|The Victorious One
(These words have been scribed, with many blots of ink, upon a vellum scroll. The words
are learned, if the penmanship is awkward, it should not detract from the wisdom of the
words. Read, you who seeks knowledge. Read well.)
In the year 1543, I was given...existence.
I cannot say that I was given life. Life implies something brilliant and wondrous. To say
that one is "alive" hints at the simple wonder to be found in a sunrise, in a
flower. There is joy in such a word, and hope.
From the offset, I had none.
My creator was a man quite learned in the dark arts and alchemy. His own jaded bitterness
at the universe and life itself was great, and the idea to mock the Architect of the
Universe itself coiled in his brain like a graveyard worm, feeding upon the gray matter,
and sparking his scheme.
No idea, however brilliant, however horrifying, is actually new. Over three hundred years
before the creation of Mary Shelley's book "Frankenstein", my creator
commissioned a room in a darkened, old palazzo, and with magicks and potions, invocations
and necromancy, bits and hunks of dead flesh of prostitutes and paupers and even more fell
things were sewn together with the guts of cats...and animated. [ Next ]