The Modern Prometheus

by Nicole Mello

  THE

  MODERN PROMETHEUS

  THE

  MODERN PROMETHEUS

  BY NICOLE MELLO

  For Henry, without whom there would be no life at all.

  “These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike.”

  — Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley —

  Prologue

  My name is Dr. Roberta Margaret Walton. I have spent my entire life captivated by mysteries and true crime, as well as investing myself in helping others. Both of these interests have led me to where I am now, which is trying to both understand and assist those who are deemed “criminally insane.” My entire life, I have been working towards this, my current career. When I was a child, I used to play cops and robbers with my younger sister, and I remember trying to figure out why I would be robbing the fake jewelry store made of my sister’s gummy candies. My backstories always frustrated her, but I loved them.

  There was only so much cops and robbers I could play as a child, though, before I had to grow up and realize that I had to move on. I had to become practical, responsible. Initially, I considered becoming a policewoman, or maybe a detective, but I dismissed both ideas. Neither had precisely what I was looking for; finding someone who had committed a crime was not what I wanted to do. What I did want to do was figure out why that person had committed the crime. I wanted to help them understand what they had done. I wanted to understand what they had done, and why they had done it.

  I got my bachelor’s degree in psychology from Columbia University. I then attended the Columbia University Medical Center, Department of Psychology; it was there that I completed my psychiatric residency and got my medical degree. I went on to become licensed to practice in the state of New York. From the many studies I have engaged in throughout the course of my career, I discovered what it was that I truly wanted to do: to work with criminals who operated under the insanity defense.

  After I earned my certification from the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology, I was able to start working at the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. This is where I am currently employed. I love my work here; being able to work with those who have been pushed aside by society is something I have dreamed of since those gummy-robbing days. I wake up every day wanting to do this job. I am forever grateful that I fought so hard for this job because, if I had not, I would never have met Victor.

  Victor Perseus Frankenstein was assigned to me on March 15, 2015. He had been arrested in Dawson City, Yukon, Canada on November 1, 2014 for the murders of Henry Florence Clerval and Elizabeth Mary Lavenza. According to the report made by the arresting officer, Frankenstein was, at the time of his arrest, delirious and hysterical, and seemed to be showing signs of hypothermia, severe malnutrition, and ataxia, which was later identified as a manifestation of his vitamin B1 deficiency. He was also, to quote his arrest report, “raving like a madman” at the time of his arrest, and would not stop trying to explain his situation to everyone he laid eyes on. After several days of being held in Canada, he was extradited and returned to New York, where he was sent to Mount Sinai Hospital to have his physical conditions treated.

  Once Frankenstein was deemed physically able to leave the hospital, he was transferred to Manhattan Psychiatric Center, at which point he was placed under my care. Upon reading Frankenstein’s file, I was intrigued; he had no motive for the murders which he had been accused of, but there seemed to be no other possible culprit. His only surviving family member, a sister named Gloria, seemed to have vanished, and left no trace behind. Frankenstein was, for all intents and purposes, alone in this world, and it seemed obvious to most that it was his own fault that he was.

  Regardless, as I said, I was intrigued. He had no motive to kill either Clerval or Lavenza; in fact, both of them were people whom he claimed to love dearly. Lavenza was his adopted sister, and Clerval a neighbor and close friend. He knew them both from childhood, and maintained these relationships into his adult life, until their deaths. Also of interest was the fact that Frankenstein was quoted in his file as repeatedly telling police officers and hospital staff: “He’s still out there.” I wanted to know who this mysterious “he” was. Could he be the real killer, if Frankenstein wasn’t? Was he another victim? I had so many questions, and I was far from getting any answers.

  The first time I met with Frankenstein, he was hysterical. I attempted to calm him down enough to speak with him, but, to him, it was as though I was not even there in the room. Though he would occasionally make eye contact, he was clearly still beyond reaching at that time. However, I would not be swayed; I remained intrigued, and returned to work with him every day that week, then the next week, and then the week after that. It took a great deal of time, which was to be expected after a nervous breakdown of that magnitude, but he, eventually, began to recognize me and calm down somewhat.

  It was clear to me almost immediately that not only was Frankenstein experiencing some form of post-traumatic stress disorder, but also that he was undergoing flashbacks, hallucinations, acute paranoia, extreme mood swings, acute anxiety, and severe panic attacks. Frankenstein often looked to the side, as though there was a person there when there was not, and he would speak to them as though I was not present. He would, on occasion, become violent, and it seemed that he was not himself. I was not afraid of him, though I probably should have been. To me, his extreme reaction to his situation and ensuing nervous breakdown only served as evidence that he might be innocent of his alleged crimes. Over time, I became more determined to uncover his full, true story.

