Mr. & Mrs. Frank

If I am only to be known as the Monster, we shall for a time call him simply, Doctor. The Doctor had made me ages before all of this merely to see if he could. There had been little to no consideration of should and even less time spent on any kind of cohesive artwork that is the human figure, that would be my figure. I have made my peace with this and bear him no ill will regarding the various puzzle pieces that I am comprised of. I was broken and he pieced me back together, but he did not heal me. Although it should be noted, dear reader, that I am whole only because of mismatched and jammed together pieces and as rough as that sounds it, and by it I do mean I, look far rougher. Rough or not, this is the story of how I came to be healed, and even more vulnerably so, how I came to be known.

After some revisions to my initial existence, and likely a brain transplant (I am not privy to such details nor do I wish to be), my mind is as sharp as a newly sharpened pitchfork. Let us be honest with one another though, not all pitchforks are sharpened, but having a fair bit of experience with some that are I can reliably tell you that there are those that can be quite sharp. Regardless, I grew to become lonely and wanted for a companion. I conveyed such to the Doctor. Here now you may see a contradiction to what others may have had to say. Do not believe all that you have been told or read. He did not outright deny me, nor did he immediately set out to undertake such a request. After several discussions that spanned the philosophical, ethical, and practical of creating another such as I, he was the one to yield. I think he wanted another go of it to be honest. He couldn't argue himself a man of science if his experiments were never replicated. But this time he showed a bit more finesse.

Before the Doctor eventually accepted my request, his assistant, whom I loathed completely and absolutely, once teased me, playing on more of my vulnerabilities than I care to admit. "So ugly old Mr. Frank is wanting a Mrs. Frank? You think that'll fix you? Who could ever want you?! Besides, if you don't kill her again with that mug of yours I guarantee you'll end up breaking her too, just like—" The Doctor hit him over the head before he could finish his thought. The damage had already been done though and it was a long time before I broached the subject again. I do think that whole ordeal played its part in convincing the Doctor, and so I do not regret being the subject of his idiot assistant's taunting. It mattered not. I would not suffer them for long.

I no longer worried about hurting anyone unintentionally after the revisions I'd undergone. But it is true that I worried still about being rejected. Even if we were the only two of our kind, she could, with more than plenty of reason, despise me for asking for her existence, for bringing back into all of this. We are not consulted on the matter of whether or not we would like to be born the first time. It was the same for my second birth. And being born into this existence is arguably a bit more of a curse than our first. We had discussed this, among many other issues, ad nauseum. But through my selfishness I still longed for another like me. As much as I hated thinking of it this way, the words had stuck, I longed for my Mrs.. I didn't know how unlike me she would be, and how perfect and necessary that would be for us both.

The doctor promised me a companion, swearing that it was only a matter of time. While I believed him, trusted him, I did begin to grow impatient. Naturally, the Doctor had been right. He was our god and we had but to listen to him to be blessed by him. It was simply a matter of time before an opportunity presented itself. She was a young woman from a nearby village. An innocent, no more than twenty, if that. She'd been strangled for rebuffing the affections of a young suitor and that was more than I wanted to know at the time.

She was perfect. Flawless skin (save the minor marks around her neck that I would grow to adore in my own peculiar way), pouty lips, long black hair that had changed after the Doctor brought her back. The electricity made it crimp and stand quite nearly straight out (she grew to love this). That was all I could see of her right after she was...I do not feel it fair to say she was created or born again. Not in the same way that I was. My body had been damaged, wounded, dismembered and I had been sewn and stitched back together. Without a doubt in my mind I had been created by the Doctor. She...she was as perfect as the day she was born the first time. She was merely an angel, brought back into this world to live again.

