The Creator

            He pursued me across Siberia for weeks.  He wanted to murder me.  The extreme northern latitudes wreaked havoc on his already pathetically poor constitution, but the animal instinct of self-preservation drew him on.  Oh, the irony.  A few years before, it would have been a simple matter of inaction or incompetence on his part to preclude my wrath.  A faulty electrical connection, a brain vegetative for slightly too long, a miscalculation of wattage, a misunderstanding of synapses.  A moment of forethought.  It would have been that simple.  I would never have been alive, and he would not be dead.

            As he tells it, I killed his best friend.  I wantonly murdered his lifelong companion and disposed of the body in the ocean in such a way that it would wash up on the coast of Ireland and incriminate him.  As he tells it, in the moment of his unjust arrest, he realized the brutality of the monster he had released, and he vowed to hunt me down and kill me, even if it was his last act on this God-forsaken earth. 

But I, of course, know differently.  I did not kill his friend, and I certainly did not frame him for murder.  At the time of the discovery of the friend’s body, I still believed in the inherent goodness of my creator.  I am disfigured; my skin is a putrid yellow; every movement reveals the most intimate mechanisms of my muscle filaments; every bulging vein and protruding bone is plainly visible; my scars will not heal; my limbs are misshapen and my head disproportionately small.  I am not a masterpiece.  However, I reasoned, I am not evil.  Therefore, I am good.  Therefore, the act of my creation was good.  A person capable of a good act is good.  Therefore, my creator is good.

Then, the body was carried on a changed tide to the shores of Ireland.  My creator has interestingly failed to note that a cursory examination soon revealed the body to lack a brain.

It did not escape my notice that I, on the other hand, do not.

Perhaps as a result of my unconventional upbringing, I do not place much stock in emotion.  I turned, instead, to reason.

Fact #1: My skull contains the brain of my creator’s friend.

Fact #2: My creator was implicated in his friend’s murder.

Conclusion #1: My creator murdered his friend for his brain to place it in my skull.

Fact #3: Murder is evil.

Conclusion #2:  My creator is evil.

Fact #4: Murder resulted in my creation.

Conclusion #3: My creation was evil.

Conclusion #4: I am evil.

Fact #5: Evil creatures are expected to commit evil actions, such as murder.

Conclusion #5: My creator is expected to commit evil actions, such as murder.

Conclusion #6: I am expected to commit evil actions, such as murder.

Fact #6: Death prevents evil actions, such as murder.

Fact #7: I am capable of inflicting death.

Decision #1: I will murder my creator.

I could have strangled him in his jail cell.  I could have poisoned his food.  I could have stabbed him or shot him or drowned him.  I could have induced him to hang himself.

All of these deaths would have been swift.  Relatively painless.  He deserved worse.

I waited patiently for his release before setting off across Siberia.  Of course he followed.  He had a false alibi to support and an absurd vow to keep.

I knew his weak health would never hold up.