  One day, which my professional journal remembers as July 9, 2015, I was in the middle of insisting to Frankenstein that I believed him, as I often was. On this date, Frankenstein stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked directly at me, almost as though he was seeing me for the first time. He asked me what, exactly, it was that I believed. I replied that I believed he was innocent, and that he was “not crazy,” as he would often assert to or at me. He stared at me for a long moment in complete silence; this was the quietest he had been since I had met him. Finally, he said to me that he wanted to tell someone who believed him what had happened to him. He said he could tell the full truth if he was allowed. Again, I assured him that I did, in fact, believe him. He requested that I return to him the next day with a recording device and an open mind. It was the most lucid he had ever been. I agreed.

  I returned on July 10, 2015 with several recording devices, my laptop computer, a notepad, and a pen. Whatever it was that Frankenstein so urgently wanted to tell me, I was prepared to listen to and record every word. I was granted permission by the administration to bring him from his assigned in-patient room to my office, though his guards insisted that he remain in his handcuffs. Not believing him to be dangerous, and seeing how uncomfortable he was, I took the liberty of removing his handcuffs myself once we were secured in my office, a fact which I hope the higher-ups at Manhattan Psychiatric Center will be able to overlook, if they ever read this book. I knew I would be more likely to receive information, and a better quantity and quality of information, if he was comfortable and felt safe. I made him assure me, repeatedly, that he would not harm me in any way, nor would he attempt to escape. He seemed offended that I would even insist on such a thing, but became grateful when I removed his cuffs.

  Following this prologue is the exact transcription of Victor’s story from that day in July. I have combed through each and every word to ensure that it is verbatim. I want no part of this story to be left out or ignored. Like Victor said to me, you must go into his
story with an open mind. At several points during his telling of his story, he attempted to edit my written notes, both in my notebook and on my computer. However, the files on my recording devices remained unaltered, and so the true story, in essence, lives on in this transcript.

  Before we began, Victor examined each of my devices and deemed each of them satisfactory. I showed him where he and I were meant to sit, which was a setup that I often used — two seats, close but not too close, with a table beside us. On this table I had my instruments to record the conversation, a coffee for myself, and a glass of water for him. Once he had chosen his chair and answered my inquiry, saying yes, he was comfortable, I turned on the first recording device and motioned for him to speak. Victor Perseus Frankenstein, a man who was, on paper, a villain and a murderer, began to speak. The following is exactly what he said.

  Chapter One

  My name is Victor Perseus Frankenstein. I was born in January of 1987. My birth certificate does not have an exact date, for unknown reasons, but my mother arbitrarily chose January 1st as the day we celebrated my “birthday.” She had her reasons for it — a new year, she said, meant new life. She loved symbolism. She was a very interesting woman, my mother. Of course, she was not my real — I’m sorry, saying she wasn’t “real” would be inaccurate and unfair to her. What I mean is that she was not my biological mother. Of course she was my real mother. She raised me from the age of four. I, unfortunately, do not remember too much of my life prior to her adopting me, and what I do remember is mostly what I was told.

  Yes, I don’t remember much of my early childhood, but I do remember my birth mother. I did not know her first name until I was older, at which point my father told me her name was Linh. Trần Thị Linh. My mother often told me she was beautiful and very kind, but I never believed her. How could a kind woman leave a child, her child? How could I understand when I was that abandoned child? I never understood. I never will understand completely, I’m sure. Sorry, I’m sorry, I keep getting sidetracked. My birth mother. Yes, Linh. I do not think of Linh as my mother, like I said before. My real mother’s name was Caroline. But Linh, as I was sometimes told, looked a great deal like me, and my mother once told me that I shared her spirit and her drive. I wish that I did not.

  I do not know who my biological father is. The birth certificate my mother obtained had no father listed, and Linh never said anything to her that would help my mother find him. I’m fine with not knowing who my he is. It’s better for him, especially now, that he stays as far away from me as he possibly can. I would sometimes think about him, though. I wondered what he was like. I had a photo of my birth mother. Only one, but it was enough to at least know what she looked like. She had black eyes, dark hair, slight features and a slim face. My father, the biological father of my imagination, had brown eyes, like mine. In my mind, he was tall, like myself and my mother, and he was cruel, so Linh had to leave him behind. I never really did spend much time thinking about him.

  According to my birth certificate, I was born in Biên Hòa, Vietnam. I speak fluent Vietnamese, taught to me by Linh when I was young. My mother said that Linh spoke with an accent, and, when asked, informed my mother that she spoke not only Vietnamese, but also French, German, and Italian, among others, and was planning for me to learn the same. I don’t know if that was at all true. As it turned out, at the time, she only taught me her first language of Vietnamese. It was lucky that my mother — Caroline, not Linh — knew Vietnamese, because I do not know what would have become of me if she could not communicate with myself and Linh.

  As I said, I was born in Biên Hòa, and I spent the first two years of my life there. I do not remember much of it. If anything, I remember the trees, which seemed plentiful to me when I was a child in the city. I loved the trees. The city was beautiful in my baby’s brain, and I returned to it once with my family on a vacation when I was eleven. It was different when I was there with Linh. We were essentially homeless then; sometimes, we would spend time with a friend of hers, but we typically lived on the streets. When she finally saved enough money to do so, we moved to New York. She considered America to be the land of opportunity. Vietnam was no place for us to be homeless, and Linh thought America would be better for the both of us.