She'd been taken from this world too soon and, to our delight, was a grateful angel. Her mind, her body, she knew all of her had been cheated. She knew she'd been robbed of a life and was grateful for another go around, even if she didn't know why. Regrettably for me, however, she was grateful to the Doctor. And he in turn reveled in this gratitude and spoiled her like a father would his only daughter. He'd buy her the most luxurious of dresses, he'd bring her the most scandalous of romance novels (his library originally had very few of these), he even taught her how to want for more than a simple farm girl could have ever hoped for, her wish was his command. That isn't to say she was ever rude or uncourteous to me. Far from it. But her pity wounded me in a way that would stay with me long after she had decided to.

Where I was stiff, she was elegant. Where I was hideous, she was gorgeous. Where I was experienced, she was naïve. It was in that naivety where the Doctor had instructed me to make some headway. I longed for this beautiful creature, my very own Aphrodite, with every inch of my grotesqueness. But I needed to be patient. Something the Doctor was all too keen to remind me of. I despised how he treated her. I worried she'd become smitten with the old man. I should have seen it wasn't like that. She was merely another experiment to the Doctor, and she knew that more than I ever realized.

But my anger comes out in the usual way, and I have the Doctor to thank for helping me channel my fits of rage. Not that she would ever know, but I avenged her death. I did so with a glee that perhaps I should not be proud of. I have no regrets for ending that coward's life in a similar fashion to how he had ended hers. When the Doctor realized my passion, my obsession, he became more than simply my savior.

Here again he acted as some bizarre deliverer for our kind, for our love. He began afternoon teas that the three of us would attend religiously. It was through these odd ritual gatherings that we were able to get to know one another. She couldn't even look at me at first. I flew into such rages when I knew she was out of range to witness me in such a state. She was for me! She wouldn't exist had I not insisted on it! She couldn't even bare to glance at my scarred being. It wasn't until much later when I began to learn who I truly was that I realized the horrid selfishness of my ways.

She eventually did begin to glance at me, and it was far worse. The pity in her deep and endless gray eyes pierced into my very soul in a way that pains me still as I write it down, as if doing so cements it into being true once more. I must steal myself from that pain. Knowing the truth of our present consoles me like a healing salve and I shall think of that pain no more.

It was only when I stopped thinking of my pain back then and began to consider hers that I made any headway with getting to know who she truly was. Only then was I able to begin to show her who I truly was, and from there I began my journey to no longer need the help of our Doctor. I started to heal. She began to turn her attentions towards me of her own volition and the Doctor became less integral to our ceremonial teas, excusing himself more and more often for this or that until his presence was no longer even expected. I cannot tell how long this process took. To me it felt as though it lasted a lifetime or two, while my rational mind knows it is likely closer to a matter of several months. Love has a way of manipulating our perceptions of the world, if not of time itself.

It was I who suggested we take our teas out to the fields for a picnic. The weather was beginning to change, and I knew she would not do well out of doors in the snow. But she, well she loved being outside the castle walls more than anything, being back in familiar fields, and I wanted to give that to her before it became unbearably cold and we would need to wait. Due to my imperfections the chill that was carried on the wind never bothered me. But in her perfection she still felt every small breeze and bluster, and I was aware of her every nearly imperceptible shiver.

I was always aware of every minute detail about her. There was no taming to her hair and so she blissfully let it go wild. Her flesh remained perfect if not a bit pale, much to the surprise of us all. I'd seen her when the Doctor had first managed to bring her back to this world. But not again until weeks later when she felt ready to be seen. She had a rather slim figure. She seemed so small, so impossibly fragile. I would only discover much later how strong and durable such fragile things could actually be.

I worried endlessly, futilely, about breaking her. I must confess I find myself smiling now, thinking of how long it would be before I needed to truly worry about such a thing. But I digress... The picnic was the thing that changed the course of the life of my heart forever after. She was no fool and when the table was not set she knew something was different but trusted me enough to follow along with my scheme.

I'd requested of the Doctor a warm shawl for her, and again he had dutifully acquiesced. It was here that I gifted it to her when she arrived at tea that day. The shawl was the same color as her eyes, a lovely touch from the Doctor that I certainly and unashamedly took credit for. She wrapped it around herself and took my arm with such a smile the cherubs themselves would weep knowing that all things come to an end. I found myself struggling with several emotions at the sight of her pure and innocent smile. And so I pushed on, quickly, not knowing how to deal with such affection for or from her.

