Heart of Frankenstein

by Lexi Post

  Michael got them to a hotel and immediately pulled out his phone. He was still on it as he let her into her room. After dropping her room key on the nightstand, he walked out.

  She needed to call work herself, but she just didn’t care. Maybe after a nap, she’d feel better, back to her old self. She managed to take off the ski hat she’d bought at Grubber’s, but the zipper on her coat was another matter.

  She looked around the room for something she could use. What she wouldn’t give for Sas’ page-turner stick. Sas would have made sure she was comfortable before leaving her. It was just the way he was wired.

  But what was he made of? His guts pierced, his shoulder bitten but no blood anywhere and his skin sealed up. What was that? She shivered. Had she been sleeping with an alien? Or had she completely lost her mind?

  Frustrated, she took the edge of her sleeve in her mouth and pulled, maneuvering her arm out. Once she had both arms free, she lay on the bed and scooted out of the coat. Pushing the coat off the bed, she lay on the bedspread and tried to go to sleep.

  A half-hour later there was a knock at her door. “Come in.”

  A key slid in the lock and the door opened. Michael strode in. “You’re being admitted to the hospital tomorrow morning. I’ve made all the arrangements.”

  He was so proud of himself, so she didn’t argue. “That was fast.”

  He sat on the corner of the bed. “Your condition is serious. They want to see you right away.” Michael looked away, a sure sign he was hiding something.

  She licked her lips. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He stood again, walking to the window and opening the drapes. “You may have to stay there for a while.”

  “I knew that.”

  He turned and smiled. “Good, I wasn’t sure you realized that. Now, what would you like for dinner? I bet you’re just dying for something other than game meat.”

  The way Sas had cooked, she’d loved all the wild meat she had. Why did he eat if he didn’t have to? Or did he?

  “Angie?”

  “What? Oh, dinner. I’d love some salmon.”

  Michael looked at her oddly than shrugged. “Okay. I thought you’d be craving a pizza or something, but we can do salmon. I’ll call room service.”

  As her brother made the call, her thoughts swirled with questions. Would the doctors be able to save her hands like Sas had promised or would she lose them? Would she ever travel again after her fiasco or would she play it safe? Would she ever see Sas again?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two weeks later.

  Angela turned off the television in the private hospital room. Everything on there seemed so trivial. She would be leaving the hospital soon. Her brother would be relieved to get back to his job, but she didn’t care about hers.

  Her boss had been understanding, but anxious for her to work from home. She’d had to explain exactly how handicapped she was.

  At least Sas had been right. The doctors had been impressed with the care she’d had in the bush and were able to save most of her hands. She would have all functionality back eventually after a lot of physical therapy. They would just look hideous unless she decided on plastic surgery, which could improve them, but not make them look completely normal again.

  She didn’t even care. She was alive and that was what mattered. If Sas hadn’t found her, she wouldn’t be worrying about her hands at all because she’d be dead.

  And that’s what bothered her. She’d never given him a chance to explain. She’d been so shocked, she just wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible. When she asked Michael if he could get a message to Sas, he’d declined.

  That’s when she realized there was another reason for her being in the hospital so long. Her brother had arranged for her to be watched in the psych ward. Luckily, she’d learned from her favorite nurse, Nancy, that she could check herself out since she’d been a voluntary check-in, but it had strained her relationship with her brother. His over-protectiveness went too far sometimes.

  There was a knock at her door and then an older gentleman peeked his head in. “Excuse me, Miss. I have the library cart with me. Would you like to read a book?”

  She hadn’t read anything since leaving Sas and the idea appealed to her. “I think I might. Do you have any good ones?”

  The white-haired stocky gentleman wheeled the cart in. “That depends on what you like. I have a lot of recent releases and a few classics. What’s your preference?”

  She’d never been in to old books, but Sas had given her a new appreciation for them. “Definitely a classic. I haven’t read many of those. What would you recommend?”

  The man bent to the lower shelf and pulled out three books. “I have The Three Musketeers, Frankenstein, and the Complete Comedies of Shakespeare.”

  “Ick, I’m definitely not a Shakespeare kind of girl.” She gave him a small smile.

  He nodded and put the rather large book back.

  The Three Musketeers she and Sas had already read and from the looks of the book, so had many other people. “I’ll try Frankenstein. It’s not scary, is it?”

  The older man chuckled. “I don’t know. I’ve never read it. Just seen the movies.”

  She nodded as he lay the book on her lap. Her physical therapist wanted her to use her hands now that the surgery was over, so this would be a good exercise. Hopefully, the story would be exciting enough that she would want to use her hands to turn the pages.

  “Enjoy your book.” The man wheeled the cart to her door.

  “Thank you.”

  After he was gone, she started reading. From what she’d seen in the movies, the monster came to life with electricity, had electrodes in his neck and walked around with his hands out in front of him.

  It confused her to read the letter at the start of the story written by a man who was attempting to cross the Arctic Ocean, but when Victor Frankenstein appeared on an ice float, her interest was piqued.

