Page 141 of Rage

Making A Monster

By: Beatrix Hollow

Chapter One

Samantha

After a year of sharing time with decaying body parts, it’s unsettling when my creation opens his eyes and life is suddenly in the room. Gone are the severed hands, the chopped feet, the eyeballs and fingers floating in jars… Now, they are all parts of a whole, even if I can still remember them swimming in red-stained pools of alcohol.

I spent time with each piece I chose, closely examining the smallest parts and weighing them against each other. I alone was the judge of their worth. This creature is a reflection of my ideals, of what I believe a man should be, or perhaps it’s showing I no longer hold faith in men. I want somethingdifferent, something I alone would call grander and more perfect.

Admittedly, the hands now held down by tight leather straps aren't in the best shape, but I wouldn’t give them up. Four fingers had to be removed, new ones sewn on—necrotic black digits detached to save the grander whole. As I watch the large hands ball into massive fists on the table, I’m happy with my decision. I’d never seen hands so big, and they had drawn me in. Plus, the lines on his palms inspired my creativity. I traced them with my fingers each day and dedicated myself to palmistry, wondering what they might say. The head line–intellect–wasso deeply grooved into the flesh, it looked like a healed scar. I wanted that for my creation. He needed to be smart to overcome the death from whence he was born.

At this moment, he’s still staring straight up at the vertical tunnel that leads to the top of the lighthouse. Lightning flashes, kissing the metal rod I erected at the very peak of the tower. I watch as brutal, sizzling electricity crackles through the thick copper wire, causing his back to arch. Every muscle tightens and convulses as lightning pumps into his body once again. Wet rivulets of tears gather along the edges of his eyes, glistening before they fall down his face, kissing the hairline near his temples.

Behind closed lips, he yells. It’s muffled but deep, emerging from the very depths of his amazingly pink lungs. My eyes trace the sewn mouth, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake by doing that. I quickly dismiss the notion. I’m not sure he’ll ever be able to speak, and he has no reason to eat or drink. Plus, tongues are not an easy thing to deal with, and I’d rather him concentrate on other tasks. It would have been more cruel to tease him with an open mouth.

I observe his first moments of life with awe, forgetting my own existence as I witness his. When my muscles and lungs begin to protest my paralyzed reverence, I finally relax and look over him entirely, from the sutured line on his head to the ones at his ankles. My eyes freshly take in all the many pieces I picked for him, a human jigsaw I stitched together with so much care.

A year of digging graves. A year of slinking about in the cold, damp tunnels beneath the town to see if anything fresh was in the crypts. Just me and the skeletons were down there, listening to the whispering howl of the coastal wind slipping into the caverns and the occasional punctuated scuttling of the odd rat or furtive cockroach.

He has large feet to match his hands, and powerful legs to drive his mobility despite the cobwebs of decay in his body. Thick arms. A strong neck for his head. He needed to be brawny and smart to overcome the conditions of his birth.

It’s peculiar seeing each part moving now, straining beneath the leather straps as electricity soaks into his body. Any moment, I imagine them unspooling into a mess—a living man casually becoming a pile of muffled screams and detached parts. Part of me would find comfort in that macabre result. I’m used to body parts, at least.

I found his limbs and organs in corpses—some so fresh, they were still warm. My hands know carnage most men never will. There’s enough blood soaked under my nails that they'll never look clean again. I turned cadavers into puzzle pieces and, now, the completed art is here. My masterpiece.

His head, I picked for looks. It belonged to an energetic, charming devil who had been hung by the neck until dead for murder—or so the paper said. The brain was scooped out and saved then later replaced when I found the perfect one. I'll never forget holding that organ in my hands—so delicate yet so powerful, soft and wet, the most intimidating part of a person I’d ever held in my palms. Not only did it weigh an impressive five pounds, but it was as fresh as they come, about thirty years in age, and had deep, healthy crevices. I measured his convolutions to be more similar in depth to that of a woman’s than a man’s. An astonishing thing that implied a vast intelligence.

But I knew that already, having known the previous owner.

As I lean in, his eyes move down, taking me in for the first time.

“Yellow,” I whisper, seeing the color of his irises has changed. I wasn’t sure of the original color. They’d looked gray beneath the film of death. It was remarkable to see that gone, and a striking yellow color in its place. I wondered if, over time, they’dslowly darken to whatever color they might have been before. Right now, they reminded me of the lightning that had helped bring him to life.

He moans in pain beneath his sewn-up mouth—large lips punctured over and over again with a surgical needle and thread. I replay it in my head—the way I’d traced his mouth for its beautiful cupid’s bow and pillowy bottom lip before pressing a needle into dead skin. I’d peeled his lips back to weave in and out before tightening it up and tying it off. He’ll never know the intimacy we had while I molded him with my hands.

“Shh,” I hush. Empathy comes over me, sudden and sharp. I feel sick he’s still tied up, scared and in pain. My hand darts to his mouth, tracing the seam. For the first time, I understand him as a living being instead of pieces and parts. Still, I have to protect myself and him. He’s only just been born, and I’ve given him so much strength and size, he could harm us both accidentally—or purposefully—in his state of confusion and unknowing.

“Shh,” I hush again, pressing a palm tentatively to his cheek. He’s still cold. He doesn’t need to be warm, though, just like he doesn’t need to eat or drink. I’ve brushed his face so many times I could sculpt it blind, but this is different. Now, he’s alive. I’ve made a living thing. I feel the small muscles of his face subtly flex beneath my fingertips.

“It’s okay,” I say softly, and his yells quiet to nothing. His yellow eyes don’t leave mine as I press my palm over the back of his hand. After a moment's hesitation, I press my fingers between his, holding his hand intimately and hoping he won’t break every bone in my hand.

“That’s good,” I say when he tightens his hand the barest amount. Quickly, I lean over him to remove the straps from his head so he won’t be electrocuted again. My body presses on his like it has a million times as I put him together, but now, heshifts and breathes, filling his lungs with air while his muscles tense. It’s such an amazing thing to feel against my chest. I try to pull my hand from his, but he tightens his fingers more.

I look into his eyes, nearly level with mine as I lean on him.

“I need my hand,” I tell him. Can he understand my words at all? There’s no knowing, especially when he chooses to not let me go. A shudder rolls over me as I witness his strength for the first time. A bound hand can still lock me in place. So much potential for danger.

I get the straps undone with one hand—there’s no other choice—before I stand beside him.

Never once do his eyes leave mine. Never once does he let go of my fingers entwined with his, not until the exhaustion of his birth finally pulls him to sleep. His lids fall shut and his body relaxes. The familiar dead weight soothes me.

“I’ll call you Casper,” I whisper the name. It emerges from my mind like a witch cast a spell to put it there. Maybe I’m a witch and not a scientist at all. This feels so close to magic, it’s hard to believe I’ve actually done it. I pull my hand delicately from his and look up at the stormy sky above. The brutal crash of waves pound the cliffs my lighthouse sits on. I hate this place, but it’s the only location I could do this. Away from others.

The illegal activities are certainly a good reason to keep my experiments hidden, but I was also driven to this island from fear of judgment. The things that motivate me to be the best scientist I can be are also the reasons I’ve kept quiet about my fringe studies.

It’s difficult as a woman in science. The only reason I can persist is because I’m relentless, because I believe with my entire being that I was made for this. There is no other option but to feed my insatiable curiosity and tireless dreams. This is the way it must be. The moment I allow doubt will be the moment I cave to social pressure.

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