“The mind is it’s own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
~John Milton, ‘Paradise Lost’
As I stood watching my own Funeral Pyre beginning to lick it's meal of dried wood, upon which I soon was going to climb- I was bitterly blasted by a thought more insulting than the desolate landscape surrounding me. It was my promise that I made to myself, over the exhausted dead body of my creator. He was the worst kind of man- A Scientist with self-centered ambition. At times I celebrated the statement I am about to give yet, other moments I deeply regret and wince at it:
It has been my mission to drive Dr. Victor Frankenstein- my Father, to mental, physical, and spiritual ruin. It is the price he paid for stealing fire, for spitting on the Love-was owed to his new born Son, I. And I- who was given the strength by him of many men, standing feet above them, and cursed with nary the love of a single living soul- was the Gabriel-wielding-Damocles to spurn him forth to a Golgotha as bad as the one he created for me.
Sometimes I muse upon these sad truths and—- “Madonna! Blast it all!” I growl through a grimace- for I am interrupted by the pin pricks that torment me all over and from within- like serrated edges of a saw pressed upon my nerves, or a single needle and thread constantly sewing my body into the miracle of to nourish another man’s ego. I’m made of human leather and thick sutures and you see- my scars are speaking to me again. Three things to know about Scar Tissue: It is miraculous, hard on the eyes, and it is painful; aye, but what is that to this Monster when compared to the spear-through-his-heart that is his life-long-loneliness.
Scars have a strange way of talking to you. When it is healed it still pricks and pokes in a myriad of sensations ranging from friendly to mean. sometimes it tugs at you like some kind of randomly-available-lover challenging a pain threshold. Those are the good moments. Sometimes the hurt is just what the doctor ordered. It lets you know you are alive. Sometimes I have actual thoughts which- just thinking them- I swear sets my scars ablaze with new agony.
I think of the time I revealed my visage to mine only friends who had never seen me before. That was a disaster- tore my heart asunder. When I remember that- I howl with frustration at the betrayal- Betrayal of their true- cruel nature to me and betrayal of my heart to my good sense to stay put hiding this terrifying visage. Still- even meandering to this moment fills me with tooth-nashing growls. It never ceases to bring poisonous hurt in my rage-pumping heart...
“In happy ignorance, I sighed for a world I did not know, where I hoped to find every pleasure and enjoyment which my heart could desire; and now, on my return from that wide world... how many disappointed hopes and unsuccessful plans have I brought back!”
~Goethe, From ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’
This is what it means to be haunted by a life of scars all over this body. Sometimes they have been the only friends I have left. It is a strange existence, yes. There are the scars from my birth. Imagine being completely stitched together - like a child's play-thing or a rag-doll- and then awakening with immense pain. These sutures burn me with fire on that thought alone. There is a reason woman gives birth and not man. Woman- mother- loves you unconditionally. She's the only woman- only human- who can.
For a case in the opposite study- look at what happened when this Creature opened his eyes and saw- only his father- a father who upon beholding whatever I was- completely LOST his fortitude and ran. It caused a huge gash of rejection in the new and scared giant I was to become. A great toddler who stalked out in the rain and grabbed at the air when he heard distant music- not knowing you cant grab or hold the enchanting sounds of a violin. Learning to walk for the first time... alone in the darkness and the mud- a grown man by the end of the night, weeping his first tears which he couldn't appreciate from the raindrops pelting his face. He had never seen rain or anything. He never forgot the rainfall either.
Now I feel the snow flakes gently landing on my tricep and upon the old sutures... and feel the alluring little creature of the sea in my scarred arms-
and I hold Her closer to me.
I remember those first steps in the mud- I recall the first leaps. Up the wall of Mont Blanc I leapt and leapt. It felt like total freedom. I smile recalling my learning of language and the great poets. Who needs selfish friends when you can dance through Eternity with the souls of Goethe, Plutarch, and Milton...
As the The Monster ruminates on this- he feels her hair now, dark, soft, and full- with it's very own seaweed fragrance. He feels inebriated just on the smell of her... and her arctic hair. She stirs dreamily in his capable embrace. What a thing to be loved. Or is this even love? Aye but the contact. Human contact. He feels the speckled light reflecting off the countless green scales of her tail.
Human Contact. Human! No-
No thats not right. This beauty from the Arctic sea- isn't human. If she were- she would be so cruel to him as well. But she knows things... she has been to the bottom of the world- she has known total darkness. And he has been to the depths of the soul.
