the other Son

1999

Behave. Be good. Don't shout. Don't kick. Be demure. Be quiet. Behave like a lady.

She didn't want to be a lady. If being a lady - being good - meant being picked on by boys, bullied and gossiped about in broad daylight she didn't want to be one. A lady was worth nothing apparently, judged relentlessly, taken advantage of ruthlessly and still, she was expected to be perfect, always smiling prettily, never complaining.

She scoffed, the sound echoing in the quiet chapel.

Bullshit.

Although she hadn't cut her hair again - the disappointed look on her father's face was still rather prominent - she had no intention of ever braiding it or wearing it in cute pigtails like the other girls did. Be pretty.

No, she did not want to be pretty.

Maybe it would've helped though, being pretty. Of course she had noticed how boys flocked around the pretty girls - the ones at the center of their group, the ones surrounded by devoted servants - and how they were immune to being bullied. A word spoken by their glossy lips was enough to destroy even a boy. Impressive, really. Their smiles were cunning and innocent depending on their audience, a careful flick of shiny hair like thunder.

She sighed and pushed her own unruly hair back. She wanted to shout and kick and be bold and loud without having to consider who was watching her, no repercussions.

Rain was pelting against the colourful windows of the chapel and she didn't believe any other student would stray here, disturbing her peace. She'd finished all her schoolwork for the next day and had taken her book to read far from the busy hallways and any noisy peers. After some time the cold usually nipped at her nose and fingers but she always brought a thick scarf and gloves now to be able to stay as long as possible.

"Isn't this too grisly for a young lady?" the librarian had asked nasally with thin eyebrows nearly hitting her hairline when she had placed the book on the counter - Frankenstein, an edition bound in gray linen with a satiny, ruby red ribbon page marker which curled around the paper like a tranquil serpent.

She had smiled, said no, no it wasn't too grisly. 'It's written by a woman so why shouldn't women read it?'

The librarian had stared at her over the rim of her glasses and finally scanned the book, slowly as if to give her time to change her mind. Of course she hadn't, instead her heart had thumped excitedly in her chest and the tips of her fingers tingled pleasantly when they came in contact with the gray linen once more. It was as if Mary Shelley's ghost reached out to her through the smooth pages, recognizing a mind as unconventional as her own through the centuries that separated them.

Oh, and the words! She felt them echo in her soul with every sentence she devoured.

She'd marked the pages with the most striking passages, the ones that wouldn't stop running through her mind for hours, days even.

She smiled when she opened the book on one of those pages, gloved fingers tracing the letters lovingly until-

I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge in the other.

It was beautiful.

Another page, more beautiful, divine words.

Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful.

She said the words out loud, imagined Mary Shelley hearing her prayer. "Show me, Mary, show me how to be fearless and powerful."

She imagined the rage burning through her veins, imagined it unleashed on Creon and everyone who had wronged her, who had dared to so much as whisper behind her back. She imagined herself as fearless and powerful, breaking free from societal norms and expectations, and it was exhilarating. She wanted her rage to shake the ground, her voice to deafen the ones who had hushed her and her anguish.

When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster?

Oh, how gladly she would be the monster.