imagine: you have spent the first two long, miserable years of your life alone, utterly outcast, aching for someone–anyone–to look at you with kindness and treat you gently
and you consider vengeance, and you consider wrath, and in another world you would have chosen them, but now something stays your hand until you have had the chance to speak fully to your creator and make him understand you
and by some miracle your stolen tongue with its stolen words manages to spin a tale of woe potent enough that your foolish and absentee father (who is still, after all, terribly young himself) repents of his actions and resolves himself to help you, and you keep expecting him to give up, to recoil, to abandon you again like he did the first time, but by some combination of factors he stays, and has clothes made for you that fit your huge hulking body, and helps you bathe, and treats your wounds, and washes your hair with careful hands, and how can you do anything but weep like a child (because, although you are his match or more in mind and body, that is still in so many ways what you are) because for the first time in your huge, hateful, ugly existence you feel small and cared-for and wanted
i think that would be nice
[id: a black and white drawing of victor frankenstein and his creature. the creature is nude and sitting in a tub of water as victor stands behind him, pouring a small cup of water over the creature’s hair to rinse it as he runs his other hand through it. the creature’s posture is hunched, defensive and fragile, and his eyes are streaming with tears as he looks back over his shoulder at victor. even seated, the creature’s head comes up to victor’s chest. victor’s expression is pensive and focused. end id]
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