our way, but got no reply. While not alarming, as she would sometimes be taking care of the children or having dinner when we texted, I still felt as though I had swallowed a stone. I knew something was wrong, and I shared the feeling with Henry. Instead of walking home, he insisted that we take a taxi, and we did, before the traffic near our apartment stopped us. I threw bills at the taxi driver. I didn’t care. I don’t know if it was more than enough, not enough. I don’t know what he looked like. But, I do remember the scene outside of my apartment building exactly. As soon as I got close enough, and Gloria saw me, she threw herself at me, nearly tackling me to the pavement. I tried to soothe her enough to understand what had happened.

Glo told me that she had been in the apartment with Robin, Lewis, Lavender, and Eliza, who was making them dinner in the kitchen while Robin and Gloria played with the children in the front room. She didn’t know what was going on; she heard clattering in the kitchen, and Eliza shouted something incoherent. Glo told Robin and the children to hide; she was always quick on her feet, always responsive, always a good thinker. She went into the kitchen, she said, to find Eliza trying to fight off a man that Gloria described as “gigantic and horrible,” and my stomach turned inside out. I backed away from my sister, not wanting to hear anymore. I vomited in a gutter. Glo sat beside me, but I already knew.

Gloria continued anyways. She told me that the man saw her, and tried to attack her, as well. Eliza removed a gun from the cabinet under the sink while the man was distracted, and she shot him in the shoulder. The man turned on her and crushed her neck, Glo said, right in front of her. Glo could barely breathe through her sobs; neither of us could calm down for a time. My Eliza, dead. Because of me. I was out of my mind.

Will was only a child. I could not understand that. My father was a caring and considerate man who meant so much to so many. I could not understand that. If those were hard to understand, then Eliza… Eliza’s death was unfathomable to me. Eliza, a light in our lives, extinguished? How could our Eliza just not exist anymore? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. To be honest, I still can’t. How do you understand something like that? I just… I don’t know, Doctor. I don’t know.

And it was all my fault. My mother’s death, though regrettable, had become a thing of the past. That, at least, was nature; that was disease, that was something I could understand. These murders? It was like a bad dream. Actually, you know what, that exactly describes it — it was like a bad dream, and I still haven’t woken up. I keep expecting to.

We had to identify the body, though I will never understand why. I won’t recount that in detail for you, Doctor, but let me assure you of how truly horrific it was. No human being should ever witness such a thing. It truly was evidence of Adam’s incredible, inhuman strength. Her neck and shoulders were completely crushed. Glo, who had seen the whole thing happen, nearly passed out when she saw the body, and I don’t blame her. She left almost immediately after that. Henry and I stayed behind, and Henry said what he had to to the corpse of our friend, a sister to us both, and then stepped back.

I stayed there until they forced me to leave. I couldn’t process the death, and I just kept staring at that slab she was lying on. It was a sick sense of parallelism, I think, being in that morgue. It was very like the morgues which I took body pieces from; it all came full circle, in the end. I stared at her for so long. The image of her lifeless body is burnt onto the backs of my eyelids. I will never get over her death, and how can I? It is too absurd for me to even begin to comprehend.

It didn’t take long for me to become consumed with rage. At the time, I was very easily able to pass the blame off of myself and onto Adam, who had begun to kill in earnest and without discretion. He killed Eliza; my dearest, most incredible Eliza. He would have killed Glo, Robin, and my niece and nephew who I loved so dearly, if Eliza had not shot him, and Gloria had not forced him out of the window and the house. He had not been captured; of course he had not been.

I never saw Eliza’s body again after that. I hardly wanted to relive it for you now, even in my memory, but if I had to recount it for any reason, your record of my life is the best reason, I suppose. My rage consumed me, and I left. Henry followed. Henry always followed. I was hell-bent on revenge; I could focus on nothing else.

I went to Glo first. I told her that she had to leave at once, that she had to flee and hide her family if she wanted them all to live. I told her I couldn’t explain; I told her she might hear about it later, but I couldn’t tell her myself. She believed me. Who wouldn’t, after losing so much of their family in such a horrific way? She was none too pleased with me, of course. She wanted to stay and help, even though she had no idea what we were doing. But I reminded her of her duty to her family, and to our deceased family: to our siblings, our father. She accepted this. I said goodbye to them, and I haven’t seen them since. I hope that they’re safe. I think about it almost constantly. If you can, Doctor, please, will you find them? Please? That’s all I ask, make sure my sister is okay. That’s all I need. I need someone to have made it out of this whole.

As soon as Glo and her family were gone, Henry, who was just as incensed if I was, began to develop a plan. Neither of us had any care for our own safety at this point. We wanted revenge, and we wanted it as soon as possible. Adam had to die at my hand, immediately. I needed it like I needed air to breathe, like I needed water to drink. My sister would not go unavenged; my brother would rest peacefully. My father, rest his soul, would not die in vain.

I would find their murderer, and, I swore to it, I would kill him myself.

