Frankenstein's Monster

             Oliver Young’s desk barely contained him as his hand shot into the air.   Had he been more than a boy of eight years old, the desk and the boy would have undoubtedly gone airborne. 

             As it stood, Oliver settled for leaning forward as far as possible in his desk, his lower hand pushing his raised arm higher into the air, trying to get every advantage over his competing classmates.  Normally, the class wouldn’t be so interested in answering Mrs. Pryce’s question, but today she was offering Tootsie Rolls to whoever managed to get the question right.  Almost every student in the room was more than eager to respond to a question, even when they didn’t really know the answer.

Oliver had been guilty of that once or twice already today, but this time he was absolutely, positively sure that he knew the answer.  He had taken to multiplication with little effort, and when Mrs. Pryce’s green-blue eyes locked his silvery gray, a faint smile on her face, Oliver thought for sure that he was going to get a Tootsie Roll.      

                At the last second, Mrs. Pryce’s eyes shifted two rows to Oliver’s left, settling on the only student currently without a raised hand.  Sid Franklin, known as Frankenstein to his fellow third-graders, sat stooped over his desk, one arm protecting whatever he was doodling from prying eyes. 

                Even though Oliver couldn’t see what Frankenstein was drawing, he knew from experience what would be drawn on the sheet if Mrs. Pryce decided to take it away from Sid.  The piece of paper would have pictures of naked women and war scenes drawn on it, but most of the paper would be covered with elaborately drawn curse words.  While Oliver wasn’t a fan of Sid, he had to admit Sid’s drawings were pretty good.  Even Mrs. Pryce complimented Sid on his art work.

                “Sid Franklin,” called Mrs. Pryce in her typical, cheery voice as every other student in the room dropped their raised hand with a collective sigh.

                When she didn’t get a response, hope was raised that she’d just call on another student, but that was quickly dashed as she tried again, “Sid, are you with us today?”

                This time she managed to get a mumble out of him. 

                “I’m sorry, Sid. I didn’t catch that,” said Mrs. Pryce.  “What’s four multiplied by five?”

                “I said, um…16,” replied Sid, keeping his head down.

                “Four multiplied by four is 16, but good try.  You’ll get it next time, Sid.  Now, who wants to try next?” 

                Not a single student wanted a Tootsie Roll bad enough that they’d be willing to show up Frankenstein in class.  Sid not only deserved his nickname based on the fact that he stood a head above all the other third graders, he earned it with his actions too.  There were stories that even the fifth graders that crossed Frankenstein’s path were left broken in his wake.  One kid, Justin Davidson, was never heard from again after accidentally running into Frankenstein in the hallway.  The always present bruises on his face, rumored to be from taking the lunch money of sixth graders, served as a constant reminder not to mess with the monster.  Crossing Frankenstein was not something one did if they wanted to live to see the fourth grade.  Every hand was down.

                Oliver knew the smile Mrs. Pryce gave him earlier did not bode well in this situation and as her eyes shifted back to him; Oliver did his best Sid impression by keeping his head low.  Silence dragged on as Oliver felt the eyes of the teacher burning into the top of his head.  The sensation pulled the boy’s head up, forced him to make eye contact with the teacher.

                “How about you, Oli?  What’s four multiplied by five?” asked Mrs.

                Eighteen, Oliver thought.  Just say 18.

                “Twenty,” Oliver said, sealing his fate.

                There was only one thing that scared Oliver more than having to face Frankenstein after school, so as the remaining class time quickly ticked away, Oliver plotted his escape.  He could linger after class, ask Mrs. Pryce if there was anything he could help her with, but Sid Franklin would just linger also.  He knew which way Oliver had to walk to get home so would be watching and waiting until the two boys could meet.  No, his only chance was to go out the other door to the school, head in the opposite direction for a while and circle back.

                When the final bell rang, Oliver stayed in his desk a bit longer than normal, pretending to gather his homework as the others filed out of the classroom.  After checking to make sure Sid wasn’t among the few students still remaining at their desks, Oliver left the room, taking a left when he normally would have gone right.

                As soon as the free warmth of afternoon sun struck Oliver’s face, he figured he might’ve gotten away.  The sky was far too clear, the sun far too warm, and with his father not getting home until six that night, he had far too much time on his own to be worried about Frankenstein.  Besides, it wouldn’t be long between his father getting home and bedtime.

                Bedtime was when the real problems began.

                Oliver fought off a shudder as his backpack caught on something, forcing him off balance.  It took a second for him to realize he was walking along a clear path, but by then it was too late.  Whatever grab him pushed forward, knocking him to the ground knee first.