  Hours later, she placed a paper napkin in the book to hold her place and set it on her tray. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She wanted to read more, but it was two in the morning and her eyes were tired.

  She lowered the back of the bed. The story was far different from what she’d expected. Dr. Frankenstein described his creature as “beautiful” and bigger and better than man. Her heart went out to it when it awoke and Victor ran away. She shuddered when it killed Victor’s brother and let the servant girl hang for the crime.

  But when the monster told his own story to Victor, she sympathized with him all the more, especially when he begged for a mate. She loved the idea that he would have someone to spend his life with that was just like him.

  When Victor literally tore apart the female mate in front of his creature before bringing her to life, she broke down in tears, angry with the scientist and hurting for his invention. She wanted to find out what happened, but she’d have to wait until the morning.

  Closing her eyes, she drifted off.

  ~~*~~

  He crouched in the shallows of Redding Lake, his need for sustenance his only thought. Watching the chub swim near him, he grasped one in his hand and threw it to shore.

  More darted by and he watched, waiting for the right time to strike. When another swam too close, he struck, grabbing it up and throwing it to the bank to join the others.

  “Hey Sas!”

  He whipped his head around at the interruption and growled, baring his teeth.

  “Whoa there, it’s just me, Timber. I’m not another grizzly you need to tangle with.”

  He ignored the man and went back to watching fish. He was hungry. He must eat.

  “Listen, you’ve got a couple dozen of these beauties lying all over here. What do you say we gather them up, take them to my place and fry them for dinner?”

  Yes, dinner. He stood and walked back to shore.

  “Uh, Sas, where’s your coat, shirt and, um, shoes? Aren’t you cold?”

  He started
to gather up the fish, but he hadn’t brought a bag.

  “Here, use my bucket.” Timber held it up. “I was going to do some fishing, but you did enough for both of us.”

  He took the bucket and threw the fish in. When he had them all, he looked at Timber. “Dinner.”

  “Right. This way.”

  He followed Timber to his cabin. It was small and smelled like wood smoke, not mint. He liked that. He brought the pail to Timber’s counter and set it there.

  Timber moved past him and grabbed a towel from a hook. “Here. Take off your pants and dry off. I’ll hang your pants here to dry.

  While Timber prepared some of the fish, he did as requested, not willing to think beyond immediate needs. Eating, sleeping, breathing, and staying cool were his main focus now. He didn’t want interaction with anyone. He didn’t want to think.

  Timber threw some of the fish in the pan and the scent filled the cabin.

  He walked to the table and sat, the towel around his waist.

  “Here. You need this.” Timber set down a steaming mug.

  He lifted the cup and drank the warm tea. It was good.

  Within minutes, Timber placed the food before him and he started to eat. The strong meat of the chub tasted of the wild. Timber piled more fish on his plate, so he continued to eat until he was full.

  Timber was just sitting down to dig in, but he was done. Standing, he looked around the familiar space and found the couch. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “You do that, big guy.”

  Lying down, he closed his eyes. This was a safe place away from her. It was good. He welcomed sleep, the first he’d had in days.

  ~~*~~

  Angela couldn’t stop reading Frankenstein, her heart in her throat as the creature killed Frankenstein’s best friend and wife. Despite the sun streaming in her hospital window, she shivered at the heinous acts.

  Then she wanted to yell at Victor as he chased the creature through country after country until he finally died on the ship trying to find a path across the Arctic Ocean. Her eyes watered as the creature came onto the ship and felt the loss of his creator, admitting to the captain he’d gone down a bad path.

  His final words had her crying again. “I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me hither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched.”

  At the end of the story, the creature jumped off the ship and disappeared into the darkness of the arctic.

  She let the book lie open on her lap. She’d hoped to be entertained, but instead she was sad, as if she had been a part of the story. She was just too emotional since leaving Sas, her own feelings tangling up in the tale.

  Sas was no Victor Frankenstein. He was more like the creature than…she felt the blood drain from her face.

  No.

  Shelley’s story was fictional. Sas was a real man, or rather something other than man.

  Her mind conjured up the image of Sas standing naked at the end of the bed. He never did tell her where his scars came from, choosing to decline to answer. He looked like he’d been sewn together. He also said he’d been abandoned from his first breath, not from the day he was “born” as most people would state it.

  She shook her head. It couldn’t be.

  She ran over everything she could remember about him, all of it fitting with the story from the country he came from to the others he’d lived in. They were all there in the story.

  It just wasn’t possible. Life wasn’t a story, it was reality. The backwoods stories of Timber and Sturge came to mind.

  Those were nothing more than dramatic interpretations of real life, not complete fiction. Not the story of an immortal, of which there was no such thing. Sas would have to be, what? Two hundred years old? Three?

  She stiffened. Images of the bear attack and the skin healing before her eyes pushed their way forward. Quickly, she flipped back to the title page, causing the napkin she’d stuffed into the book to fall out. She picked it up, suddenly remembering the scrap of yellowed paper that fell from Sas’ Three Musketeers book. It had the initials VF.

  Victor Frankenstein.