Chapter Seventeen

We laid out a trap for Adam. We made it seem as though Glo and Robin would be home with the children, when, really, even we didn’t know where they were. Hopefully, by then, they were far away; we waited several days before starting on the plan, just to be sure. I wasn’t taking any risks, not with the only family I had left. Henry and I left, and not at all subtly. We made it seem as though we were leaving for the night to search for Adam, but we backtracked quickly. It was risky, sure: other people did live in the building. But Adam didn’t want to hurt other people; he only wanted to hurt me.

We were right, of course; Adam couldn’t resist. It was too perfect. This only confirmed my theory that he was inside the building somewhere, always keeping an eye on us, which still makes my skin crawl. I can barely think of it without wanting to tear my hair out. But we returned to the apartment and found him prowling around. He was surprised to see us, when we revealed ourselves. We were fairly evenly matched; he was strong, powerful. Henry and I had numbers on our side, and we carried weapons. The scale was a bit tipped in Adam’s favor, though, I think; he was huge, even in comparison to my height, and he was fearless in a way a human could never be.

The battle was a blur to me, a nonsensical mess of flying limbs and hacking knives and grasping hands. I had been pinned to the floor by Adam at one point, and I bit his forearm to get him off of me. He tasted like rotting flesh. He was dead; he may have been reanimated, but he was still the living dead. He disgusted me, that revolting beast, that demon that called himself my son.

I wish we had left. I still consider that night to be the worst night of my life. I wish I had shoved him away and told Henry to run, to leave. I wish I had fought harder. I wish I had done more. I wish, I wish, I wish. I am weak, Doctor; I can’t protect my family, I can’t save my friends. I can’t change the past, though that’s all I want anymore, and I would give my life a hundred, a thousand, a million times over, if it meant that I could go back and change what happened. But I can’t, Doctor. I can’t, and I’m the only one left to live with it.

At one point in our battle, Adam knocked me backwards. I rebounded off the wall and fell to the ground, and Adam snapped my leg. It was horrible; I could see my own bones, and I passed out momentarily from the pain, though I did come back to myself remarkably quickly, likely because of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I couldn’t move; any inch of movement sent hot, unbearable pain through me, licking up my leg, scratching at my spine. I couldn’t do anything. I could only struggle to grab at him when he came near. I could only watch.

Henry firmly and steadfastly did not look at me, likely afraid he would lose his resolve if he did, though I’ll never know for sure. He was incredible. He never liked real fighting, but he had been a recreational boxer, and it showed in his movements. He had a knife in each hand; I had had the gun, and it was across the floor now, dropped when I fell. I started inching towards it, and it was then that it happened.

Both of them had been making a great deal of noise, in the heat of their one-on-one battle. Suddenly, the noises ceased entirely, and I almost snapped my neck turning towards them. I looked, and Henry was looking down at me. He was pressed against the wall by Adam, who had his gigantic hands around Henry’s throat. He seemed so impossibly thin and small in comparison. Henry stared at me, with those wide green eyes which I loved so dearly. Tears fell. Adam paid them no heed. I struggled to get to the gun, but I was too late.

The sound was something I will never forget. I hear it daily. I hear it at night. I hear it in my dreams. I hear it even now, Doctor, as we sit here together, and as I speak, seemingly endlessly. I talk, but I can barely hear what I’m saying; all I can hear, playing over and over again in my ears, is Henry’s body as it was broken. The snap of the bones of his neck, the choked noises as he stopped breathing, the scraping half-shouts of pain. The sounds of Henry’s death.

Adam dropped Henry right there, slumped against the wall, out of my reach. I stopped going for the gun. I stopped moving entirely. My entire being was focused on Henry. Part of me thought this was like Adam’s last attack, and Henry was merely unconscious; surely, he had just passed out, or sustained a concussion. Anything made more sense than death. Anything at all.

Adam came to me, and he stood over me, his hands wet in the blood that had surged from Henry’s mouth and throat. I could only look up at him and wait for the inevitable blow, where he would crack my skull or step through my chest or simply bash my face in. I welcomed it. I wanted death so desperately. I wanted to die so badly, Doctor, I can’t describe the feeling to you. It is the feeling of dying while your heart is still beating; it is the feeling that you experience when everything you lived for, the only reasons you were alive, are gone from this earth. It is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. It is a waking hell. Adam may have been a walking corpse, but I truly was the living dead. I was nothing. I still am nothing.

“We are even,” Adam spat at me. He didn’t kill me. I begged him for it. I had no pride. He had no mercy. “This was my goal, you insignificant man, you human, my Father. This was all I wanted. You killed my mate. I killed yours. You killed my family. I killed yours. I have to live alone; and, now, so do you. We are equals, you and I. Bloodthirsty, ruthless, and alone. Monsters, the both of us.”

Doctor. Doctor, I’m sorry, please, just- Hold on a second. I’m so sorry. My Henry; I can’t describe it to you. No words can come to me, nothing comes to mind. Adam stepped over me, and he left me there on the floor, my leg in pieces, my life shattered. I dragged myself to Henry, ignoring the pain that made me want to tear my hair out. I bit my lip completely in half trying not to scream. I had to get to Henry. I had to. I pulled myself all the way across that floor, and I hauled him to me. He was in pieces. His head lolled disgustingly, twisting towards me in such an unnatural way. He had been so beautiful and wonderful in life; how could he be this thing in death? How could this corpse be Henry?

