The two creatures stand at the foot of the grand marble steps, staring up at the elaborate entrance. Almost hidden by the vast pillars, the exquisite wooden door, a testament to the passage of time and craftsmanship, weathered by the years, its rich oak surface deep and steadfast. Delicate gilded hinges swirl, entwining with burnished vines: intricately curling into flowing tendrils before encasing the door’s edges. The knocker, a traditional lion’s head, stares out wisely, simultaneously warning them off and enticing them in. The rounded golden door knob glows softly in synchronicity with the early morning shifts in the sun’s movement.
Both slightly hunched, they labor steadfastly up the dull white steps, the shorter man breathing heavily as if the strain is too much. The other darts his eyes this way and that, furtively, as if expecting an ambush at any minute.
As they reach the top step, they see it. The sign next to the door, embedded in the enveloping wall. A gold leaf plaque, engraved in the black lettering of eras past, reads, The Great and Auspicious Library of Living Tales.
Panting audibly, the older man slowly pushes open the door, disappearing into the newly formed space. The younger glances back cautiously before following suit.
The older beckons to his shadow, tilting his head towards the reading room. Once inside, the walls are lined with antique bookshelves which reach upwards into a vast atrium, each book carefully placed, spines facing outward, glimmering with the spark of potential knowledge. He reaches for a volume and holds it out as a gift to his companion—who takes it silently, tipping his head tentatively in acknowledgment. A thank you of sorts. He moves slowly, as if considering his actions, to the central table and places the book on the surface. He hesitates, his scarred hand hovering over the title, Caliban’s Story. “At least his father gave him a name,” he thinks bitterly. His dark eyes soften as tears begin to form. He exhales, holding back the embarrassment of emotion. He looks at his confidante with a mixture of curiosity and caution. His lopsided lips furl upward into an acceptance of sorts. He has made his decision. Striding purposefully towards the shelves, he reaches up and takes down a tome of his own. He holds it out to Caliban. Frankenstein’s Monster—A Life Story.
The two sit, encased in the heavy, leather-backed chairs of the library.
Frankenstein’s monster turns the pages gently, feeling each moment as his own. He touches his own severed heart with his hand, inhaling heavily as he reads about the tempests of solitude that had raged around his companion’s early years.
“It was so cruel,” he thinks as he learns of Caliban’s integration into the life of Prospero, his efforts to learn the language of humans, and his subsequent rejection.
“Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed?”
He wondered what that might have been like, if only for a moment. If only his father could have taught him. Spoken to him, at least. He looked across the table at Caliban, who had been observing his reactions, watching for a flicker of recognition or connection. Frankenstein’s monster shares a faint smile and gestures his head towards his own book.
Caliban blinks decisively before carefully reaching forward, shifting it towards him like a delicate teacup he is scared to harm. The dark cave of the laboratory becomes his own prison.
“You taught me language, and my profit on’t is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you for learning me your language!”
He reads hungrily, his fists clenching as he learns of the monster’s instantaneous rejection. His heart moves closer towards his brother as he feels his longing for love. The search for it in the ordinary. The DeLaceys. The accidental deaths. The piercing pain of banishment.
In oblique silence, they turn the pages of their alternate stories, delving deeper into the profound loneliness and despair that had marked their existence. In each other’s lives, they discover a profound understanding. They are not alone.
When the last pages are turned and the sentient books are gently closed, Frankenstein’s monster and Caliban part ways. There are no words that either can say. They came for solace and found it. Their stories have been shared. And heard.
All either ever really wanted, they found in each other amongst the book-lined walls of the reading room of The Great and Auspicious Library of Living Tales.
- Canva Creation
- This is my own work and has not been generated in whole or in part by AI
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