  “Oh, my God.” She stared unseeing at the title page. Because he was born of the dead, was he immortal? Had the creature tried to kill himself only to discover he couldn’t die? She focused on the date beneath Mary Shelley’s name. 1818. Quickly, she flipped the pages to the first entry, the letter from the sea captain to his sister. It was dated 17__.

  Had Mary Shelley actually written the “true” account as the sea captain told it to her, thinking it was no more than an exaggerated story like the rest found in the cold wilderness? But what if it was true?

  The ramifications of that thought stunned her. Sympathy flooded her and her heart ached as she meshed the creature from the story with Sas. Despite all he’d done, or maybe because of it, he’d saved her life, taken care of her…loved her.

  She licked her lips. She had to see him. She had to find out the truth. No more declining to answer. And what if what she suspected was true? She shook her head. That wasn’t important now. Right now, she needed to get out of the hospital and find transportation to Savik, preferably without her brother’s knowledge.

  For some reason, Michael had concerns about Sas’ “influence” over her. She couldn’t blame him. The first thing she’d done was cry all over his shoulder when they found each other. And she’d refused to talk anymore about her relationship with Sas once she’d discovered Michael had every intention of never letting Sas see her even if he showed up at the hospital.

  She was thankful she hadn’t divulged to anyone why she’d run away from the man who not only loved her but had saved her life…twice. Of course, she’d been in shock, trying to process what she’d seen.

  She stared at the book in her lap as tears formed in her eyes. Maybe she could buy it from the hospital. It meant so much to her right now…if she was right. She had to confront Sas with it.

  Wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist to avoid the stitches on her hand, she sniffed. Crying wouldn’t help anything. She looked for the nurse call button then checked the clock. She grinned, Nancy would be her perfect partner in crime for getting away. Pressing the button, she waited.

  ~~*~~

  Sas woke up to find the cabin empty. It wasn’t his cabin. It was Timber’s. Slowly, the memories of the day before came back to him. Or was it two days before? He felt groggy as if he’d been drugged.

  He shrugged. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He had to keep his mind blank and focus on his bodily needs and right now, he had to urinate. He stood and swayed. The drugs Timber had given him must have been strong. He’d have to see if the old man had more, but first he had to go outside.

  Walking across the floor in his bare feet, he noticed the texture of a new rug Timber had added to his home. His little cabin felt comfortable, safe.

  Sas opened the door and walked out into the bright sunlight. He glanced down at the shadows. Late afternoon. No wonder he had to urinate. He walked over to a grove of trees behind Timber’s house and relieved himself.

  What happened to his shirt? Did he leave it back at his cabin? He shrugged. He was supposed to hide his scars, but he didn’t care anymore. Wandering back into the cabin, he closed the door before heading for Timber’s larder. Maybe there was more fish left from yesterday.

  Opening the cold box, he took out a pile of wrapped food and set it on the table against the wall that Timber used as a counter. Lined up at the back of it was a row of bottles. Sas grabbed one and opened it. Ugh, it smelled of alcohol and cinnamon.

  He looked at the label. It was whiskey. Timber said everyone drank it. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a large swall
ow. Coughing, he set the bottle down. Why did people drink that?

  He unwrapped the food as a warmth spread throughout his body. It felt good. He hadn’t felt heat in a long time except with—he grabbed the bottle again and gulped down more of the burning liquid. Don’t think.

  Again, the heat warmed him from the inside out. Leaving the food on the table, he held onto the bottle, walked back to the couch and sat.

  He took another swallow of the whiskey and focused on it flowing down his throat and into his gut before the warmth spread from there to the ends of his fingers and toes. He grinned. This was good. Tipping the bottle back again, he gulped.

  The bottle was almost gone when the door opened and Timber walked in. “Hey Sas, good news, you’re never—well, son of a biscuit eater, what have you gotten into?”

  He held up the bottle. “Whithkey.”

  Timber rolled his eyes. “Boy, you just filled your gut with that on top of a bunch of drugs. You’re going to be sicker than a seal in an oil spill.”

  He shook his head. He never got sick. He couldn’t die. He had to stay alive and live his torture. Didn’t Timber know that? He opened his mouth to tell him, but the man swiped the bottle out of his hand.

  He scowled. “I need to finish that.”

  “No, you don’t.” Timber walked to his porcelain sink and emptied the bottle.

  That was stupid. What a waste.

  Timber picked up the food from the counter and dumped it into a skillet. “It’s freezing in here. Why didn’t you add wood to the fire?”

  He leaned back, feeling lethargic. “I’m warm.”

  The old man shook his head as he crouched to stuff his stove with wood. “No doubt. That whiskey will burn a hole right through your stomach.”

  An image of the grizzly puncturing his stomach rose to fill his mind, and he pushed it away quickly before anything else followed. “Feels good.”

  Timber rose. “I bet it does.” He placed the skillet on the stove along with a pot of water.

  He let his head loll to the side so he could watch a chickadee on a branch outside. The bird’s quick movements were far more interesting than Timber cooking. He let his eyes close, happy to drift off into oblivion.