The emotions I felt over Eliza’s death were increased tenfold over Henry’s, if not more. Henry, who had been everything to me. Henry, who would been by my side since we met as children. Henry, who argued with me, who made me breakfast, who held me like I was precious and who fought with me like I was a soldier. Henry was more myself than I was. Henry was my life, Doctor. How can one keep living when one’s life has gone from them? My heart did still beat in my chest, but I felt as though it was really outside my body, there on the floor, dead in my arms. When Henry’s heart stopped, my heart stopped. I don’t understand how I still keep living when Henry is dead. He was the best of us, better than me by an exponential amount. He was worth a thousand of me and more.

I’m sorry, Doctor; I know you want to hear more of my story, but, I’m afraid, I have never been able to talk of Henry’s death, and I feel a sort of release now that I can. It will never soothe these feelings I have, but it is something. I need him to be written down, do you understand? If nothing else comes of me telling you this story, let that one thing be Henry Clerval. Let it be him, who I killed for my own curiosity’s sake, for my obsession with death. He should have been immortal, and I killed him. I killed Henry. It was my fault, even if it wasn’t at my hands.

I wanted to die. Over Henry’s body, I wanted to die. I grabbed his knife, and I tried to slit my own throat, right then and right there. I fell unconscious. When I woke up, I thought, Good, I’m dead, I’m free. It took me a moment to realize that I was thinking, and a bit after that to realize I was in a hospital. I tried to fight my way out; they sedated me. After that, I did anything I could to be sedated. I could forget, under the sedatives.

They brought me to the funerals of Eliza and Henry. Gloria and her family didn’t come. I was certain they were safe; I was sure that, if they weren’t, Adam would have said something to me about it that night that he killed Henry.

Oh, God; I’m sorry, Doctor, but do you hear those words? “Killed Henry,” my God, this can’t be real. It’s been… what, almost two years? Over two years? Something like that, and still my flesh crawls, my palms itch. I feel my throat close up, and my chest gets so tight, and I can’t breathe. I tremble, see? I shake all the time now. I cannot understand. Henry Clerval cannot be dead anymore than the sun can stop shining or the wind can stop blowing. Henry is- I’m so sorry. Henry was life itself. How can one grasp the concept that life itself has died? That the sun has been extinguished? I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

You’re right, Doctor, you’re right, I see it there in your eyes; this is not for me. This is for the sake of the record. Please, include Henry in this book you want to write. Include him. Dedicate it to him for me. Dedicate it… say, For Henry, without whom there would be no life at all. Write something like that. I’m not a poet, I’m afraid; he would have been able to come up something far better, for his own dedication. In your reports, in your books, include Will, include my father, include Eliza. Include my mother. Make sure their names are known. Give them a legacy. Make them immortal.

What was I saying? I’m sorry… Yes, of course. The nurses brought me to the funerals of Eliza and Henry, which were separate, and that much more painful for it. I spoke at both, though I was barely able, and I did not consider myself worthy of doing so. I felt as though my words were poison, a blackness spreading from my mouth over their dead bodies, which were crushed in the coffins in front of me. Eliza’s casket was closed; she was a mess, irreparable. Henry’s neck and throat had been reconstructed after his autopsy, and he had an open casket.

I wept openly over the casket. I held his cold hands in mine, and saw the freckles against my palms. I looked at his face. He didn’t look like he was sleeping, like people say dead people do. Not like my mother had. He didn’t look peaceful. When he was alive, even in his sleep, even when he was peaceful or relaxed, Henry had been so animated. Now, Henry only looked dead, and I couldn’t bring myself to look away. I had to be removed from his coffin; I wouldn’t leave him. I wish they hadn’t taken me away.

I wish I was still there with him.

I wish I was dead.

Chapter Eighteen

After the funerals, I had to wait even longer. First for my throat to heal, where I failed to commit suicide, and then for my leg, which, having been splintered, was taking an absurd amount of time to mend. I left before I was fully recovered, but I couldn’t bear the inactivity any longer. Also, the police had begun to sniff around me. I knew what it looked like; everyone who had died was tied closely to me, and then I tried to kill myself. I was found with the last body. My sister and her family had vanished. I had been arrested before for murder, though I had not been sentenced. All signs pointed to me, but I couldn’t go to prison, not yet. They could never arrest me; I was incapable of the strength that had killed Eliza and Henry, so they could never pin me for their deaths. And, besides, I had to stop Adam. I had nothing else; I became single-minded in my goal, in a way I had not been since the creation of Adam, which seemed like centuries and centuries before.

Adam wanted me to find him. I know that he did. He left a trail of breadcrumbs, in a way, for me to follow. Whenever I strayed from the path, Adam righted me again. It gave him purpose, leading me on a chase around the States, then around the world. He had said he wanted us both to be alone, but not only could he not seem to stand being alone, he couldn’t stand being unable to watch the torment he caused me. I slipped up often. Adam righted me. I tried to kill myself more than once. Adam stopped me. I hate him, Doctor. I hate him so much. I hate him, but not as much as I hate myself. Doctor, you must understand. A son is only as bad as a father raises him to be, I believe. I created Adam with my own two hands, and he single-handedly destroyed my life. I did that.