I led her out one of the side entrances where I'd already stashed the picnic basket. With basket in hand and her on my arm, we began the short trek out to one of my favorite places. I'd been wanting to show it to her, and I knew now was the time. It was an open field on the top of a hill with but one lone tree growing tall. It was in the shade of this tree that we talked of our hopes and dreams and I confessed my wish that she be mine. I did not think either of us capable of blushing anymore, but I was joyfully proven wrong. Seeing the tinge of crimson paint her pale cheeks I could no longer resist.

I leaned forward and pressed my large, brash lips to her small, delicate ones. She inhaled sharply at the contact but did not pull away. I slowly parted her lips with mine and pushed my tongue forward into her, tasting her, our tongues meeting for the first time in what I can only describe as electric, and again, she did not pull away. After a dreadful moment with no movement on her part I began to pull away. I knew in my heart of hearts that she would be mine, one day. I only needed to be patient but a lifetime more. My heart sank as she let our lips part with no contribution on her behalf. Perhaps she was too kind to rebuff my affections, or too afraid of what I might do. I am ashamed to admit that in the moment of my heart sinking that I felt the old familiar rage begin to rise up once more.

It was a fleeting emotion on its own. I was no longer that man, not with her. And when she wistfully touched her lips where mine had just left her, I realized then what had happened. It wasn't me, nor my affections that she rebuffed. She had simply been overwhelmed by it all. I had underestimated the level of inexperience that haunted her still. She looked up at me with a coy grin and I couldn't help myself but to smile back.

If we were both still alive I wouldn't have hesitated to propose a union to her, to make an honest woman of her before I truly made a woman out of her. But things are not as they had been. Any marriage between us would be in spirit alone. Still, I wondered then if that was even something she would want. Most of the village girls, that was all they longed for, that was all they'd been taught to long for. Now she had a grand library that put the Abbey Library of Saint Gaul to shame at her very fingertips. (Our Doctor was a bit of a snob, truth be told.) Still, there are certain aspects of our lives that have been so fundamentally ground into us that they are difficult to escape, even in death.

I knew she yearned for more than being a village girl and becoming someone's bride and then eventually a mother. But I knew not what she truly did yearn for in those days. But I did know my own heart. I knew that all I yearned for now was her. I would give her what I could, and with the Doctor behind us, I doubted if there was anything she couldn't have.

We continued having picnics out in that field for weeks. Every day I would kiss her, taste her sweet lips, push ever so slightly for more, and feel her energy course through me. I was surprised when one day she finally kissed me back. I confess to becoming a bit overly excited as I pounced a bit more than I should have. Before I knew what had happened I was on top of her, pawing at her, kissing down her neck before I heard a quiet whimper. Looking at the tears that had begun to swell in her eyes I repelled myself off of her, apologizing endlessly. She began to apologize in turn, that she didn't know what had come over her. That it all seemed to be happening a bit quickly.

She wasn't wrong. And I also apologized for that. She covered her face with her hands and let out a small, desperate and embarrassed laugh. It was here that I stopped apologizing and outright asked of her, "forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive! This must be maddening for you, to go so slowly with me. I am more grateful than you know!"

"Did I...did I hurt you?"

"Oh, heavens no! I was simply overwhelmed at your reaction, that is all there is to it. And, well, my neck..." And with that she moved over to me, put my arm around her, and snuggled into me. I nuzzled my face into her large, beautiful hair, inhaling deeply. If she noticed my erection, and I cannot fathom a way that she did not, she said nothing. I did however make a note to myself to never again touch her neck.

Regretfully the chill of the fall air quickly became too much at this elevation and our teas resumed back inside the castle. It was difficult to be as intimate here. However, we began to see more of each other throughout our days. Before I would give her her space in the library. Now she insisted I stay. I'd spend hours pretending to read when truly I was watching her, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to her once she was ready, and then having to will my erection to go away, grateful with how engrossed she always was with her reading.

