Frankenstein: “Why is there a book about me?”

My name isn’t even Frankenstein. I don’t have a name. People think I’m a monster but I’m not! I never meant to hurt that little girl. He did this to me, Victor Frankenstein. He’s the reason why I am the way I am. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that author, Mary Shelley. Who even is she? 

How does she know my story and everything I’ve been through? And apparently a hundred of you humans have read my story. My book, well Mary Shelley’s book, sells 40,000 copies a year. I mean that’s crazy right? Are people fascinated about what I’ve been through? I’m just scared that they believe that I killed the little girl. I never did! I hate that my story is being shared to the whole world. I’m pretty sure they think of me as some kind of monster. But I’m not! I never was. The real monster in the story is Victor. He created me. I am not a monster. At least I don’t think I am. 

It is sad because I looked my name up on the internet and I’m known as “Frankenstein monster” and it makes me feel as if I’m a bad thing. They referred to me as “the worst kind of scientific experiment gone awry.” These people are mean. I don’t think you humans understand the severity of your words. All these mean comments that you share, do you not know that I can read them? It’s not because I’m a monster that means I have no feelings. I can feel sadness and pain, happiness and excitement although that doesn’t happen very often, but that’s not the point.

I do think that the book is beautifully written. I might just say that it’s a masterpiece. But I do not know how I feel about it being about me. I don’t like the attention. Especially the hateful remarks. Maybe I just want to live peacefully without always having to think about what other people think of me. I struggle with my self esteem because I was always to blame. I just want to be normal. Why can’t I be normal?