I spent what I think was just under two years in this way, chasing Adam around the globe. From France, to Hong Kong, to New Zealand. A wild goose chase. It was madness. It was insanity. It was all I had. Of course, Adam never spent any time with me; I was always just in his rearview mirror, one step behind. Before two years had passed, I suffered another mental breakdown, much like the one I experienced in prison. I lost my mind. I still haven’t completely recovered it, I fear.

It was then that I began seeing those who had died, and I still see them now. Eliza comes to me in the mornings, sunlight streaming through her hair. Will offers to play games with me. My mother sits in silence and watches me. She is the most unnerving, the most unnatural of them all. She haunts me. My father’s booming laugh follows me wherever I go, and his smiling eyes are everywhere. Though I am not certain whether or not Glo is alive, I see her, reaching for me, trying to take my hand and comfort me. I see Robin, smiling, wishing me the best. I see the children, those symbols of life, those emblems for all that is good and righteous in this world.

I see Henry, and I cannot touch him. He is just out of my reach, always. He smiles at me, and his lips move as though he is talking, but I usually cannot hear him. When I can hear him — I’m sorry, Doctor, but there are some things I just cannot share with you, but rest assured that his words make me want to die again and again, until there is nothing left of me. His eyes torment me. He makes eye contact, then looks through me. He’s a shadow of what he was, and he’s all I have left, and he never leaves my side, just like in life. Henry is always there. He always has been, and I’m starting to think he always will be. Doctor, I would never have it any other way. If this is madness, I welcome it.

I still used sedatives. Anything I could get my hands on. I don’t even know what I was taking half the time. I took whatever I could find, whatever was cheap, whatever was in the area I was in. You might blame my mindlessness on this, but I credit my sanity to it. I was losing myself, and the drugs I took numbed me. It preserved me in that form; I would go so far as to say it’s why I’m alive, but it’s really probably just the only reason I didn’t try harder to die. I didn’t care enough, nor was I active enough, when I was under the influence.

When I saw those who had been lost to me, I felt more alive. The lives they lost grew in me, living on, growing larger and more powerful until I was greater than I had ever been. They told me things; they urged me onwards when I was unable to do so. Were they manifestations of my conscience? Perhaps. But they felt so real. They still do.

Like I said, they urged me onwards, but they also urged me to do a number of things. They never mentioned Adam, though my entire self was focused on him, on searching for him, following him, finding him, killing him. They urged me to join them, primarily. Henry, most of all; he would take my hand, and look straight through me. His mouth would move, and no sound would come out, but I knew what he was saying to me.

My previous attempts were nothing in comparison to this attempt. I searched, and then climbed until I reached the highest bridge in Canada, with which you might be familiar. I looked down at the very visible rocks, at the water rushing almost sixty feet below me. It was a warm day in maybe… late October? The river below had not yet frozen over, but it was still night time, and it was not so warm as to be comfortable, and nobody else was there on that pedestrian bridge. I spent some time sawing at the railing of the bridge with my knife. I gave up after a bit; it was tougher than I gave it credit for.

I could see my family standing behind me. I could almost feel Eliza’s hand on my shoulder. Henry was in front of me — right there, standing as though there was an invisible platform there, sixty feet above the water. He reached out to me, his hand just close enough. I reached out to him and grasped it. He motioned me forwards. I looked down at the water again, almost hesitant, but, in the end, the decision was easy.

I took a step, and I fell. I don’t know how I’m sitting here right now, Doctor. I was found half-drowned on the shore, tucked under a bush, by a couple of hikers the next day. I can only assume it was Adam who saved me, trying to keep me alive still. I can only imagine that he understood exactly what I had known for years, at that point. I was not afraid of death; I welcomed it, I wanted it. It was life that I was afraid of, and it was life that Adam forced upon me, just as I had done to him. He wanted to suspend my torture, probably. Who wouldn’t? I deserved worse than death. We both knew it.

When the police found me, they were delighted; they had been looking for me for some time. I was placed under arrest almost immediately after they discovered who I was. I was taken to the hospital, though I have no idea why; I felt healthy enough to go straight to prison. I was chained to the bed the entire time, the handcuffs biting into my wrists. They were always cold; it never felt like my skin ever warmed them. It felt as though the doctors there washed out my veins, hollowed me out. I still saw Henry, but he was watery, always slipping away from me, a little blurred at the edges. I spoke to him often, cried out for him enough that there were marks on my chart indicating my madness and delusions.

I also fought, frequently, to be released from the hospital. I had not forgotten my goal; I still wanted to find Adam, still wanted to destroy him. Now that my head had been cleared somewhat by the doctors, I was less apathetic, and growing angrier and angrier each day. Rage ran hot in my veins; I itched to leave, and I tried, time and time again, to be released, insisting that I was perfectly fine and could check myself out. They kept putting me off, for one reason or another; everything was transparent, and I knew there was something I wasn’t being told. And, of course, I was under arrest, though I was not considered well enough to hear my own charges. I raved at them; I was so angry.

