02-11-2017, 10:28 PM
He was ever a profoundly curious creature, though that itself is no distinguishing quality. When the world you live in is full of extravagant creatures being inquisitive is hardly noticeable. Next to magic and flight, regeneration and healing it was hardly anything to even garner awareness from others. No, it was not that itself that proved him worthy of interest or mention. It was that which required his attention that set him apart. Frankenstein had a thing for the unusual, death and all manner of things taboo. It was thus that set him apart and it is also the root cause of all manner of ridicule from less understanding folk.
Strangers did not take kindly to the grave robber or looky loo. Naturally.
Death was just so very, exquisite and not just death itself but that which caused it. Where did life end and death begin and why? Did they truly just have to stop, to cease in existence and pursue all there was to the world no more? Was it possible to persevere, even after death? Is death truly an end?
Frankenstein didn’t know but he wanted to, he reveled in death and its classic beauty.
Why, currently he was sniffing about the decomposing corpse of a squirrel, had anyone noticed? Perhaps they had and were avoiding eye contact, dodging this particular spot in the field as to not catch any of his ‘crazy’. Others were usually good at avoiding him like the plague, afraid that if they got too close his peculiarities might rub off on them. It must have been difficult at first, his splotchy coat attractive enough to entice a second look but the moment they found his eyes, half sunken into his face they were quick to turn away. Just as well, they never did quite understand him anyway.
Then why does this man watch him so?
He’s noticed, the pale stallion almost devouring him with his gaze. Frank has tried not to look, unsure just what motives were lurking in that stare but it’s not all that often that anyone paid attention to him for so long. Again he finds himself answering that scrutiny, pale blue eyes haunting and tired.
Strangers did not take kindly to the grave robber or looky loo. Naturally.
Death was just so very, exquisite and not just death itself but that which caused it. Where did life end and death begin and why? Did they truly just have to stop, to cease in existence and pursue all there was to the world no more? Was it possible to persevere, even after death? Is death truly an end?
Frankenstein didn’t know but he wanted to, he reveled in death and its classic beauty.
Why, currently he was sniffing about the decomposing corpse of a squirrel, had anyone noticed? Perhaps they had and were avoiding eye contact, dodging this particular spot in the field as to not catch any of his ‘crazy’. Others were usually good at avoiding him like the plague, afraid that if they got too close his peculiarities might rub off on them. It must have been difficult at first, his splotchy coat attractive enough to entice a second look but the moment they found his eyes, half sunken into his face they were quick to turn away. Just as well, they never did quite understand him anyway.
Then why does this man watch him so?
He’s noticed, the pale stallion almost devouring him with his gaze. Frank has tried not to look, unsure just what motives were lurking in that stare but it’s not all that often that anyone paid attention to him for so long. Again he finds himself answering that scrutiny, pale blue eyes haunting and tired.
frankenstein
i have been half in love with easeful death