The Creature, to an Empty Chair
by Lori Lou Freshwater
[The stage is bare, other than one empty chair. The Creature points toward the audience]
They all call me Frankenstein.
[H turns to face the chair]
But that is not my name, it is yours father.
I am just a creature, without a name, without anything. You gave me life but kept from me the tools to live. I am alone, surrounded by people who are unable to look at me without convulsing in disgust or running in terror. I have never known love. Never. How could you not know, father, what is needed by the human heart? The heart you placed into my chest with your very own hands? The heart that bulges and splits as I stand outside of strangers' houses, peering in, straining and grasping and rasping as I ache and shake and wish for death to relieve me.
Of course you know, because from the moment of your first breath you have been loved and you have known what it is like to be connected to another human being, connected from a string attached to that place buried deep within the chest.
Whether it is winter, or spring, or fall. Whether the sky is holding rain in its sullen belly or emptying it out one stinging drop at a time. Whether I walk near the slow sink of a glacier or around some family's cottage full of amber and sweet smells, laughter and tears… I walk without, without house, parent, friend, or spouse.
Know me father.
Because it will glue me. Because then, I can go and live. I won't ask to know you. Don't fear, I will leave you alone. Just give me this one thing and then I will find a home, a place to belong. A little square room with bare walls and stuffy air that will save me from this outdoor tomb.
[He moves toward the chair]
You will not look at me, father.
[He raises his voice]
Look at me.
I don't care if you scream.
Scream, coward, scream.
This is not a monster you see. It is pain taking a form, Plato's dream, born from your hands father that rejected me, giving me the color of abandonment, eyes dulled by isolation, a body deceased without life-giving touch.
I walk, ache, walk, ache, as my pulse thumps in the silence.
My feet become the wet, cold, decomposing leaves underneath.
Acid and pressure build inside as I yearn for a family.
You, you have such complaints about how you've been neglected or mistreated by your parents. Not enough time spent playing child-hood games with you. Not enough warmth and support for you. You moan and groan about siblings and cousins who disappoint you, who fail in their own lives, who forget to write you with empty greetings. But imagine, father, for one moment imagine being me. No family. Not one other to claim, not one other who shares your name.
I am a boat untethered, floating without company in the dark and angry sea.
So yes, I ask you for a bride. But a bride will not bring me identity. She may — oh, god please — love me and she may place her sweet, sweet, hand on my cheek filling me… finally. But without you, I will still not be able to fight the voices from within that mimic and mock those I have heard so often, the voices that tell me how repulsive I am and evil and wrong and how I should not have ever been born. Without you father, these voices will only grow louder and shriller and I will have no weapon against them. It will be my curse and this magnificent brain you have given me will begin to corrode itself and turn on me and the only choice I will have will be to turn on others and commit acts of violence so hideous… just to release some of the pressure!
A bride will not bring identity.
Know me father.
You are my mirror, reflect me.
I will feel repulsive, alone, always father, always until my creator sees me,
knows me.
The Creature, to his Father
"Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed
with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone?
You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your
fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me.”
~Mary Shelley
Whether I walk near the slow
sink of a glacier or around
their family cottage full of amber,
I walk without, without
house, parent, friend, spouse.
You will not look at me, father.
Look at me.
I don't care if you scream,
coward, scream.
This is not a monster you see.
It is pain taking a form, Plato's
dream, born from your hands
father that tossed me, giving me
the color of abandonment,
eyes dulled by isolation,
a body deceased
without life-giving touch.
I walk, ache, walk, ache, as my
pulse thumps in the silence.
My feet become the wet, cold,
decomposing leaves underneath.
Know me father.
You are my mirror, reflect me.
A bride will not bring identity!
I will feel repulsive, alone,
always father, always until
my creator sees me,
knows me.
"It is pain taking a form, Plato's dream, born from your hands father that rejected me, giving me the color of abandonment, eyes dulled by isolation, a body deceased without life-giving touch."
Whoa - this author can create
thoughts and words worthy of the beast.
I am interested to know which was the creator - the poem or the prose?
Terrific.
Very moving (which sounds very shallow to say), very affecting; deep understanding of the universality of the creature, us, the human plight, the never-ending passing-on of pain and consciousness (and the struggle to form a viable identity from whatever we are given--or are forced to steal) from parent to child.
I'm very fond of the novel, and of this.
Your story-poem is absolutely delightful to another Mary Shelley fan. I love that story of summer of 1816 at Lord Byron's place in Switzerland where Mary conceived the idea for her Frankenstein novel. You capture the essence of her idea in your work, along with the ideas of Plato and Voltaire. Add Shakespeare, Joyce Carol Oates, and The Tragedy of Existence, to the list. Did I say I liked it?
Wow!For me this is perfectly pitched, full of all that aches to live openly and fully, to know and understand and accept love..and the poem is incredibly powerful. But it's the writing itself that really sings to me the sadness,the loneliness and frustration of this poor wretched being forever trapped in something unsealable. Bravo performance.
This is just wonderful - start to finish, Lou. The form is marvelous. As if I wasn't already haunted enough by the archetype ... and now this.
My real regret, of course, is that I didn't write it.
Nicely done and very original, clever. I like that it is told through the views of the creature.
"You are my mirror, reflect me." What an eloquent line in the midst of such a deeply tragic poem.
Nice work Lou. The thing about this piece which I find interesting is the way the genre/form validates the language. For example, the line 'I am a boat untethered ...' would be hard pressed to sound convincing outside the stylised architecture of the piece. You play on the retro style of a period long passed, and that is appropriate and truthful. I also agree in spirit with the 2nd post back (Matthew) re the originality. Not so much that it's original, but that it's daring. It's the unusual well done that attracts me to this.
Thank you everyone. I'm overwhelmed by your kind words on this piece.
As you say, Eamon, it is over-the-top language, so if it works then it is a relief. After reading the novel, not only did I identify with the creature, but I felt as though he possessed me a little bit as I was writing this. A rare but good thing for a writer.
Sam, of course I'm especially flattered by your comment, and there is no doubt you could write it, only better.
This line, for me, says it all:
I walk, ache, walk, ache, as my pulse thumps in the silence.
It captures the staggering creature in us all, plodding on toward... what? The uncertainty, the search for love, the search for meaning, the search for reflection in another's eyes (agree with Carol's comment on that one).
What a gorgeous ode to Shelley and the period and the lingering ideas that that whopper of a work has left us! Fave!
Beautiful story/poem, Lou! I love the way you've woven history and imagination.
Thank you, Michelle and Bonnie.
"I am a boat untethered...."
Wow, this is fantastic and such fresh, intelligent, original work. Love it.
Thank you, Kathy.
Kathy drew my attention to this, and I'm so glad to have read it. Powerful writing, Lou. I like it very much.