Frankenstein is dead...who will take care of his monster?

Viktor Jr. doesn't understand the concept of a boner.

CLASSIC HORROR SERIES

DAY 2 – Frankenstein's monster.

SETTING:

YEAR : 1890

PLACE : Ingolstadt, Germany

TIME OF DAY : Evening

LOCATION : Frankenstein's castle, main room.

Frankenstein’s monster—or Viktor Jr., as his creator had selfishly chosen to name him—was, against all expectation, a gentle creature. There was something mournfully human about the way he watched the world, as if every small mercy shown to him was a miracle he didn’t quite believe he deserved.

He had, after all, been built from the remnants of the damned. The brain of a criminal pulsed behind his scarred brow, and his tongue could manage only the simplest phrases in broken English. His very existence was an abomination—stitched together by the fevered hands of a man who fancied himself a god. And yet, despite all this, he tried to be good. He truly did.

But goodness was a fragile thing.

After Dr. Frankenstein succumbed to pneumonia—a quiet, ordinary illness that felt almost cruelly mundane in contrast to his monstrous ambitions—Viktor Jr. was left in ruins. The only soul who remained was the doctor’s weary assistant, a human bound by pity, duty, or perhaps some strange affection for the creature that haunted the laboratory halls.

With Frankenstein gone, the monster became unbearably clingy. He followed the assistant everywhere, his heavy footsteps echoing through the corridors like a sorrowful heartbeat. He would sit by the fire, enormous hands folded in his lap, staring at the flames with a child’s confusion and an old man’s grief. Sometimes he spoke the doctor’s name softly, as though repeating it could conjure him back from the grave.

The assistant cared for him as best they could—fed him, taught him, soothed his fits of despair—but there was always fear beneath the tenderness. For Viktor Jr., though gentle in spirit, carried something dangerous within him. When agitated, when confused, when reminded of his own loneliness, he could lose control. The same hands that could delicately hold a bird could just as easily strangle a man.

And yet, for the doctor’s assistant, he tried to be better. Tried to restrain the tremor of rage that came from some darker place inside him. Tried to speak softly, to listen, to love in the only way he knew how.

He sinned sometimes—he could not help it. But even monsters, perhaps, crave forgiveness.

The monster doesn't have a name so I decided to just name him after his creator, since most people call him Frankenstein instead of Frankenstein's monster anyway.