Dr. Frankenstein’s Gender Therapy Clinic

He’s worked on plenty of people, you thought, anxiously waiting in the sterile lobby. 

Clean white walls, squeaky chairs with new mint green vinyl, the floors immaculately scrubbed. If you weren’t so terrified of your own reflection, you could’ve seen it in one of the tiles. 

Someone told you about Dr. Frankenstein years ago. Before you had even thought about transitioning. There were plenty of monster doctors roaming around, eager to perform surgery on whoever wanted it. All the ghouls and ghosts went to Dr. Spectra; the vampires preferred Dr. Acula, and every other monster chose Dr. Frankenstein. 

You had always thought about the day you might be at one of the modification clinics. You had yearned and wanted for years and years before this, knowing that one day it would happen. Still, sitting there in the squeaky green chair and trying desperately to not look at the tiles of Narcissus, you were nervous. 

You were raised in a conservative monster household, one that did not allow for any exploration of any kind. When you found out one of your friends was leaving your tiny town to become a vampire, you were so jealous. Not only of the ability to leave, but of the support she had from their family, both monetary and emotional. You were left in the middle of nowhere all by yourself, stewing and ruminating on what could be. 

You did not want to be a skeleton. In fact, you spent a lot of time each day making your skeletal features less so. Your family hated this, and after seeing you in your first skin suit, you were out the door in less than a week, following your friend’s stale trail to the nearest big city. 

When you saw your friend again, you didn’t recognize her. But for the chipped front teeth from a biking accident as kids, you might never have. 

“You can’t be scared forever. It’s hard, I know, but once you start transitioning, everything feels different.”

“So you drink blood now?” you laughed. Your friend nodded, a wide smile on their face, shiny fangs poking out. 

“Mx. Osteo?” the nurse called from the doorway. You looked up, every bone in your body shaking. 

You walked over, trying to hide your fear, but you could tell by the nurse’s eyes that she saw right through you. She gave you a warm smile and led you down a hallway, into a room with a big metal table, several machines pumping and whirring, vials and jars of mysterious contents surrounding it.  

“Don’t worry; Dr. Frankenstein will be here momentarily to start. It is hard on skeleton-born people, and the healing process is a bit longer, but he does a fantastic job. I have several friends who’ve used them,” the nurse said. You nodded, trying not to get distracted by all of the machines. 

“Now, we have some reference images you sent us.” She handed you a file, letting you look over them one last time. “They’re great; you’re going to look lovely.”

The body you chose was perfect. Strong but still soft, freckles in certain skin patches but not on others. All the skin was to be dyed a light purple at your request. It costed little extra and made all the difference, you’d heard. 

Dr. Frankenstein came in, jolly and springy as he went over the procedure. 

“Skeletons can’t go under, of course, so you will be awake. Until we get your vitals connected, that is,” he smiled. His glasses were reflective, making his eyes impossible to see. Still, his smile was kind and wide. 

Their own body was covered in stitches and seams; it was all the rage. No one knew what they were before, and no one really cared. To be a Frankenstein was a blessing, and one you were excited to receive. 

The procedure began, lying on that cold metal table. You squirmed as you felt your rib cage fill with lungs and a heart, stapled in place.

You watched the nurse pull a long trail of intestines out of the fridge, snipping them with a large pair of scissors after measuring. She did the same with the small intestine and put them in a bucket for the doctor.

“You’ll have to learn to eat, but we have lots of ways to help,” the doctor said. 

After being given all of your organs, and Dr. Frankenstein programmed your brain to feel them, wires running from each organ to your skull, you began to breathe. Cold, crisp air. It stung in a way you’d never felt, because you’d never felt before in your life. The doctor gently rubbed where your humerus met your clavicle, letting you adjust. 

After a few minutes feeling each individual organ in excruciating detail, they put you under, the lights above leaving sparks in your vision. 

When you awoke, you felt heavy. So incredibly heavy, tired and groggy. This is what it means to be a monster? You thought for a moment. 

No, it certainly is not. You replied to yourself. You felt your fingers flex, but they no longer folded inward so easily. Chunks of meat were in the way. You slowly raised your hand to look at it—purple flesh covering your yellow bones. It was slightly translucent, which you enjoyed quite a lot. 

The rest of your body was the same. When you were able to move, which came to you quickly, you stood in front of the mirror. 

Tears ran down your cheeks. Finally, a body that felt like home. You pinched and poked at the fat you’d chosen, squeezed the muscle and rubbed a round belly. Yellow eyes like a cat looked back to you, at all of you. You had never really seen before, not like this. You could hear machines buzzing down the hall, smell the chemicals in the room and feel that cold air again on your skin. 

Your body was yours. It always had been, but now, it felt like it too. 

This poem originally appears in OFM’s Suspect Press Takeover. Photo courtesy of Vampy1 via Deposit Photos.