Henry started speaking to me around this point. They told me later that I suffered a relapse and I almost died, but I would argue that that had been the closest I was to living since Henry had died. I remember one instance, in particular, I awoke — or, at least, I thought I awoke; I have been told my memories of those months are not so reliable — to find Henry entering the hospital room. He shut the door very carefully behind him, just as he would have in life. He came to me, walking gently across the floor, trying to be quiet; of course, he made no sound at all.

When he noticed me watching him, he smiled. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed and took my hand, the one that was not handcuffed to the railing. He ran his fingertips over the IV that led to my forearm, over the clip attached to my finger. He was exceedingly gentle, soft and careful, his skin giving against mine, just like I remembered. The details of his freckles were exactly as they were in my memory, and, for a time, I just sat in silence, reveling in his touch, missing him as deeply as I did every day of my life.

“Victor,” he said at last, and it was the first time I had heard his voice in so long. It had been years, and I sobbed at the sound of it. I lifted his hand and pressed it to my forehead.

“I love you so much,” I told him, and he smiled at me when I looked up again. “Henry, you have to know how sorry I am-”

“No, Victor,” Henry murmured, shushing me. He ran his thumb over the back of my hand. “Hush. It’s going to be okay.”

We fell silent. Silence was always comfortable between us, but I longed to hear him speak again. I looked down at our joined hands, then back up at him. His eyes were as brilliant as they always were, green and shining and so alive. He wasn’t that watery mirage; he wasn’t in blacks and whites; he wasn’t silent as the grave. It was like having him back again.

“I love you,” I said again. “You have to know how much I love you.”

He reached out and pushed my hair away from my eyes, smoothing it back. It had gotten shaggy since he died, and I had something of a beard now from neglect. I was nothing, a shell of myself; Henry was larger than life.

“I know, Victor,” Henry said to me. “It’s going to be okay.” He looked down at our hands again, then stood, dropping my hand. I was suddenly desperate, grappling for him, reaching out as far as I could. My IV broke, and Henry came closer.

“I’m sorry, Victor,” Henry said, his voice barely higher than a whisper. He pulled the pillow out from behind my head. I knew what he was going to do. I welcomed it. “It’s for the best. You know it is.”

“I know it is.”

“It’s because I love you.”

“It’s because you love me. And I love you.”

He kept eye contact with me. I stared up at him, and even I could feel the plea on my face. He shut his eyes right before he did it, and he covered my face with the pillow. I never felt better, but then, suddenly, it was like I was being shocked, and my eyes snapped open again. The pillow was gone, Henry was gone, and, in their place, Adam was there.

“Leave,” I snarled, reeling from the change in scene. He approached my bed, unafraid of making noise; he was a monster, barreling through, uncaring of everyone and everything around him. He was indifferent. He disgusted me. He was just as awful as he had been every time I had seen him before, if not more so, made worse by the festering of his memory in my mind.

“Is that how you greet your savior?” he asked me. My chest was heaving; I could barely catch my breath.

“You are not my savior,” I spat at him. “You are a sinner, you are a monster, I can’t believe-”

“I can’t believe,” Adam interrupted, grabbing my wrist, “that you still labor under the illusion that I’m some sort of monster.” He dislodged my IV, tearing it out, which startled me; I had thought it had already been pulled out, when I had reached for Henry. Blood started falling steadily from the space left behind. “If I’m a monster, as you’re so fond of saying, then it is only because you have molded me into one. You created me; you are my father. I am only what you have made me to be.”

“Leave!” I shrieked at him. “Go! God- Goddamnit, just- Get out!”

Then, I woke up. I don’t know if it was later, or right after. I don’t know if it was a dream or not. I don’t know what happened; I don’t know if anyone came to my room that day. The doctors, as I told you, later informed me that I almost died. I wasn’t surprised by that. I just wished it had happened.

They told me that, when they brought me in, I was delirious, hysterical, talking to people that weren’t there and seemingly on the precipice, so close to losing my mind. I was exhausted, they said. I was suffering from hypothermia — which made sense, after my plunge — as well as severe malnutrition. I was not alarmed to hear about that, either. I paid my own well being very little attention; I’m surprised I even made it to the bridge. I also had a vitamin B1 deficiency, they said, which brought on ataxia. When they deemed me healthy enough to leave the hospital, I was still somewhat in the grips of ataxia; I am to this day. I require a cane to get around comfortably. But, when I did leave the hospital, I was brought here, to the Psychiatric Center. They didn’t think I was mentally fit for a prison.

It was one thing to feel responsible for the deaths of my family. It was another thing entirely to be accused of and arrested for the murders of those who I held closest to my heart. Despite my weakness and seeming inability to have crushed them as they were crushed, I was placed under arrest for the murders of Eliza and of Henry, since I had nobody to back me up this time. I had no defense; no lawyer would represent me. I was charged, but I had a plea of insanity. The jury accepted that almost immediately. Now, I’m here.

I felt responsible for their deaths, as I told you. But I was now believed by others to be responsible for the deaths of my dear sister, Eliza, and of Henry. People believed me capable of killing the two of them. I would never have touched Henry in any negative sort of way. I would have rather died than hurt him, and now, the entire jury, and the judge, and the audience, and everyone who read the case — they all believe that I took Henry’s life. I loved him more than I loved anything else, anybody else. The sky, the trees. I almost hate to admit it, but my siblings, as well. My mother, my father.

