Made for Her

By Katie Hauenstein

Red. All I can see is red. What’s wrong with my vision?

“Excellent. Open your eyes,” a female voice says gently.

I do, and wince when bright light blinds me further. I throw my hands up to cover my eyes, my left palm brushing against my right wrist, irritating the stitches encircling it.

Why do I have stitches?

“Oh, sorry.” She sounds truly apologetic, and the lights dim.

Blinking, I take in my surroundings. We’re in a white, sterile room with lab equipment everywhere. I meet the teary eyes of the woman, then look down to examine my body.

I’m small. A child. My legs and arms are sewn like my wrists have been. Bringing my fingers to my neck, I find stitches there as well.

Was I in some kind of accident?

“Oh, Jude,” she whispers, then rushes to me, pulling me into her arms.

I stiffen. Who is this woman? Who is Jude?

“I think you’re scaring him, honey,” a man warns from the doorway. He and the woman are both wearing white coats over black clothing. I frown at them, opening my mouth to ask the millions of questions I have, but all that comes out is a grunt.

Pulling away, she holds me by the arms and searches my face. She’s pretty, but I’m scared of this woman who seems to know me, even though I don’t know her.

Her face crumples. “You—you don’t remember?” She rushes out of the room with a sob.

The man puts his hands in his pockets, then takes the seat next to my bed. He reaches out and traces the thread around my neck gingerly. I flinch at the contact from the strange man, but allow it. Although I don’t know him, he is less intense. His gentle disposition calms my anxiety. With his eyes half-closed and a wistful smile on his face, he seems to be pondering something. Perhaps remembering? As if waking from a dream, he shakes his head and places his hands in his lap.

We stare at each other for a long moment before he asks, “Do you remember anything?”

I do. I know this language, and I’m fairly certain I can walk if my body lets me. I feel older than my appearance. More knowledgeable, like I’m a dictionary, but all anyone can see is the alphabet.

“Yes,” I croak, my voice higher than it should be.

His eyebrows rise. “Us?”

I try to bring to mind who they are to me, but get nothing. I shake my head.

He slouches in dejection. “You?”

I shake my head again.

Even though I can form sentences intellectually, my voice creaks when I try to use it again, so I speak concisely as I point to myself. “Who?”

“Jude.”

“Who?” I point to him, then the door.

“Your parents.”

That explains a lot.

“Child?” Why am I younger than I should be? Why are they older than parents of a little boy tend to be?

The man—my father—presses his lips tightly together, thinking through his response. “Not always.”

“What?”

He sighs. “You were fully grown. A man. Made some poor choices that made your world a darker place than it should have been. We loved you. It wasn’t enough.” His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “Jude, you… Let’s just say things didn’t end well for you. Your mother was heartbroken, sure that if she had been there, things would have been different for you.”

His implication is horrifying. It can’t be what I think. Can it? Pointing to myself, I ask, “Died?”

He nods.

“How?” How am I here?

My father seems to misunderstand. “You hung yourself.”

Why would I do such a thing? What kind of a world was I brought back into that I would make such a drastic move to escape it in the first place? He takes my hand in his and gives it a squeeze, a gesture likely intended to ease my fear. It doesn’t.

“Your mother is a brilliant scientist. A little mad, perhaps, but that runs in the family, I suppose. She is the bride of Frankenstein, after all.” He chuckles, pointing at himself. “I assisted in her research and in… obtaining your parts. Don’t worry. Your mind is your own. Everything else, though—never mind. What she has given you is a gift for all of us. A second chance to get things right. In time, your memory should return, your stitches will fade, and you’ll get to grow up again.”

“No.” I don’t want this. If I died, I should be dead. I shouldn’t have been brought back. I shouldn’t be in a body composed of the parts of several children. What did my parents do to them? Hopefully nothing worse than disturbing their remains. My stomach churns at the other possibility. No wonder I ended it all.

Taking my chin in his hand, he forces my gaze to meet his. “Don’t let me down. You were made for her, so let her in. Don’t shut us out like you did the first time. Once you accept your new life, things will be better for you.”

“But—” I try to stand up, but he stops me.

“No, no, Jude. Stay here. I’ll bring her back, and we can get a fresh start.”

As he leaves the room, I think about what he said. Nothing has changed the way I feel. Scared, lost, alone. Like a child. How many children were used in the construction of this body? I don’t want their sacrifices to be in vain. Would it be worse to live this stolen life or to destroy this abominable creation of the Frankensteins?

A fresh start. My previous life was so bad that I ended it. Maybe Dad is right. Things might have been bad before.

They don’t have to be that way again.

I’ve decided. I’ll take my miserable song and make it better.

Can you guess which song from the 1960's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katie Hauenstein was educated at Northwest University in Kirkland, Washington, where she met and married her husband, Nick Hauenstein. After graduating with her Bachelor’s Degree in Communication, she had her daughter, Mary, and began writing her stories. In her spare time, you can find Katie binge-watching Netflix, fangirling about Doctor Who, attending a variety of movies at the local theater, or with her nose in a book.

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