Everybody Wants Me
One Shot
‘Henry Clerval strolled down the Irish coastline at a leisurely pace, enjoying the feeling of the cool yet inviting sand squelching between his toes. He carried his shoes in one hand, the socks tucked inside with the utmost precision so that they were not in any danger of falling out into the salty sea below him. The tide was just coming in; occasionally lapping against his feet but then quickly retreating into the murky abyss that the sea had become under the dark night sky.
He had parted from his good friend Victor back in London; thoughts of him had plagued his mind each and every day. It wasn’t just the lack of his company that had caused this sudden bout of anxiety; it was also the terrific concern for Victor’s welfare. On numerous occasions he had isolated himself from those who loved him for the sake of his work, Henry had seen it first hand, had cared for him at his bedside, had nursed him back to health, or as close to health as Victor Frankenstein could get.
A swash of cold seawater against his ankle abruptly dislodged him from his musings, and brought his attention back to his surroundings. The sky somehow seemed darker, the water more violent, the waves crashed against the shore with such force that they left indentations in the now saturated coastline. Although the strong Irish winds were whipping at his cheeks and roaring in his ears, Henry could hear deep, heavy breaths over the top of all the commotion. It was only a few moments later that he realised he could also feel them. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up.
Before he could process any more thoughts he felt cold, iron fingers seize his neck and immediately squeeze until his airways were completely constricted. His body began to thrash wildly against the unknown entity controlling it, his breath coming in gasps and wheezes. His coherent mind shut down and animal instincts took over as he bit and scratched and kicked at whatever body part he could reach. His limbs continued to flail as if they were independent of his body and only ceased when his body was swung around by his neck, so that he was now facing his mysterious assassin.
His eyes fell upon a broad chest littered with scars that seemed to mix and mingle into one as his vision blurred, scratches of red against a muddy grey canvas. The fingers clamped around his throat gripped tighter, if that were physically possible, and Henry used all the strength he had left to shift his gaze upwards for a fleeting glance of his murderers face.
His eyes fell upon a rough outline of a face that seemed to have been carved from stone, extremities jutting out at odd angles. His hands began to grapple with the monsters once more, desperate to be free and able to see all of its striking features. His throat was squeezed again, causing his last breath to escape in a whisper and he was lifted off the ground so that his eyes were level with a pair of dull yellow ones. In those eyes Henry saw passion, anger, betrayal, and so many other emotions that he could not comprehend swimming in shallow pools of yellow.
His mouth gaped open, partly to strive for air – partly in horror. His body was now limp in the monsters hands; his vision was fading, those yellow eyes becoming dimmer and dimmer. Just as he was slowly slipping away from reality, he heard a low, growling voice at his ear.
“Frankenstein.”’
The clanging of keys against the iron bars of his cell disrupted Perry Smith from his writing and caused his pen to slip across the page. He inwardly cursed the guard who, no doubt, just wanted to disturb him and pushed his pen and paper to the side. He turned to face the man on the other side of the cell whilst carefully placing the worn copy of ‘Frankenstein’ atop his stationery and was fixed with a cold stare accompanied by a satisfied smirk.
“C’mon Smith. It’s time to go.”
Dejectedly, Perry hauled himself off the unstable cot, and towards the awaiting guard. He immediately stopped as soon as he exited his cell almost out of instinct, and felt the familiar coolness of handcuffs grasp his wrists. He was dragged down the hallway and took a deep breath to prepare himself for the trial ahead. Then, with shuffling steps, he approached the courtroom filled with people who would undoubtedly prolong his suffering.
He had parted from his good friend Victor back in London; thoughts of him had plagued his mind each and every day. It wasn’t just the lack of his company that had caused this sudden bout of anxiety; it was also the terrific concern for Victor’s welfare. On numerous occasions he had isolated himself from those who loved him for the sake of his work, Henry had seen it first hand, had cared for him at his bedside, had nursed him back to health, or as close to health as Victor Frankenstein could get.
A swash of cold seawater against his ankle abruptly dislodged him from his musings, and brought his attention back to his surroundings. The sky somehow seemed darker, the water more violent, the waves crashed against the shore with such force that they left indentations in the now saturated coastline. Although the strong Irish winds were whipping at his cheeks and roaring in his ears, Henry could hear deep, heavy breaths over the top of all the commotion. It was only a few moments later that he realised he could also feel them. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up.
Before he could process any more thoughts he felt cold, iron fingers seize his neck and immediately squeeze until his airways were completely constricted. His body began to thrash wildly against the unknown entity controlling it, his breath coming in gasps and wheezes. His coherent mind shut down and animal instincts took over as he bit and scratched and kicked at whatever body part he could reach. His limbs continued to flail as if they were independent of his body and only ceased when his body was swung around by his neck, so that he was now facing his mysterious assassin.
His eyes fell upon a broad chest littered with scars that seemed to mix and mingle into one as his vision blurred, scratches of red against a muddy grey canvas. The fingers clamped around his throat gripped tighter, if that were physically possible, and Henry used all the strength he had left to shift his gaze upwards for a fleeting glance of his murderers face.
His eyes fell upon a rough outline of a face that seemed to have been carved from stone, extremities jutting out at odd angles. His hands began to grapple with the monsters once more, desperate to be free and able to see all of its striking features. His throat was squeezed again, causing his last breath to escape in a whisper and he was lifted off the ground so that his eyes were level with a pair of dull yellow ones. In those eyes Henry saw passion, anger, betrayal, and so many other emotions that he could not comprehend swimming in shallow pools of yellow.
His mouth gaped open, partly to strive for air – partly in horror. His body was now limp in the monsters hands; his vision was fading, those yellow eyes becoming dimmer and dimmer. Just as he was slowly slipping away from reality, he heard a low, growling voice at his ear.
“Frankenstein.”’
The clanging of keys against the iron bars of his cell disrupted Perry Smith from his writing and caused his pen to slip across the page. He inwardly cursed the guard who, no doubt, just wanted to disturb him and pushed his pen and paper to the side. He turned to face the man on the other side of the cell whilst carefully placing the worn copy of ‘Frankenstein’ atop his stationery and was fixed with a cold stare accompanied by a satisfied smirk.
“C’mon Smith. It’s time to go.”
Dejectedly, Perry hauled himself off the unstable cot, and towards the awaiting guard. He immediately stopped as soon as he exited his cell almost out of instinct, and felt the familiar coolness of handcuffs grasp his wrists. He was dragged down the hallway and took a deep breath to prepare himself for the trial ahead. Then, with shuffling steps, he approached the courtroom filled with people who would undoubtedly prolong his suffering.