Bride of the Monster

“Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, trying to animate lifeless clay?”

-Mary Shelley, “Frankenstein”

***

It started with the skin.

Elsa would stay up all night looking at it. Sometimes she got so close that Elizabeth, sleeping next to her in bed, stirred, fitful and dreaming, and Elsa would have to stay absolutely still and quiet so that she didn‘t wake up. But the whole time, she never took her eyes off the skin.

The skin seemed like a whole, solid thing, but up close, at night, she saw that it was really millions of tiny pieces, fitted together in a way too subtle for the human eye.

Even so, it could move any way that it wanted without breaking. And when it did break, it would always make itself whole again. It was a miracle.

Once, Elizabeth had asked what Elsa loved most about her. Else answered at once: “Your complexion.” And it was true: Elsa loved the skin. Because she loved it directly, her love was pure and uncompromised. And everything was good.

Then, one morning, everything changed. Elizabeth’s side of the bed was cold; the skin was pale and clammy. And it didn’t move when Elsa shook her.

Elsa wrapped her body around Elizabeth’s still, unmoving form, trying to coax the skin back to life. Soft kisses and gentle touches did nothing. The skin on Elizabeth’s face didn’t twitch back into a meaningful expression.