                “What kinda idiot can’t even walk?!” Frankenstein’s voice possessed a quality that Oliver was unable to name but recognized as something he’d only heard in adults before.  Always, the adults who had that sound to their voice were angry.

                Though he tried and so desperately wanted to, Oliver couldn’t think of anything to say.  His mind was blank, partly with fear and partly with worry.  Silent tears started down his cheeks to match the gooey red sliding down from his knee.

                “Baby going to cry!”  When the words left Frankenstein’s mouth, his voice rang with questioning and longing, but by the time it reached Oliver’s ears, all uncertainty was lost.

                Can I make Baby cry, ran through the bully’s mind.  It’s his turn to cry!

                And he could. He knew he could.  It wasn’t a matter of if or when but of how hard could he make the weaker boy cry.  This time he was the stronger one, the one in charge.

                One kick and the dam cracked, releasing the pent up frustration and helplessness twisting and tunneling inside of Sidney.

                Two kicks and Sid’s tears run to match those of Oliver.

                Three kicks and �"

                “Sidney Franklin!  What are you doing?!”  The voice of authority cut through Sid’s frenzied thoughts.

                Wasn’t he the one doing the kicking? thought Mrs. Pryce as Sid turned toward her.

                For a moment, Sid stood slouched over as though Oliver was draped across his shoulders instead of lying under him, holding his beaten stomach.  Tears streamed down the boy known as Frankenstein’s stack face.  Then he turned and was gone, disappearing the way eight year old boys have a tendency to do.

                “Are you alright, Oli?” said Mrs. Pryce, kneeling beside the boy and helping him up.

                “Yeah, I’ll be okay, Mrs. Pryce,” answered Oliver.

                He’s a strong kid, thought the teacher.  Everything he's been through, and he still just keeps going...

                “Are you going to call his parents, Mrs. Pryce?” asked the pupil.

                “I have to, Oli,” the teacher said, but then continued, under her breath, “but I don’t think it’s going to help.  It’s just going to make things worse...”

                Oli sensed the impending adultness of the conversation and said, “I need to get home, Mrs. Pryce.  See you in class tomorrow!”

                “Right Oli, see you in class tomorrow,” the teacher said, still separated from the moment by her thoughts.

                If Oliver looked back, he would have seen Mrs. Pryce watching him walk down the sidewalk until he disappeared around a corner.  She stayed there for a while, staring at where the boys eventually disappeared, before she snapped back to reality.

*****

                As Oliver lay in bed trying to hold back from wincing as his mother patted his stomach.  She asked, “Oli, honey, how about we take out that night light tonight?”

                As soon as the phrase ‘take out’ left his mother’s mouth, Oliver sat up straight, “But Mom, I use that so I can see at night.”

                “Oliver, we went over this.  There are no monsters in your closet.  You’re getting a little bit too old to believe in those types of things.”

                “It’s not for the monsters, Mom.  I just like it so I can see when I need to go pee!”

                Oliver’s mother couldn’t resist the smile that came to her lips, “Fine, Oliver.  One of these days, though, the light is going to go out.  Pleasant dreams, kiddo.”

                The light is going to go out.  There is a certain ring to truth, and Oliver felt the bells echoing throughout his mind.  The light is going to go out, and it wasn’t going to happen years from now when Oliver would be safely in his teenage years, or next year, or next week, or tomorrow night, but tonight.

                A part of Oliver wanted to call his mother back.  We can talk about anything you want Mom, anything at all.  Do you want to know what Frankenstein did to me today?  I’ll tell you all about it and more if you come back, he thought, but the words existed only in his mind as his mouth refused to give them life, to pull back his mother and prevent that which lurked in the closet from coming out.

                His mother left the room with a final wink, leaving the door open only a sliver.  The light from the hallway shot a beam through the crack, creating a line between just past the bottom on his foot and the closet near the end of Oliver’s bed.  The divider struck the wall where Oliver’s nightlight rested in the wall socket.

                3…2…1, thought Oliver, whose mother then turned off the hallway light, the light that was filtering into her son’s room, leaving her son in darkness.

                Oliver stared at the unnatural black that had taken ahold of his closet.  While the rest of his room was dark, some of the moonlight managed to make its way inside giving it a slight tint of silver.  His closet, on the other hand, remained black.  Oliver felt a tug at his feet, the blackness trying to pull him in.  Something, Oliver was too absorbed in his closet to look and notice, fell off the table by his bed.

