I. They call me a monster, ignoring the true Frankenstein, who crafted me from stitched sinews and mismatched skin and lopsided limbs— an amalgamation of forgotten scraps— he who activated my heart with a defibrillator, then abandoned me, fearful of his own creation. II. They call me a monster, screaming when I approach or murmuring when I leave. Flinging darted glances as I stand in a grocery store line, holding a birthday cake with one candle. Don’t they know this skin was not chosen?...
