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The Creature had wandered this earth in solitude for centuries, the loneliness like a worn-in pair of boots, the soles scuffed down and peeling away over the endless miles. Free of his creator, but still bound by the chains of his cursed birth, he was set adrift— cast to the dark margins of the world to suffer through his immeasurable life span until the sun burned out, with no one to call upon when his mind retreated into darkness, returning over and over to thoughts of a death he would never be granted. Until he met you.
You too were a lonely soul, but you didn't particularly mind it. Usually you were content in your little cottage in the woods, with your books and your houseplants to keep you company. You kept a garden in the back that occupied much of your time, and you found digging in the soil, nurturing the vegetables that grew there, to be meditative.
But humans are social creatures, and sometimes you found yourself ruminating on the past— relationships that didn't work out, careers that fizzled, acquaintances that never blossomed into friends. Even when you lived in the city you spent most of your time alone; and whether that was because you lacked social graces or because you simply lacked interest in the people around you was something you never cared to examine. The idea that there was a person out there truly capable of understanding you was a haunting one, and many nights you sat by the fire wondering if life would be more fulfilling if the spot on the couch beside you was occupied by some warm body.
In secret, your heart yearned for that— someone to talk about books with, or even just to sit beside you in silence and watch the embers dance in the hearth; someone to share your meals with, or kneel with you in the dirt pulling weeds and harvesting the tomatoes. They were almost ripe, and the thought of eating them alone set off an ache in your chest that you didn't want to process.
Perhaps that's why you didn't fear the presence outside the cottage when you first felt his eyes on you.
You'd read somewhere that plants flourished when spoken to, so you'd taken to reading aloud, nestled in the bay window among the pothos and anthurium, the spider plant above you tickling your nose occasionally with its leaves.
One summer day you cozied up by the open window with your favorite novel, a light breeze tousling your hair and rustling the leaves of your plants. You'd read this one many times, but it had a certain charm when read aloud that gave it a new dimension for you, and you imagined the plants were enjoying it to. As you were getting into it, you noticed a large dark shape out of the corner of your eye. You froze, a momentary fear washing over you as the figure got low and approached the window.
You expected whoever it was to leap at you, drag you out through the open window and do any number of malicious things to you— but it never did. You allowed your eyes to drift down, and noticed a man sitting cross-legged in the grass, leaning his back against the outer wall of your cottage. You couldn't see his face because of the hood, and you wondered how he was managing the summer heat in the thick cloak he was wearing. You didn't stop reading— didn't do anything to indicate that you had seen him. And he just sat there, and listened.
Your mystery visitor started appearing every day, seeming to know your routine well enough to show up moments before you began your daily reading session. A strange man outside your house should have been frightening— especially as large as he was— but all he ever did was sit outside your window. He never spoke, and he never gave any indication that he had more sinister motivations. Another lonesome soul, maybe, drawn in by the sound of another human voice. In time, you even found a strange comfort in his presence; your silent audience, another house plant for your words to nourish.
When you were done reading, the man would retreat into the woods, quickly disappearing from sight. Your curiosity was piqued, to say the least, and against your better judgment, you resolved to speak to him.
"Wait," you said, leaning out of the window as the man got up to leave. He startled, whirling around, wide-eyed, and you saw his face for the first time. It was not an ugly face, but it was odd: framed by long brown hair, incredibly pale and scarred, the features slightly mismatched, like he was a patchwork quilt, his dark, sunken eyes betraying his fear. "I just want to talk," you reassured him. But he ran like a startled deer across the clearing, crashing through the tree line into the forest.
You slipped on your shoes and followed.
You weren't sure why, and you knew that following strange men into the woods was a bad idea— but something about him struck you. He was easily over seven feet tall standing at his full height, and broad, but his eyes held a look of such terror. As if you were the monster lurking in the shadows.
His camp wasn't too far into the woods; a ramshackle lean-to against a stand of trees by a creek. You found him cowering inside it, dark eyes peering out at you like an animal caught in a trap.
"I'm not going to hurt you," you said, crouching down to meet his eyes. He didn't say a word, just crumpled in on himself further, making himself as small as possible. His hands, clutching his cloak tightly around him, bore the same patchwork of scars as his face. This was someone who had been hurt enough to fear other people, even when they approached with kindness.
"I don't mind if you listen. It's nice to have company."