                 “Go to bed, Oliver!  You’re too old for this!” his mother called from the living room.  He could hear the Jay Leno’s monologue just behind his mother’s voice.

                Unable to find his voice to call out for help, Oliver took the best protection available to children haunted by those things that creep out of closets and snatch children from under their beds.  He grabbed his comforter, the outer most layer of his blankets, and threw it over his head. 

His world turned completely black, but this was a safe black, not the kind of darkness that creeps out of your closet at night.  It was the constant black that comes from being covered, hidden away from the dangers that lurked just inches away. 

                And then nothing.

                Oliver stayed under the comforter, waiting for the protective layer to be stripped away and the creature in the dark to be standing over him, but as time went on, and his eyelids got heavier and heavier, nothing happened.  His breathing, slow from the fear of revealing himself as the lump in the bed and slower still from sleep soon became the only changing thing in the room.

Then there was pressure on his ankle, slight at first, but then a tight grip, pulling him off the bed.  Oliver screamed and threw the blanket off.

                Instantly, the door to the hallway opened.  The light from the hallway flooded the room, startling Oliver, who stopped screaming and stared at his mother.  She stood in the portal, seeing only a scared little boy who tossed his blankets off.

                She hesitated for just a moment before she broke through the entrance.  Something made Oliver think of a dog when it came upon the electric fence keeping it in the yard, but before he could make a connection, his mother sat at his side.  He couldn’t remember her walking from the door to the bed.  Like a DVD that skipped ahead, she was just there.

                “Oli, honey, what’s wrong?” she asked.

                You. The thought strayed into Oliver’s mind, coming from the place that told him to jerk his hand away from the hot stove or stay away from a barking dog.

                He ignored the thought.  All he wanted to do was press up against the comfort of his mother, explain to her the monster in the closet, and get out of the room as fast as possible.  As he went to press against his mother for comfort, Oliver expect the usual warm embrace, but when the pair came into contact, Oliver felt as though he just wiped out ice skating: his face pressing against a cold, slick surface.

                Oliver jumped back, and for a moment, the light from the hallway flickered, leaving Oliver alone in the dark with his cold mother for a moment. 

                “Oli, what’s wrong, dear?” The light came back revealing his mother face distorted as though two faces were facing for the same space.  One was the familiar; the other, colored deathly gray, seemed to suck all its features into the endless black that served as place holders for its eyes.

                The light in the hall came back on.  His mother’s face came back with it, but the eyes of the Other stayed.  It moved towards him, reaching out to grab his shirt.  “Come to Mommy dearest.”

Oliver backed away further, falling off the bed and landing hard on back.  He felt a sharp pain that threatened to keep him still as he attempted to get to his feet, but his hard-beating heart propelled him up.

                “Don’t run honey!  It’ll be okay,” a low rumble intertwined with his mother’s voice said.

As he rounded the foot of the bed, the Other-Mother leapt at Oliver.  The two collided, sending Oliver into his closet.

                All light was gone.  Oliver could not see, smell, or hear anything.  He felt an internal heat and the external cold of the Other-Mother on top of him.  He tried to fight it off but up and down, left and right had no meaning in the closet.  He struggled but was too disoriented to manage any effectiveness.

                The Other-Mother alternated between hard violence, striking Oliver or tossing him around, and kindness, caressing Oliver, comforting him.  The comfort harmed mentality just as much as the blows harmed him physically.  One moment the Other-Mother would punch his gut, saying “No one cares enough to do anything about this if you tell them” and the next his mother came back telling him, “Everything will be alright” just to change yet again.

                The game continued on.  There were times when Oliver thought maybe dawn had come, maybe the sun would force the monster away, but the light never made it into the closet.  Days seemed to drag by, weeks in fact, but it just continued.

                Eventually, Oliver stopped struggling, and just gave in, letting the Other-Mother do what it wanted with him.  He no longer believed that his mother was there to comfort him; she was there just to hurt him more.  There was no daylight coming, just the eternal darkness.

And then he shook, again and again.  Then his father’s voice broke through the taunts of the Other-Mother, “Oliver!  Wake up!  Oli!”

                Oliver opened his eyes to the morning light filing the room.  His father loomed over him, and Oliver first thought it was another trick of the Other-Mother. 

                “You were having a nightmare, kiddo,” said his father. 

                When his father touched him, Oliver jerked away, but his father just leaned closer and hugged him.

                “It’s okay, son.  You’re safe now.”

                The hug warmed Oliver who clung tighter to his father.

                “Where’s Mom?” Oliver managed to ask with his face pressed to his father’s chest.

