Prologue
*THE CREATURE*
I’m in a conundrum.
I am a conundrum.
What would you do, if everything you knew about yourself is a shitty lie? But the truth, while tantalizing like a pornographic fantasy from your wettest dreams, seems just too good to be true?
Here’s the thing: I’m a monster. An abomination.
I’m not being melodramatic. This is the exact word used to describe what I am in the history and lore of all of the races, immortal and human.
Let’s not sugar coat things—I’m no good.
I’m no better than Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or rather Frankenstein’s monster (so many people get the two mixed up, the scientist’s name and the monster’s name, but I digress). Broken, dead pieces sewn together in a garbled mess, resuscitated by lightning (or in my case, the infusion of the antichrist’s soul and poison) into a sentient, but not quite “alive” creature who never should have existed in this world.
Although, I’d like to think I have a better sense of humor than the pitiful, misunderstood “fiend” of Frankenstein. Better looking too, but probably not by much. I take my wins where I can.
In all other respects, we’re rather alike, Frankenstein and I. We’re not quite alive and not quite dead. We’re capable of “feeling,” but we’re also apathetic when it comes to violence and death, especially when we feel we’ve been wronged. We’re both reviled by everyone around us. And we’re both known as the “Creature.”
A despicable thing.
Some kind of red substance flows sluggishly in my veins, but if I don’t have a regular infusion of Pure blood, it turns to black like nasty, stinky tar. And I shut down. First my mental faculties, then my bodily functions. I’m not sure what happens after that, but since I’m still physically present, I guess someone always gives me what I need to keep tick-tocking on.
There have been many times across the millennia of my existence that I purposely avoided Pure blood in the hopes of ending my miserable consciousness. Alas, my passive-aggressive suicide attempts were never successful. And the sight of my own blood and gore disturb me too much to try more direct methods like sepukku (those ancient Japanese warriors were some crazy-assed, steel-balled motherfuckers). Besides, my immortal healing abilities might not let me die, which means I might have to drag my innards around on the outside of my body, tripping my own feet for the rest of eternity.
In addition, I suppose Medusa, my Mistress (also known as evil incarnate, Satan’s whore, serpent succubus, etc.), finds usefulness in keeping me around, unlike the eternal struggle between Victor Frankenstein and his hideous creation.
But perhaps the most salient difference is that, whereas Frankenstein’s monster pursued a living being’s right to happiness in the form of a mate, I have long ago accepted that happiness doesn’t really exist. So there’s no point in pursuing it. Never mind the unconditional love of a mate.
I don’t belong to any Kind, but I’m cobbled together from many Kinds, though I’m not entirely sure what those exact ingredients are. And because I have the abominable ability to shift into different humanoid forms, I confuse even myself what my true form is. Are those ingredients the source of my “Gift” to transform, or is my ability the reason I feel like I have so many different ingredients in me that don’t typically reside in any one being?
I try not to dwell on these dizzying puzzles for the sake of what little sanity I have left.
There are two forms I usually take: Binu, a glasses-wearing, metrosexual young man with exquisite taste in clothing (if I do say so myself); and the Creature, an androgynous, creepily beautiful thing that both attracts and repels anyone who looks upon it (or rather, me).
And then there’s a third form, but I wouldn’t say I take it so much as it takes me.
Ere is his name. A personality that assumes control of my body to go about his delusion of a partial life. Whenever Ere is in residence, so to speak, it’s like I’m dreaming about the life of someone else. And though the dream is vivid while I dream it, I never recall the details when I wake up.
I do retain enough knowledge or impressions, and sometimes even feelings, about his actions and engagements to leverage this personality for Medusa’s schemes. But I’m not in control of him, just like I can’t control anyone else outside of my own body (and let’s face it, I can barely control my own wayward self). I can only influence and maneuver.
Lately, Ere has appeared less and less, as far as I can tell. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. Also lately, I’ve been having more and more of his dreams, some so real I can almost taste and remember them.
But the real reason I’m a monster is the ugliness of my soul, the jagged edges of all its gazillion broken pieces, and the oozing darkness that fills the gaps.
The things I’ve done…
The wheels I’ve put in motion…
Maybe this is why I’m not eager to end my own life (even if I could)—in case Heaven and Hell truly exist as humans have described them, I’m certain where I’d end up.
There’s no redeeming me. I’m my Mistress’s Monster.
But yesterday…
I discovered that everything I thought I knew was a big, fat, fucking lie.
Chapter One: Colors
*THE CREATURE*
Dear brother,
(Who is not really my brother, but more family to me than anyone else I’ve ever known.)
I hate you as much as I love you. I’ve treated you badly in the past few years, but…that’s what families are for, right? Chalk it up to harmless, sibling rivalry. Like two little boys trying to drown each other in the swimming pool. Come on, you know you hate-love me too.
So what if I tortured you to the edge of death repeatedly to get Medusa’s poison to take? So what if I did it with a thoroughness and relish that went beyond the task at hand? You didn’t die, did you?
Sure, you’re stuck in the prison of your own body, which obeys the Mistress’ commands and not your own. Sure, your soul is encased in ice so thick, a solar flare won’t melt through it. You may still feel ravaging pain, but your body has been amped up to ignore it so that you can carry out your orders like a terminator machine.
Maybe that’s what I’ll call you from now on. The Terminator. Or do you prefer Robocop? Mr. Smith? (It’s a Matrix reference, you dunce. I just know you won’t get it). I aim to please.
The point is: you’re still there. I’m still here. All’s right with the world, as long as you’re in it.
Your soul remains, whole but comatose. Who do you think preserved your soul? Medusa always rips her soldiers’ original souls into shreds for the turning. But I saved yours. You can thank me later.
Anyway, what I really wanted to say when I started this never-to-see-daylight letter in my head is—
I remember you, Dalair.
I remember why I love you as much as I hate you. The fragments of my shriveled, blackened, broken soul remember you. Reminding me that once upon a time, I loved you most of all.
I love you still.
I miss you.
Hasta la vista, baby.
C
It happened thusly, my stupendous revelation.