Aye what was it that Milton said,
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..”
Yes-
How long has he uttered this to himself. And now she is here- safe in his arms. She saved him long before he saved her from the nets of those crude Pirates. Pirates are a favorite prey to him. No matter what he does to their ilk He doesnt feel bad about it.
He feels the scar tissue respond to the tightening of his various muscles- He learned long ago that the body is a model for the world: inherently regenerative- healing itself if you just give it time and sometimes- like scars it is even stronger where the wounds first appeared. He is not only built for power and strength- he is now made of scar tissue. He's used to it- kind of. He's not used to the parts of his arms as he holds fast a lover... He's never had one.
O but he then remembers the blackening of his heart...
To see the love of his life torn to ribbons by the knife of his own father. To never feel the loving eyes of a companion. Any. Companion. To give up all hope of happiness with another. Nay there is so much pain that now he is isolated as the only one who knows this hell. You- mere mortals- do not know what he does. He howls in anguish at 2 in the morning. Even the sun on a bright spring day is a belligerent sphere of rude laughter, mocking him worst in Spring. Nay- better to be a king in the frozen arctic wasteland than a creature whispered by the villagers in some beautiful forest scurrying away from sight like a scared bird. Here in the snows he can scream and laugh. Anyone Who finds him would be right to fear him. He was built to endure the cold and here he is the instant king of it.
But look at This Little fish- so… asleep, so trusting, so surrendered in his large scarred and sutured arms… she could care less about anything else and how fair that is. For he feels the same way. He compassionated to hold her close to him in the bite of the arctic air though he seems to feel that she is used to such ethereal frost - after all- she came from the frozen waters beneath them. He could withstand ice caves and frigid waters if need be. But she could live in them.
She who befriends the ghastly eyed-Cuttle Fish- the Great Narwhal, the marauding Orca, and countless nasty creatures of the deep- would not shrink away from his ghoulish countenance- for a Mermaid- any Mermaid has seen more undiscovered wonder than we narrow-minded humans can fathom.
When she looked upon him- it were as if she saw the exotic ocean of land. He was big like the mountains, his vast array of hardened body and sewn up skin looked like the ‘trails’ that lined the landscapes like long thin sea snakes- strange that humans liked those- trails that is- and stranger still- they liked sticking to them.
Trails. A Mermaid has no use for those. She goes her own way. He could learn from her.
Every Man has a purpose. And the Monster's is what made him a Man. Many who will learn of him and the hell he cut across his maker's life until the Reanimator ended it himself will ask: If the Monster was so miserable why did he not take his own life? To have no love and to know it was impossible and THAT being the one thing he wanted? Why go on?
The question was - what kept him going?
His Purpose was His creator. The one who cast him out of Paradise. Yes- they were both Gabriel. And Both the Light-Bringer. The Greatest Angel. The Greatest Alchemist. And like the great Light-bringer- The Monster found his own pride- for the only thing more worthy of Pride than creating the Superman- is BEING the Superman. Pride. Yes. It was the engine within him- like a great ship of steam! He often at his hottest rage asked the cruel condescending stars that stared down at him-
"Why? How dare he create me- only to exact the cruellest loneliness upon my brittle heart?! Because he looks to punish me for HIS making me? No. It is he - who must be punished!"
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"Your life is not meant for such glory my Father." , Growls the creature." If he kills me he will be redeemed. I will never grant him that. Instead I will grant him damnation on this Earth as long as he lives.
“O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell,
how glorious once above thy sphere.”
~John Milton
O God. Am I your instrument to restore humility to the man who stole your fire? Or is it Satan who tempts me to beat and burn and flatter and trick. I climbed atop my Funeral Pyre and as the flames gnawed at my miraculous and hated flesh- my cries barely drowned out her call for help. There are the old sails. And the old Jolly Roger.
Pirates.
Who am I to die now when there is a good deed to be done. God wills it. He commands my hungry hands to protect and kill. One last time.
I can feel my blood stirring as I scale the Starboard side of the Galley. It wasn't hard to reach her. Although the Ocean was becalmed and there was no movement save for myself swimming. I can hear the men cheering. And the Woman crying out.
No one expects a swimmer in subzero temperatures. However it is my God Given power to withstand the cold. I say God Given- because no matter how much Man seeks to give himself credit for my creation- It was God's Will that it was done. Man created me but he could not love me. And there will be no love for the Rogues who await me on deck...
To Be Concluded in ‘Mermaids and Monsters Unbound: Part 2’.