                “She’s gone,” his father said.  “It’s just us guys, remember?  What do you say we get some breakfast in us?  We’re running late already.”

*****

                Later, as Oliver sat in the middle of the blacktop during recess, well within the safety of the light, he saw Frankenstein stalk up behind and push Will, the smallest of the third graders.  Normally, not much of a hero, Oliver would have just sat there, hoping Mrs. Pryce would see it before it got out of hand.  Today, however, Oliver felt an impulse, and before he knew it, he was half way to Frankenstein, running at a full sprint. 

                Oliver: “Leave him alone!”

                Frankenstein looked in his direction, distracted from his prey for the moment.  “You want some too?  Didn’t you have enough yesterday?”

                Oliver didn’t respond, remaining quiet as he stepped between Will, who had scrapped his elbow when he fell, and his tormenter. 

                Frankenstein was not used to being confronted.  He was big enough to have his way with most kids in the entire school despite being only a third grader.  He looked around, trying to find Mrs. Pryce or the other supervising teacher.  They were talking to each other.  Mrs. Pryce had a serious look on her face while the other teacher, Sid thought her name was Miss Chapman, looked concerned.  He’d give them both something to be concerned about.  He could deal with the Young kid than finish Pipsqueak before they noticed, unless someone ratted him out.  He liked his chances.

                But as Oliver stepped between him and Will, Sid saw something he hadn’t seen before, at least not in a fellow student.  It was the look his younger brother had about him.  Not a facial expression, not a tick or anything physical.  Maybe a look in the kid’s eyes?   Doubtful.  Something that Sid couldn’t put into words.  It was as though there was a giant, invisible stamp on Oliver’s forehead that proclaimed to those who could see, those who could understand, that this kid was one of them.   It wasn’t there last night, when Frankenstein was kicking the kid.  Was it?

                Oliver noticed Frankenstein’s stance soften, going from threatening to off-guard.  He turned his back on the bully, hoping that he wouldn’t regret it but not sure what else to do.  He helped Will get to his feet, and then turned to face Sid once again.

                I’m not alone, thought Sid.  He hadn’t realized that Oliver had helped Will to his feet, and the fact didn’t exactly register now.  Sid, unsure of what to say, just stared head, lost in his own thoughts.

The teachers, too far away to see that Will’s arm was bleeding, watched as this played out.  Their past history with the Franklin boy told them to go to Oliver and Will’s aid immediately, but both stood their ground.  Mrs. Pryce remembered well the events of the day before, but, since she hadn’t seen the original attack, this seemed different.  They sensed something more was going on, and they had no part to play.

                As Frankenstein stared past Will and Oliver, Oliver started to lead Will towards the school and the nurse’s office.

                “Thanks Oliver,” said Will.  “Pretty ballsy of you.”

                “Don’t mention it, Will,” said Oliver.

                Neither boy looked back at the one left behind until Sid said, “I’m sorry.”

                Both boys stopped.

                Oliver and Will stood in silence, not sure whether this was a trick or not.  Oliver’s mind ran back to the night before, his encounter with the Other-Mother and its trickery.  Is Frankenstein like Other Mother?

                “Really, I really am sorry,” Sid said. 

                Oliver looked back first, his actions giving Will the ability to do the same, and saw that Sid Franklin’s head hung loose. His shoulders slouched, his mouth frowning, Sid just stood there.

                Oliver connected with Sid then.  His long-time torturer melted away to reveal someone new.  No, he isn’t the Other Mother.  He has his own Other Mother to deal with. 

                “See you in class, Sid,” said Oliver.

                “Recess is almost over, go line up boys,” said Mrs. Pryce as she closed the distance between them.  Then she noticed the blood on Will’s arm, “Everyone all right?”

                Will spoke first, “I just fell, Mrs. Pryce.  Oliver and Sid were just helping me to the nurse.”

                Mrs. Pryce looked around, unsure of what to do.  Her first instinct told her Will was just too afraid of Sid tell the truth, but there was too much confidence in the boy’s voice for that to be true.   So many years of teaching and she still didn’t fully understand the politics of being an eight year old. 

                “Well, then you better catch up and help them out Sid Franklin,” said Mrs. Pryce.  “You’re falling behind.”

                Sid ran up and took his place among the two other boys.

                “Take him straight to the nurse then I want you two back in class right away.  Okay Sid?  Okay Oliver?” said Mrs. Pryce as she started to walk away.

                “Will do,” the two answered in unison as they turned their backs on the teacher.