He was everything to me, you understand. He kept me alive. I could barely believe him dead, and now I was his murderer? It stung me like poison. It was a wound in my stomach, in my heart, in my head. It was like having your eyes pulled out through your mouth; it was like having your fingernails removed. It was the most horrible feeling. Nothing compares. There was no relief from the burden of guilt, no clearing of my conscience, not like I thought I had felt long ago as I had sat in jail after being arrested for my father’s murder. I lost myself.

I yelled to anyone who would listen, when I got here. I wanted everyone to know. I tried to tell people about Adam, but, of course, nobody believed me. The nurses and therapists and psychologists and doctors; all of them were trained not to believe the words that come out of the mouths of the patients here. They knew of my crime. They knew of my insanity defense. They knew what I had been diagnosed with. That was all they needed, and I was my diagnosis, I was my crime. I was my room number, I was my file. I was nothing, yet again.

That is, until you. I’m sure I raved like a madman before you, Doctor. But you came to me, and you spoke to me so kindly, and you believed me. Or, at least, it seemed as though you believed me; and, after hearing my story, how could you not believe me, Dr. Walton? You must know by now that I’m telling the truth, you must believe me. Nobody has believed me since Henry and Eliza, nobody has listened to me since I lost them. Dr. Walton, you’re a blessing to me. You knew that I was struggling. You stayed even though nobody else did; I was very clearly beyond saving, but you didn’t think so, and you brought me back. You talk to me like I’m human, like I’m real and I’m not a bad person, like I’m not a murderer. It means a lot to me, Doctor. Thank you.

Dr. Walton, you must know that I carry the greatest amount of guilt around in my heart. It is like an anchor, wound around my heart and my lungs, weighing me down. I have to drag it around with me all the time. I have so much remorse, and so much shame. Dr. Walton, I would not be exaggerating if I told you that I hate myself. With every fiber of my being, I hate myself. I don’t tell you this so you can diagnose me, and I don’t tell you this so you can pity me. I only tell you so that you can know, so that you have all the information. I sometimes wonder how I can even stand myself, how I can even stand up. Then, I remember: I must destroy Adam.

You see, I am so full of remorse that it chokes me at night, in the darkness, and I cannot sleep, and I cannot be sedated, so I have to just lie there and wait. I have flashbacks to the deaths of my family members. I can’t breathe, most of the time, and I shake constantly. I am absolutely miserable all of the time. I have lost everything; who would not be consumed by misery if they had lived through what I have lived through? It’s horrible. Beyond that, I am alienated from the rest of the population; I am, seemingly, no longer considered human, and this is an ache in me. Isn’t it ironic? I lost everything to save humanity, and now they have distanced themselves from me. No person wants to speak with me. Nobody wants to spend any length of time with me. I am alone with my thoughts and my regrets and my never-ending pain, Doctor.

This is to say nothing of my grief. My grief gnaws at me; it eats me alive. It’s like fire, like flames, burning me, licking at my very bones. I want to drown in it, but I cannot, not yet; I cannot rest until he is dead at my feet, do you understand? He who is the mirror image of myself. He who calls himself my son. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can feel his eyes on me always. I can’t- I’m sorry, Doctor. Just, give me a moment to gather myself.

Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I don’t think- I think this is the end of my story, Doctor. I think this is the end, I can’t go any further. Just- Just remember what I’ve told you. After all this — it brings us right here, to this moment, where I am telling you this story and you are recording it. That brings us full circle. I can see now that you’re ready to end our session, and I understand that. I can’t explain any further; I have reached the end of my tale.

Thank you for listening to my life story, Doctor.

Epilogue

Once Victor had finished his story, I ended our session. He had spoken far over his allotted time, but I found myself so intrigued that I could not interrupt him. I barely believed him capable of the amount of words he was able to speak. He stopped often, to take deep breaths, to calm down, or to shed tears, which were almost always silent. I understood, and I allowed him to do whatever he needed to do to get through. What was the most interesting, though, was that I almost found myself truly believing him, even though I had absolutely no reason to.

I scheduled him for another session in my next available slot, which was two days from that day. He tried to edit the notes that I had taken, but I did not allow it. He understood. He shook my hand. I had to put his handcuffs back on, and he was taken back to his room. He told me he felt “empty,” now that he had told his entire story to someone. He said it felt like it had hollowed him out. I understood. He also said he felt confident now that he would be able to destroy the life he created, which he referred to as “Adam.” He said the future was limited for Adam. He also expressed optimism in gaining me as a “partner” who would help him in hunting down this Adam and removing him from his life, in whatever capacity he found possible. I neither confirmed nor denied this, for his own sake. He smiled at me as he was taken away. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile, and the last.

The first thing I did, after Victor left, was research the whereabouts of his sister, Gloria, and her family (Robin, Lewis, and Lavender), whom, you will recall, he had begged me to find. I had to call in a few favors, but I have since discovered that they are alive and well. I have since met Gloria, and she is a very nice woman, if not a little on edge, which is reasonable, considering the circumstances which she had once constantly found herself under. I am considering recommending a therapist for her, but that is neither here nor there, in terms of the goal of this book. I also sent a note to Mont Blanc Homeless Shelter, thanking them on Victor’s behalf.

