#⚛ ⌞ 𝑽𝑰𝑪𝑻𝑶𝑹 ⌝ — ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀsᴋ .ᐟ ⊹₊ ⋆

[frnknstin]

"What are you looking for now?" — From Sherlock Holmes. ( @reverdies )

Victor rose slowly from the open cabinet, turning to face Holmes with an expression that comically screamed "child caught in the act." Clearing his throat and avoiding Holmes' gaze, he stumbled over an excuse for the mess he had made. "Why, I was just... you know..."

Holmes' tone made Victor feel even more like a guilty child. Determined to regain his composure, Victor straightened up, placing his hands on his hips and lifting his chin. "I was looking for more of that blood test which you created, when I looked in what I thought was the chemicals cabinet it—why, it was full of different types of bullets." He decided to omit the detail about the blood-stained ones. "So, I thought, maybe it could be here, in the kitchen, yet—" He paused, glancing back at the open cabinet and the stench emanating from it. "That—now that would be a collection of pig hearts. Marinating. Decomposing. On a kitchen shelf."

He had found tobacco in a Persian slipper, cigarettes in the coal scuttle, and suspected he might find a new will to live somewhere among the unanswered correspondence pinned to the mantelpiece with a knife. Victor was fairly sure he had lost his old will to live in the opium stored in the Russian nesting dolls.

Why was he even apologizing? Holmes was the one living in a pigsty. Victor kept his chemistry materials impeccably organized, bullets in the kitchen icebox, pig hearts on the bathroom counter, and tobacco in his wallet, as any sensible person would.

Exasperated, he gestured vaguely at the chaotic cabinets. "This is—this—" Victor turned back to Holmes, seemingly at a loss for words. "What is this, Mr. Holmes?"

[frnknstin]

"Oh, my lord! Listen to that! It’s like the cry  of a banshee." — Barnaby Huges. [@reverdies]

ᴠᴇʀsᴇ: 20ish, post monster creation.

The screams that hollowed out the church were almost primal, more akin to an animal's growl than anything human. Frankenstein recognized the sound instantly, though even the vicar seemed shaken, unaware of the true horror behind it. When the noise ceased as abruptly as it had begun, the stillness that followed was no longer comforting—it clung to the air like a cold shroud, making the hairs on Frankenstein’s neck stand up and his heart rise uncomfortably into his throat. Struggling to mask his unease, he broke the silence with a dry remark: "Perhaps a dog in heat."

Frankenstein closed his eyes again, attempting to refocus on his Hail Mary. "Or maybe," he muttered, barely above a whisper, "a choirboy has clawed his way out of the grave, gifted with the voice of a dog in heat. Decomposition does strange things to one's... vocal cords." The attempt at a joke hanged in the air. If he wasn’t already damned for the abomination he had created, that comment surely sealed his fate. Three more Hail Mary's and an Our Father—perhaps enough to soften the blow of his inevitable punishment.