*****

                That night as he sat in the dark, hugging his knees to his chest, shaking and waiting, Sidney Franklin's thought back to recess. He had seen something in Oliver's eyes that Sidney saw in himself, but there was something else there as well.

                Sid thought and thought until he heard the front door rip open then slam shut.  He pulled an extra blanket over him knowing it would ultimately do no good except to provide some protection from the first few blows. 

                He smelled his father or more precisely, the booze and cigarette smoke from his father, before he saw him.

                The older Franklin, Theodore, didn't bother turning on the light as he walked through the house.  He had lived in the house with his beloved Ellen, the boy's mother, for years before she became pregnant.  The two had never wanted to get pregnant, content to spend their lives together without having to worry about the hassle of feeding another mouth.  When Ellen found out she was pregnant, she cried in Theodore's arms for an hour.  They had planned to abort the pregnancy but couldn't find the money to pay for it.  Instead, the couple decided on putting the baby up for adoption.

                Theodore changed those plans when Ellen died in childbirth.  He wouldn't admit this if asked even by Barry Goodman down at the First Ave Pub, his best and only friend, but he kept the child because it was all he had left of his wife.  He had been using the better part of the last decade reminding the boy what he had cost Theodore.

                Now, as he walked into the room where he kept the boy, he unhooked the sock filled with pennies that he hung next to the door.  Every time the boy left the room he'd have a reminder of what was going to happen to him when he returned.  A constant reminder like he, the boy, was a constant reminder to his father that the unwanted boy's life cost the beloved mother's.

                Sidney didn't move, didn't cry out, because he knew that would just encourage his father more, who kept going until his arm ached from lashing out with the sock of pennies.  Instead, he let his mind wander away to Oliver and what made him different...

*****

                That morning, Sidney Franklin left the house early.  His father left for work early enough for Sid to arrive at school an hour early.  Each breath the third grader took caused his chest to scream out in pain.  He would have cried out to but didn't see any reason why.  Complaining would just encourage his father; even when he wasn't around he seemed to know when he got to Sid.

                He sat outside the school, waiting for Oliver to come.  He knew that this new friend would be coming from this direction since he always took this way home after school.  Unless, of course, he knew Sid was after him.

                Oliver, who had arrived early to play a bit on the swings, saw Sid first, sitting on a decorative rock by the path leading to the playground.  His first instinct told him to take a different route, that the events of the day before were just a dream, just another trick by the Other Mother, but the smaller, quieter voice inside of him, the voice that got him away from the real Other Mother and banished her to his dreams, told him to go forward.  There was something that Frankenstein needed from him, a way to help Frankenstein to be just Sidney Franklin. 

                As he drew closer, Oliver could see that Sidney's breathing was short and shallow.  Every time he took a deeper breath, he'd grab his chest, wincing.

                “Are you alright?” asked Oliver when he got within ear shot.

                Sidney made eye contact with Oliver.  Communication passed between the two boys who stood in silence.  A passerby, on his way to work, had the impression they were playing Old Wild West.  The two just stared each other down waiting for the other to make the first move.

                Sidney kept looking for the thing that made Oliver the same, yet different.

                As though the thought transferred through the stare down, Oliver said, “I told someone.  They helped me.”

                Sidney, caught off guard by the suggestion, fell off the rock.  Oliver rushed to his side, “We can tell Mrs. Pryce today.  That's who I told.”  Oliver extended his hand to his former bully.

                Sidney didn't say anything; he didn't move.  Telling is what his father wanted.  He fed off complaining, off Sidney making trouble.  That was why all this was happening in the first place. Wasn’t it?  But as he stared at Oliver, the one who was the same as him but different, he thought maybe that was the difference.  Oliver had been through this while Sidney was going through this.  Oliver had made it out, or he at least managed to get out the heart of it.  Sidney was still wandering, lost.

                Sid “Frankenstein” Franklin took Oliver's hand and pulled himself up. 

                Oliver: “She's probably in her room.”

                Oliver Young and Sidney Franklin walked hand-in-hand into the school.  They didn't stop when Will tried to stop them and make small talk.  They didn't stop when Mr. Sanchez in the office asked them if they wanted a cookie.  They walked straight to their classroom where Mrs. Pryce sat at her desk. 

                She noticed the two boys walk into her room, handing hands.  Sidney's eyes darted back and forth, not focusing on one thing for too long.  His head angled slightly down, only looking up to eye level for an instant before jerking back down.  Oliver, shoulders square, head held high, eyes focused on her, seemed to be leading Sidney.

                “Mrs. Pryce, Sid has something to tell you.”