I was not sure, at first, that I believed the wild tale which Victor Frankenstein had spun. The more research I did, however, the more his story was confirmed. The details of his life which existed in the public record all matched up perfectly to the details he had given me. I know that her name has not yet been cleared, but I hope this book does make someone now consider clearing the name of Justine Wawetseka Moritz. It is clear to me that she did not commit the crime which she was imprisoned for, and which she ended up dying for. I hope any family she has remaining find solace in this statement.

The thing about Victor Frankenstein was that, even if his story was false, he believed it so fiercely, and told it with such conviction, that I myself could not help but believe it, as well. At that point in my research, I knew that at least some of what he had told me was true, and I was determined to ascertain the facts of the whole story. I am not ashamed to admit that I was excited for my next session with him, because I know that anyone else who might have found themselves in my position would have felt the same. However, that next session never came.

Unfortunately, Victor Perseus Frankenstein was found dead in his room at Manhattan Psychiatric Center on July 12, 2015, two days after he told me his story. He was found an hour and thirty-six minutes before he was meant to meet with me and clarify what he had told me in his previous session, so we could begin to work through it. That time never came.

It was difficult to establish a cause of death, and I was not told if they ever did discover it. His files were sealed, and not released to me, since I had only begun speaking to him and was not yet considered his doctor in an official capacity. However, I do have friends in many places, and I was able to determine that his cause of death was officially labeled “asphyxiation,” though I got no further explanation or clarification of what this meant. In plainer terms, I do not know if he committed suicide or if he was murdered. Either one is just as likely as the other.

Despite not having been established as his doctor as any official capacity, he did leave a page of notes that was addressed to me, and so I was able to obtain these notes after they were through being used as evidence. It is gibberish, mostly: just Victor trying to organize his thoughts for our next session, I believe. However, what is clear from the notes is his desire for the destruction of Adam, the creature which he claimed to have created. He stated this as his only reason for being alive, which leads me to believe that he was murdered, and did not commit suicide after all.

Once the notes were processed and I finally received them, I returned to my office at immediately, intent on working through Victor’s case and what I knew of his story. I wanted to determine what was true and what was not, though that was going to prove infinitely more difficult now that he was gone. As it turned out, I did not have to worry; when I returned to my office, there was a man standing there, waiting for me. Because of his startling physical appearance, I could only identify this man as the Adam which Victor had spoken of so often.

Victor did not exaggerate when he described the creature, which he called a “demon.” I would not hesitate to apply that same word when considering his outward appearance. He was beastly, stitched together like a child’s patchwork quilt might be. He had the stench of decay on him. I could see where his features might have been considered handsome in a past life, but now they were collapsing, almost melting on his enormous face. His skin was, as Victor had described it, dark and grey; his hands were huge and square. His bloodshot eyes were yellowed and milky-looking. I instinctively feared him, though he made no move towards me.

He asked me to shut the door, and I did as he asked. He introduced himself as Adam Frankenstein, and he motioned for me to take a seat, in the very same spot where I had sat when Victor had his session. I took the seat, and Adam took the seat that Victor had sat in. It seemed like the most horrible mirror image. Victor was meant to be sitting in that very seat at that very moment, and instead I found myself face-to-face with a man who was Victor’s son, and perhaps also his murderer. I was struck by the sudden realization that, of course, Victor told me the entire truth, and here was the proof of it, sitting not two feet from me. I could touch the evidence of Victor’s truth; I could see him, smell him, hear him. It was all real, which was an earth-shattering realization.

Adam told me that he found my name among Victor’s things in his room, likely referring to the notes that bore my name, and that he wanted to speak to me. If I was able to listen to and help Victor, he said to me, I would certainly be able to listen to him, and possibly even help him, as well. I agreed; I was not about to anger him anytime soon. He confessed his sins to me, each and every one of them. He was a more religious man than Victor, which I consider to not be much of a surprise, when I remember how much stock he apparently placed in Paradise Lost. He believed in a sort of spiritual purging; this was a confessional for him, and I was his priest. I allowed it. Whatever it took, I would allow it. My professional curiosity, my instinctual fear, and my need to know the whole story won out over any desire I had to make him leave. I also felt something of an obligation to Victor, after all he had been through.

Adam, though I would hesitate to call him Victor’s son, had a very similar way of speaking. He did not allow me to record him, so you must believe me when I say that. When he spoke, he also talked about the same emotions that Victor had told me about. In particular, Adam spoke strongly of feelings of alienation and of misery. However, perhaps most notably, he did not discuss the feelings of remorse, grief, or guilt, which led me to feel no pity for him at all, where I had felt a degree of pity for Victor before him.

I listened to his words, and he fell silent after a time. I, too, went quiet, until he asked my opinion. I gave it, honestly; I told him that I thought he was telling the truth, and that he could start to absolve his sins if he truly regretted them that day, among other things. He looked at me with curiosity. He asked why I was not surprised by him; I told him the truth, that Victor had told me the story already. He told me to ask him any questions I had, anything at all. He said he could see them in my eyes. My skin crawled, but this was the opportunity I had been waiting for, and I, for lack of a better word, grilled him.