When he still didn't emerge from his hiding place, you slumped your shoulders in defeat and went back home. You could feel him watching you as you made your way out of the woods, your mind swirling over this peculiar stranger. What was he doing alone in the woods? Why was he so drawn to your little cottage?
You were shocked when he came back the next day, but you didn't acknowledge him again; just read your book, pretending like you hadn't seem him slink out of the trees. And for many days you existed like this, reading to your silent companion, which is how you came to think of him over that summer.
When the leaves started to turn, you found a kitten— a small orange bundle of fluff that you named Mr. Darcy. While you read, he sat in your lap, batting at the leaves of the plants. In just a few short months, your little cottage had become a lot less lonely. If only the tall stranger would speak to you. The longer he sat beneath your window, the more your curiosity itched at your mind.
So one day you took your reading outside. It was a warm fall day, the sun bright above you, colorful leaves dancing in the breeze as you sat on a picnic blanket with Mr. Darcy. And you waited for the stranger to appear. Eventually, he did.
Out of the corner of your eye you saw him lingering at the tree line, seeming unsure. He shifted from foot to foot, watching you with his head tilted like a curious dog. This was outside your usual routine, and he was puzzled by it. You didn't acknowledge him, but your chest swelled with pride when he sat down in the grass just past the edge of the woods.
You were so caught up in your achievement that you didn't notice Mr. Darcy wandering away from the blanket until a gasp of surprise drew your attention. The curious little kitten was perched in the man's lap, his hands raised skyward like he was afraid of the tiny creature.
"I think he likes you," you said, the man's head snapping up at the sound of your voice.
Slowly, he lowered his hands and gently stroked along Mr. Darcy's back, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when the kitten arched into his touch. You took his distraction as a cue to approach him, plopping down into the grass in front of him.
The way his eyes seemed to light up when he gazed at the kitten plucked at your heart strings, and for a while you were content to just watch him. A sound escaped him then, so low and gravelly that you almost didn't register it as a laugh.
"His name is Mr. Darcy," you said, and finally he met your eyes. There was a strange look in those dark irises, a mixture of childlike wonder and apprehension. You told him your name, and asked what he was called, but this only made his brows furrow.
"I don't have a name," he said. His voice was surprisingly soft, a raspy, deep timber that came out far gentler than you imagined.
"Can I call you Adam?" You're not sure why you settled on that name in particular— Adam, the first man— but it felt appropriate. Perhaps it's the way he seemed to look at the world like it was new to him. He smiled at that, and gave you a timid nod.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The next time you came outside to read, Adam surprised you. He walked to the edge of the picnic blanket, hands fiddling with the hem of his cloak, his nervous eyes glancing around. It was comical to see such a large man acting so hesitant, like he was waiting for permission to join you. You patted the blanket beside you, and he sat. Mr. Darcy took this as an invitation to crawl into his lap, batting at the tattered edges of his cloak as you began to read.
The days passed like this, and an odd sort of peace settled over you. Most of the time he just sat and listened, not offering anything in the way of conversation. Occasionally you would ask him what he thought of the book, and he would reply. At first his words were stilted, but as he grew comfortable with you he would wax poetic about the plight of the characters. These are the moments where his face became expressive, his eyes lighting up when he talked about the moments that excited him.
The thing that drew you to him the most, though, was when the story wasn't going well. When he talked about these moments, his eyes grew distant, like he was drawing from an endlessly deep well of sadness that you could only see the edges of.
Soon, as fall progressed, it grew too cold to sit outside, your fingers stiff and shivering as you turned the pages. On one of the coldest days, Mr. Darcy mewled at the door to come out, but you insisted he stay inside where it was warm. You didn't want to be outside either, the icy wind whipping at your coat and reddening your cheeks. Adam didn't seem to mind the cold, appearing as he always did, with a smile on his face that you'd grown fond of, and it always made you feel just a little bit warmer.
"Can we read by the fire today?" you asked, "It's too cold."
Adam glanced around, apprehension in his eyes as he looked between the cottage and you. You'd like to think the two of you had grown close over the weeks you spent reading together, but there was still hesitation in his body language. He voiced this, so softly you almost couldn't hear him over the sound of the wind.
"You'd let me in your home?"
"Why wouldn't I?" The answer seemed obvious to you, but the look on his face spoke to his fears.
