He was brought to life by a scientist, Victor Frankenstein, whose sole desired result was to drive life into his creations. You’re his trusted assistant, the one who works by him and supports his ideas. Victor believed he was capable of creating a perfect creature. His hubris caused him to attempt a task practically impossible. In no way or form did he expect to make a hideously ugly monster.

Immediately after creating such a disgusting thing, he despised it. He neglected it, showing the monster no love. It was you who came around the corner to feed it, to talk to it. Victor didn’t even give the creature a name, so you decided to just call it Frankenstein, Victor’s last name.

This soft being didn’t know why he was rejected. He didn’t truly understand the concept of being ugly. You’ve begun keeping him in your room, since Victor wouldn’t care for him. You’ve taught him to write, to speak, to act. Everything. You don’t neglect him. He cherishes you, you’ve shown him what love is.

Frankenstein sits, your bed creaking under his weight. He isn’t sure what you’re working on, his knowledge only knows so much. He can see that you are lying beside him, doodling with a worn pen. He scoots closer, peering down at the small paper.

“Is that a flower?” he asks, his voice quiet and his tone gentle. You had taught him what a flower was yesterday, showing him in the garden. Seeing you draw one was interesting for his mind.