We began to read books together. I'd always let her choose. She'd read it for an hour or so and then she'd give it to me. They'd be anything and everything, romance, philosophy, history, anything that piqued her interest I was more than happy to read as well. I was desperate for anything that would give me more of her attentions. It was also always in the midst of these discussions that she would become overjoyed with our shared experience and would randomly jump up and kiss me. I had decided to not push for more affection than she gave freely for fear of chasing her away. Before long her usual place for our discussions was in my lap as we conversed on all manner of things.

It was towards the end of Oktober, and we had just finished Hamlet. She immediately proclaimed it as her favorite of Shakespeare's. Through our discussions she related to and wept for Ophelia and I held her as she did, consoling her. I know not what did it. I know not what magical or romantical thing I said to her or what gesture I made. I have many times wished greatly that I could recall it, but I cannot, and I dare not ask still. One day, perhaps I will ask her, but not likely in this lifetime. Something I did, some gesture I extended, was as though a key to her lock and now she was free to reveal herself to me completely.

She had learned, from our months of affections, that some of my stitches have a different feel, a different reaction, than others. One such place where I have this heightened sensitivity is near my collarbone. It was here that she kissed me, and her lips lingered. I know she felt my body quiver and tense at such a touch. And then she did it again. And then again. I was unaware of how firmly I was grasping her until she squirmed against my hold to sit up on my lap, straddling me. Her lips were traveling up my neck as she threw her arms around me and repositioned herself. Extending herself so that she could kiss me with the force of Hamlet's most famous soliloquy. To be or not to be, indeed was the question, and here she was, giving me the clearest of answers. We were indeed to be, nobly or not.

I took it slowly. Returning her kiss as I stroked her body gently with my large and calloused hands. She knew not where to go from here, and I was in no hurry knowing now that she was indeed mine. She wore nothing but her long white nightgown, as she often did during our late evenings in the library. It was a linen gown of pure white that swayed with her as she moved and clung to her curves in a way I found more than pleasing. The neckline was gloriously low cut, a wonderful juxtaposition to the high neck dresses she wore during the day. This virginal nightgown was such a symbol of purity that it always brought to my mind a lustful desire to sully that innocence. Now was no different, dear reader. And it is here that I must warn you to turn away from these pages if such a thing is below you.

In her innocence she knew not what came next. Her body however knew what it wanted. In her movements to straddle me her nightgown had shifted up and now she slid her bare womanhood over my erection as it strained to be released from my slacks. She moaned softly into our kiss as she pleasured herself against me. I couldn't resist supporting her in moving her hips, the idea of her juices marking the fabric between us arousing me ever more, if such a thing was possible.

I moved my hands from her hips and grabbed for the hem of her nightgown. Having found it I ran my gruff hands over her bare ass, grabbing and pressing her, moving her like a ragdoll against my hardness as I rocked my hips, moving myself against her. I felt her go weak and decided to not push her quite yet. There was so much more I needed to do to her.

My rough hands continued up to her diminutive waist. She was such a petite thing, and I was such a large thing. Holding her waist on either side of her my hands nearly touched and I realized that here was the time to worry about harming my beloved, my companion. I knew I needed to be careful, and I also knew I would never do anything that hurt my bride. It was in that moment that I realized that that was how I saw her now, as my bride. The way she looked at me now, full of knowing, commitment, and adoration, I knew the feeling was not mine alone.

I moved from her waist up to her breasts. Ample for her size, but still easily covered with my hands. Her whole body shuddered at my touch as I rubbed my thumbs over her taut nipples. She whimpered here and I froze. But she did not. She kept moving herself up and down the roughness that kept our bodies from joining as one. It only took me a moment to realize that now she was begging, pleading for more with her body and her heavily lidded eyes. There was a world of difference between the whimper before and this one now, and what a difference it was.