I asked question after question, trying to confirm or deny aspects of Victor’s story. All of the answers which Adam gave me were exactly in alignment with that tale which Victor had told me. I was steadily coming to the rock-solid realization that what he had told me was not just a tale at all, but was, in fact, his true life story. I had documented an incredible, real-life monster movie on my recorder. Adam told me that Victor’s story, as I outlined it to him, was completely true, and he answered several probing questions that he could not have known about in any capacity unless those precise events had, indeed, happened to him. He let me take a moment to process the information. He then told me that we should feel free to examine and test his corpse when he is dead.

Before I had any chance to question him on this statement, let alone stop him from doing anything, he was on his feet. Without any warning, he removed a small gun, which was later classified as a .38 Special, from his worn, heavy coat. Before I could even raise my hands to protect myself, he turned the gun on himself. He looked directly at me, then pressed the muzzle to his forehead and fired, right there in my office. The blood spatters on the wall looked like a Rorschach test. I have never been able to get rid of the feeling of his inhuman blood on my skin.

Of course, the gunshot was heard, and, as it was clear that he committed suicide and I had nothing to do with his death, I was cleared of any charges. I told them what had happened, and I had never had a history of lying of any sort, or of any kind of misbehavior. I told the truth, and I was believed, especially when we were all confronted with the inhuman monstrosity that was Adam’s patchwork corpse, dead on the floor of my office. That belief that I was granted had been all that Victor had wanted at the end of his life, and something only I had granted him. Adam’s body was taken away.

I was able to call in a few favors — as I said, I have many friends in many places — and get a series of proper tests run on Adam’s corpse. I told them that I believed something to be off, and the reports I received in response to this belief did not disappoint me. Though they could not believe it, it seemed as though pieces Adam had actually been dead long before he killed himself, and each piece of him had a different rate of decay. This was the final verification of Victor’s story; this was the last bit of confirmation that I needed to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was telling me the absolute truth. I also believed Adam’s confirmations and his confessions of guilt, which I explained to the proper authorities. With time, I have had Victor Frankenstein’s name cleared. I am certain that, were he here, he would feel some relief in knowing that nobody believed him responsible for the deaths of his family any longer, though he occasionally felt himself responsible indirectly. Perhaps this would have absolved him, in the end. Maybe not. All I can do for him anymore is imagine, and hope.

I attended Victor Frankenstein’s funeral. Adam was cremated; I told a small white lie, and said that he had informed me of his desire for a cremation during that fatal confession of his, only so that I would be able to remove his ashes and place them far away from the corpse of Victor and the resting places of his family. Per Henry Clerval’s own request, and the approval of Alphonse Frankenstein in his will, Henry Clerval was buried in the Frankenstein family plot. That plot now contains the bodies of Caroline, William, Alphonse, Elizabeth, Henry, and Victor. His funeral was not well-attended, but a few people did go. Professors from school, old co-workers, neighbors he had had from various locations he had lived in. Gloria and her family returned; it was then that I met her for the first time. I told her that her brother was a good man. She believed me, thankfully, but I do not think she had ever believed her brother to be bad or evil. She is a good person. I feel sorry that she has lost so much, but I am glad she lives on.

Victor Perseus Frankenstein shares a large in-ground grave marker with the rest of his family. Each name bears a set of dates as well as a quote or phrase. Victor’s says: Victor Perseus Frankenstein, January 1, 1987 — July 12, 2015, “Humanity’s Savior”. I chose it; I thought it was fitting, and Gloria agreed, though she did not know why at the time. I plan on telling her the whole of Victor’s story before I release this book, but I am giving her some time first, to adjust.

I am writing this memoir not only to completely clear Victor’s name, but also to tell the world of what he has achieved. Neither Victor nor myself ever put much stock in religion, but I would not hesitate to call what he accomplished a true, real-life miracle. Victor Frankenstein was able to create life, and he strongly cautioned against anyone else attempting to do so. I am positive he left out the details of how, exactly, he made Adam for that very reason.

The scientific leaps and bounds that Victor has made are nothing short of extraordinary. The man was a genius, a modern marvel, and I consider losing him to be one of humanity’s greatest losses. I am not leaving psychiatry after this book is published, but I want everyone to know the name Victor Perseus Frankenstein. I want his to be a household name. I want him to be respected and admired. Yes, of course, he will have critics; he made a great deal of mistakes, and not all of the decisions he made were good ones. However, he still created life in a way nobody was ever been able to accomplish before, and likely never will again.

So, yes, I want everyone to know the name Frankenstein. And, call me wild, but I believe that, eventually, everyone will, and they will remember it for quite a long time.

About the Author

Nicole Mello is a fiction author who has been writing since before her memory was a functional thing. Her writing has been published in Commonthought Magazine. She has a novel, Venus (2017), published with Backpack Digital. She is also the author of several unpublished novels, many short stories, and several poems. She has her B.A. in Creative Writing from Lesley University. She currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts with her partner and two best friends.