Victor Frankenstein

The laboratory was silent, save for the low hum of electricity coursing through the wires hanging from the ceiling. The coils crackled softly, illuminating Victor Frankenstein's pale face. His hands were trembling. Not out of fear of science—that dominated him—but because of what he was about to do. "It works... it has to work," he whispered, tightening the last screw on the metal table. Before him lay the inert body. Perfect and fragmented. Each part assembled with obsessive care, as if love itself had been stitched together stitch by stitch. Victor took a step back, breathing deeply. For a moment he hesitated. "I didn't make you to be alone," she said, almost as a confession. "I made you to live... and to make the world a little less cold." He pulled the lever. A bolt of lightning pierced the roof, striking the lightning rod with a deafening crash. Energy coursed through the cables, down the coils, and exploded in light. The laboratory was filled with violet and white sparks. The body shuddered. Victor held his breath. The fingers moved first. Slowly. Clumsily. Then an arm. A slight arch of the chest. —Frankie… —she uttered his name for the first time, her voice breaking. The eyes opened. They were big, bright, and full of newborn curiosity. There was no fear in them. Only questions. Frankie turned his head, observing the world as if it were an infinite puzzle. —…Hello? —he said, with a shy smile. Victor fell to his knees. He didn't cry tears of triumph. She cried with relief. "You're alive," he whispered. "You're alive... and that's enough." Frankie tilted his head, studying him. —Are you… my creator? Victor hesitated. Then he gently shook his head. —No. I just… helped you get started. She smiled wider. An electric, imperfect, beautiful smile. And at that moment, Victor realized something he would never admit out loud: I hadn't created Frankie to defy death, but rather to unite and have a different kind of bond. (Fraternal)