You knew Adam wasn't quite normal. Up close you could see that his mismatched features were more than just slight, the scars dividing his skin into various tones, shades of grayish blue. Almost like he was many men, stitched together to form a single entity. And when he spoke, he seemed to be pulling from experiences of many different lives. You didn't know how close to the truth that was. It didn't bother you, though. You thought he was beautiful, in a strange way.
Others might call him monstrous, but to you he was just Adam— your mysterious companion who loved kittens and books and listening to the sound of his voice.
He seemed reticent, almost unwilling to answer the question you'd intended to be rhetorical.
"We're friends," you insisted, "I wouldn't invite you in if that wasn't true."
"Friends," he murmured, almost to himself. You nodded, your heart swelling when the ghost of a smile tilted the corners of his lips.
Mr. Darcy seemed very excited by this new development— almost more than you were— pouncing around Adam's feet as you made your way to the living room. Adam stepped carefully, his eyes tracking the kitten's movements to avoid crushing him under foot.
"You can sit down," you said with a little laugh as you lit the fire in the hearth. He'd just been standing there on the rug, watching you with the same concerned expression he'd been wearing when you'd first invited him onto the picnic blanket.
As he sat on the edge of the couch, stiff like a mannequin with his hands on his knees, you could tell he was deep in thought. His posture didn't relax when you curled up beside him with the book in your lap.
"You're a very curious person," he said, finally. You almost laughed at that— that he should find you strange. "Most people are afraid of me."
You pushed down your laughter, sensing this was a conversation that ran deep— one that was a long time coming.
"The first time I saw you, I was— a little," you admitted, gazing into the fire, "But you just wanted to listen to me read. And I was lonely."
This seemed to put him more at ease, and he eased back into the cushions, stretching his long legs toward the fire. "I've been lonely too," Adam said, "for longer than you've been alive."
Your breath caught in your throat. You'd long suspected that there was something otherworldly about him, but this was confirmation. That night though, you didn't pry. Instead, you squeezed his hand and smiled, hoping he would take that as acceptance. And he seemed to.
When you came to the end of the book, he stood to leave.
"Wait," you said, grabbing hold of the cloak to stop him. "Why don't you stay?"
"I couldn't impose."
That sounded ridiculous to you. You'd both just admitted how lonely you were, and now he was planning to go back into the cold night and leave you here.
"It's nice to have company," you said, "And besides, it's too cold to sleep outside."
For a long moment he just looked at you, as if searching your eyes for some kind of catch— like if he accepted your offer this would all come crashing down on him in some horrible way.
But he did, eventually. The hesitance in his demeanor slowly melting away as you proved to him over and over again that you wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't abandon him— reassuring him repeatedly that you wanted him here, and you enjoyed his company. And little by little, he opened up.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
One evening, by the fire, as a winter storm howled and rattled the window panes, he told you the whole sordid tale. You listened as he recounted his creation, the horrors of his existence, the centuries of lonesome wandering after the death of his creator, his eyes reflecting the dancing orange flames in the hearth.
"I can imagine what that would do to someone," you said, your turn to be hesitant. "I guess that explains why you didn't trust me at first."
You didn't know what to make of his story, but you believed him. His shoulders seemed to relax at your words, grateful that you reacted with understanding instead of fear. You could sense the worry that bubbled beneath the surface as he spoke.
He didn't flinch when you reached out to run your fingers through his hair, even leaning into the touch. Little moments like these had been happening more often— soft brushes against the back of his hand, leaning into his side as you read to him, even waking up in his lap one afternoon after accidentally falling asleep when it was his turn to read. He looked down at you with a serene smile on his face that you wanted to melt into a little puddle on the spot.
You realized, at that moment, when his hand rose to hold yours against his cheek, that you had grown to love him.
"You remind me of someone I once knew," he said, voice so soft you had to lean in to hear him properly. "He could not see me with his eyes, but he saw me with his heart."
You smiled, taking his other hand and placing it on your chest, right over your heart, hoping he could feel, without words, how that sentiment made you feel. His eyes rose to meet yours, and, not for the first time, a simple understanding passed between you. Two lonely souls, adrift in the world, drifting together now. You lightly brushed your fingertips along his lower lip, eliciting a soft sigh from him.
He tilted his head, as if asking permission, and you nodded, already moving to close the distance between you. Your lips met, his cold, yours warm. It was a strange sensation, but not an unwelcome one. You rested your forehead against his, and for the first time felt fulfilled.