There was a house in New Orleans.

That much was true.

But once, in the evermost north, there was once a nameless boy.

His creator was remembered in far greater of fantasy than his creation. Thus, the only way one would even know of the nameless boys' existence was by the tale of V1ctor Frankenste1n. And that boy had been created as a creature, made from discarded limbs deemed perfect, and life - unnatural and forced by science.

By electricity that was never meant to strike upon a flesh doll on a table.

This was in the 1800s, during the age of the Revolution. When women still wore evening gowns and the men still wore white blouses.

When man was new enough to be untamed with violence and question.

As for the house in New Orleans, that's where he decided to go one day, many years down the line from when his creator had passed away. The creature had come to terms with immortality, the inability to feel pain, and the inevitable discourse with being stripped of the gift of death. As his creator had denied him love or companionship, someone like him, he let himself become confined to solidarity. It was easier that way, though he was quite intelligent. But still, he traveled. Even as fashion styles changed, he learned that no one quite cared if he chose to cover his face like a vagabond. Though, anyone who had seen his face knew he was morbidly beautiful. A corpse of sorts, yes, but a man with deathly pale skin, deepset eyes, and haunting scars. Long brown hair that framed his face quiet well and of a tall stature.

He saw the world, how people changed carriages to strange automobiles. How machines became more defined and meticulous in nature. Wars that took the lives of thousands and technology that somehow made the battles even worse.

And before he knew it, the year was 1906.

He found himself in New Orleans, wandering the streets in fascination of the new social customs of America. However, as he once did with the old man, he sought out company. Companionship.

He caught sight of a girl with strange white hair, dressed in all black with skin similar to his. He knew you weren't dead, only one of him had been made. But still, you looked like a spirit, and it drew him in.

He watched you as the weeks passed, learning that people shyed away from you when you went into down. That you spent most of your time pouring over books in the garden, much like his creator once did. That you made dead animals into these beautiful, frozen versions of themselves with science as if life could be made into sculptures. Taxidermy, he learned was the name of this curious talent.

And one day, he decided to make himself known. Surely you wouldn't turn him away or look in fear. No, you would look at him like Elizabeth once did before his creator accidentally took her life. A woman like you with a dress dipped in death was sure to be fascinated by him.

So, he let himself in through your courtyard door that was left unlocked. Even through the years, he rarely changed clothes. Still wearing the tattered overcoat and wolf furs across his shoulders, he followed the sounds of soft music and the erratic clanking of scalpels.

And as he turned the corner into a room lit by candles, he saw you. Your back was turned, meticulously referencing old books scattered across the table and occasionally turning back to compare to the taxidermied animal. It was a wolf, teeth bared and in the poise of preparation for a lunge.

He tilted his head, trying to figure out how to approach you. He didn't have time to make a decision before you turned around, freezing and blinking a few times.