His demeanor was completely normal. The normal brown-black tinged eyes, a faded leather jacket, and a slight smile was a perfect picture of a stranger you would bump into at the coffee shop off Woodbury St. As soon as you walked in the calming wafts of fresh coffee beans would enthrall the olfactory system, sending it on a 24/7 buzz. The locals have always wondered how the shop has always kept its temperature the same – spring, summer, fall, and winter – at 75 degrees. There had to be something magical about the place. A chorus of lively conversations coupled with a freshly baked cinnamon roll could only amount to heaven on earth (although the frequenting priest would beg to differ). On holidays, the whole community would gather there; from ancient grandmas who had lost their teeth to married couples who weren’t really married to the seemingly endless stream of sugar-crazed kids, this was the soul and heart of the town.
Every house has an unmistakable scent. Some would always wear the obnoxious perfumes you only get when you want to piss someone off. Others smelled like fluffy clouds of smiles and laughter – the tingly feeling that tip-toes up your spine when you know you’re in love. But a few smelled like fat, refreshing drops of rain; the musky yet clear air that cautiously emerges after a heavy storm. Oops, I think we’ve lost our stranger. Now, where is he…
Ah, there she blows. Through the wide, enveloping arms of a building, you could see him being scanned for his smell. The officer seems puzzled that the scanner didn’t pick up anything but a passerby assured the officer this was normal; he was simply different. Up and up and up the stairs he went, eyebrows furrowed, smile plastered. Eventually he came to his destination as the ancient doorway hissed and sputtered. A gust of wind slammed into him as he held his tussled hair and took in the view.
The birthing-place hadn’t changed – if you could call it a birthing-place. It was more of a narrow, rat-infested alley where the lowest scum of earth scrounged about. He had felt pain first there. In a flash, his life had mutated from an uproarious joy to one of abandonment. Clenching his fists, he averted his eyes to the bar on 56th street. He could faintly hear the twinkles from the bartenders mingling with the slow trickle of beer. It was a raw stream of music encapsulating the eerie emptiness within him. An empty cup waiting to be filled as drops of life slowly tip-tap in.
Swaying to one side, he lifted his leg, hidden behind the many tears of his jeans, over the edge. He felt free. It was as if a part of him was in freefall – with no worries, no sadness. A small voice whispered into his conscious let go…
As he lazily traced his hand across his chest, he grimaced when the sensation of a multitude of scars overpowered him. One from the girl who stole his heart. The man who stole his dignity. The boy who stole his humanity. The list went on and on. Am I a beast or man?
One hop was all it took. Yet, something prevented him from taking that final step forward. He was lost – then he wasn’t.
Analysis
Throughout the book, I kept finding myself being drawn to this seemingly dichotomous but similar relationship between Frankenstein and the monster. I wanted to explore this relationship in the realm of what happens after the book ends. First, I sought to highlight how absurd it was to dehumanize a creature based on its looks. Using the requirement of a certain “smell,” I drew a picture of a society that accepted people based on their scents. The character (representing the monster) had no smell and therefore could be subject to dehumanization and expressed the “blank slate” theme. I really wanted to dive into the inner conscious of the monster, so I discovered that the first encounter with his “parent” was life-defining. Although the story opens to a warm note, a cloud of suicidal depression hangs around until the very end when the character decides not to take his own life. The ending is meant to be ambiguous regarding the definitions of “lost” and what path the character chooses to take. However, I think the monster in the book, though adamant about burning himself, will refrain from taking his life and follow the steps of his maker. There is something innate in humans (this implies that the monster was human) that fights to stay alive, even in the face of death. No matter the extent of the character’s scars, there is always time to turn back.