  We were just as homeless in Manhattan as we were in Biên Hòa. In America, we knew nobody, so there was no reprieve from the streets. I remember this time in my life better than I remember my time in Biên Hòa, but I still don’t remember it very well. I remember my mother leaving for periods of time, telling me to stay in an alley or behind a dumpster or any place she thought I might be able to stay for hours or days. She would sometimes come back with something for me to eat. In the end, I had accepted that she had to leave me now and then, because I knew I might get to eat at the end of her absence. After a while, she started to leave me in shelters instead of alleyways, which I was grateful for. After a while, she would only leave me at one particular shelter. This was Mont Blanc Homeless Shelter, which was also, fortunately, a soup kitchen. If anything ever comes of this story, make sure you get that name right — Mont Blanc Homeless Shelter. I want to thank them. It was indirectly, but that shelter is the reason I found the woman who would become my mother.

  As I said earlier, Caroline, Linh, and I all spoke Vietnamese. When Linh first met Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein, Caroline was working at the soup kitchen. I remember it so vividly; it was always so crowded, but Caroline was like a beacon. She looked nothing like Linh; Caroline had dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. She was much taller than Linh; brighter, stronger, and kinder than she ever was. Caroline was like no one I had ever met, nobody I had ever seen. What a gift she was to me.

  At Mont Blanc, other children — and adults, and the elderly, everyone who was there — would jostle me, push me around. The whole place smelled like beer and soup and sweat and fear. I could barely see anything, being so small, but Caroline pulled me aside to feed myself and Linh. She gave me soup with more meat than my portion was supposed to have, and she gave me an extra piece of bread. Linh thanked her in her native tongue, Vietnamese, because for all her supposed languages she was never any good with English, and Caroline replied in kind. According to Caroline, Linh had been so excited to find someone willing to speak her natural language with her that she returned almost every day. She wanted someone to talk to; she had always been a social creature. I liked going because I got food. Every time Linh would pull one of her vanishing acts, I would make my way back to Mont Blanc. Linh always came back and found me there. While she was gone, Caroline made sure I had a place to sleep and food to eat.

  Linh had an issue with staying there at the shelter, in the place where I would sleep when she was gone. I’m pretty sure Caroline wasn’t supposed to offer to let anyone stay there, but she had started to get attached to me, so she made the offer anyways. Linh refused. I think it was pride, but I’ll never know. Every time Linh came back, she took me from the shelter, thanked Caroline (politely, and in Vietnamese), and we left. We went back to the streets. Winters were the worst; the shelters were crowded, so Caroline had to stop offering us a spot to sleep if we didn’t make it in the first-come, first-serve lines. She never talked to us as much in the winters, just because she was so busy. She had her own family, too. Her son often accompanied her, a young child named Ernest. This child spoke very basic Vietnamese, taught to them by Caroline. I talked to them sometimes, but they were six years older than me, and they had better things to do than talk to a little homeless boy whose language they could barely speak. At the time, I didn’t like it, but I understood.

  One day, Linh left me. She left all the time, and Caroline would later ask me if Linh was acting differently before she left this particular time, but she hadn’t been. It was just like every other time. The longest she had been gone, before this time, was two-and-a-half weeks. By the time I went to Caroline, Linh had been gone for about nine days. By the time Caroline realized Linh wasn’t coming back, she had been gone for about a mont
h. I was four years old. I had spent a month on a stained, ripped mattress in the corner of the shelter, eating what was left for me, trying not to get stepped on or screamed at or kicked out. At age four, it was hard for me to understand the concept of never seeing Linh again; she was the one person I had grown to rely on. Children that young don’t understand losing parents.

  I don’t believe in God, but, if I did, I would believe that Caroline was an angel. She saved me. If I believed in God, I would thank whoever They were every day for her. If I believed in God, I would pray for her soul. I don’t believe in God, though. I sometimes wish that I did. It would make so much of my life so much easier. I would thank God for Caroline Frankenstein.

  Caroline Beaufort had had an unfortunate experience growing up. Her mother, Clara, died at a young age, and her father, Perseus, was destroyed by the loss. Caroline, being an only child, was the only one left to care for her father. Alphonse — the man who would become my father — was her neighbor. He was between the ages of Caroline and her father, and he was friends with both of them, but, through this, he became closer to Caroline. As he grew closer to her, he would come over to their house every day to help Caroline care for her sick father. My father was a good, kind man, a loving man; he did everything he could for Caroline, with no expectation of anything in return. Though he had no expectations, he did receive something in return: my mother’s love. She was bound to her father, however, and refused to leave him to marry Alphonse. Alphonse understood, of course. He moved in with her.

  My grandfather lived a shorter life than he should have. I didn’t understand when I was younger what Caroline meant when she told me he died of a broken heart. That didn’t make any sense to me, as a child. I was a very literal boy; even from a young age, I was very scientifically inclined.