The woman version of Frankenstein

Long before the birth of Joseph Picarillo, his mother bore a daughter. She suffered from Proteus syndrome. Her face exposed disfigured, horrifying, and utterly repulsive deformities that proved even difficult for a mother to love. The left hemisphere of her skull contained two large bumps, one lump completely encompassing her left eye. The left side of her body evidenced to be at least two inches wider than her right. However, the right side of her body was flawless. Her right eye, a deep green, resembled an emerald of some sort. Half of her smile, crooked and cocked, made her seem as though she always had the need to smirk. Indeed, from the left, she resembled a nauseating monster but the right side of her physique was flawless. Upon further inspection, Joseph’s sister learned that people weren’t willing to inspect her beauty, merely her ugliness. The crowds of people were malicious; she was made into some sort of freak show by the travelling circus. If you hadn’t already guessed it, this poor and innocent child had been given away at an early age due to her disfigurements.
Despite her physical appearance, she had been loved by many. She was a “simpleton”, as the doctors put it, being born partially mentally retarded. In any case, she still responded with a half-intelligent remark when addressed. The girl had felt the shame embarrassment when placed in front of a large crowd. They pointed at her, laughed and taunted her, and in many cases threw vegetables at her. Children hid behind their mothers by the sight of her, they weren’t aware of her gentle obedience to others. Never one did they chain her, hit her, or say socially demeaning remarks to her. In fact, she had the choice to leave the circus but she didn’t. The circus was all she ever had and knew starting from an extremely young age. Surely, she was smart enough to realize the effect she had on others, but she was safe.
Mr. Popkins, the general owner of the circus and caretaker of the girl, took relatively good care of her. She was his favorite act, not only because people paid great money to see her, but because she truly was pure hearted. She enjoyed the simplicities that life had to offer, for butterflies never once feared her as people did, birds didn’t stop chirping when she came close, and dogs craved for her attention.
“Helen today is yet another splendid day! Pack your bags; we’re headed to Yorkshire next weekend.”
He spoke with a weak and lifeless voice, although the excitement he felt was dually noted. Mr. Popkins was sick; pancreatic cancer had struck him suddenly but he kept the news to himself. He wanted to take her Helen on one last trip before his death, for he knew once his ultimate perish came, Helen’s life would take a turn for the worst. She would have no one to care for her. Her birth mother had been dead for countless years, her father being a dreadful alcoholic, and the whereabouts of her brother were completely unknown. She would live a lonely and miserable life, locked up in some appalling penitentiary where no one would appreciate her inner beauty. She was doomed and Mr. Popkins couldn’t help but blame himself.
“Will there be butterflies Popkins,” the left side of her lip made it difficult to understand what Helen had asked. However, he had known Helen for an impeccable amount of time and grew to understand her speech impediment.
“As many as you could ever imagine.”
He stood on the bowsprit of the ship, glaring deep into the ocean. Helen stood near him, feeling the wind blow into her long and gorgeous blonde locks of hair. They stood there quietly for a matter of minutes before Popkins began to cry from his worries. Helen placed her arm over his shoulder, patting his balding head with the other. Popkins imagined how Helen was the closest he had ever had to kin. He had known her since three years of age, fourteen years had went by since the day he picked her up off the streets begging for scraps. Popkins let Helen embrace him, for what would probably be one of the last times. For the first time he had known her, Popkins only saw the beauty in her face and not the horrible disfigurements. She was gorgeous, almost an angel. He wondered why such a human had been punished so terribly. She represents a purity which no other living being could reach, a beautiful figure of…
Just like that, Popkins last thoughts weren’t able to be remarked upon for he passed much earlier than he thought. As he lay limp and lifeless on the ground, Helen wept for him and held his motionless body close to her. The wrinkles on his face had slowly begun to deteriorate, as if all of his worries had abruptly stopped. Helen then screamed for help as a seaman reached for Popkins’ body.
“Move beast,” he bellowed at her with severe disrespect. She didn’t pull away.
“I didn’t do nothing, I swear I didn’t do nothing.”
The seaman pushed Helen out of the way, attempting to resuscitate the already dead man. He stood up, clasping his hands to his mouth, and then flailing his arms to and fro. Finally, he glares right at Helen, staring deeply into her sad stricken eyes.
“I shall stop this ship and you shall leave, beast. No one shall hear a word of this incident. When this ship stops in Liverpool, you are to run away and never speak of Popkins, myself, or anyone else you have met through your travels. Do you understand?”
Helen nodded her head in agreement, still in disbelief and shock that the seaman had let her go. Once the ship stopped, Helen quickly stepped foot onto the land, or what she knew as oblivion. Liverpool was a strange and new place in comparison to London. She covered herself with a shawl so that people wouldn’t see her wretched face. The people were rude, malicious, and terrible excuses for human beings. They pushed and prodded her through the streets. On numerous occasions, she was stopped by clergyman, salesman, and bums. She sped through the city, trying to go unnoticed until a remarkably large and ill smelling man ripped the shawl from beneath her.