Victor/The Creature, Victor is a different type of immortal.
In the beginning, his creation finds new ways to make Victor feel pain.
It is not enough to snap his fingers or break his nose, stabbing Victor through with any sharp implement it can find, but now it finds fascination in breaking Victor’s limbs clean in half and watching as his body heals itself, how his skin knits itself back together after his bones poked through.
Never a mark left behind, creator, it says, stale breath warm on Victor’s cheek—its hand is in Victor’s chest, his palm against Victor’s heart, fingers tangled in the ventricles, cupping the organ, but not squeezing, not yet—no matter how I break you, you never scar, you’re never marred, even immortality is kind to you.
It slides its hand from Victor’s chest dripping with Victor’s blood, encasing his hand like a glove, deep maroon so dark it was almost black, shiny in the fragments of moonlight. It cups Victor’s face in its massive hand, covering one side of Victor’s head; his own blood is cool and tacky against his skin, soaking into his hair, leaving a handprint on his cheek. The wound punched through his chest closes, his ribcage rebuilding itself as his creation stares down at him, waits until Victor’s skin regrows, smooth over his chest, the pinkish stain of his blood the only indication anything had ever been amiss.
A growl rumbles low in its throat and Victor is shoved away, stumbling before he catches himself, keeping his footing. You might as well rip my heart out, you beast, end it! Victor yells, feeling his fangs sharpen in his mouth. Unlike you, I can die.
It laughs, stalking back towards Victor, standing close enough to force Victor to crane his head, looking up at which he made. Why should I offer you that sweet release? Why should I grant you that grace which you have so cruelly denied me? It pauses, lips curling into a smile. No, maker, I will not kill you.
