15 December 2027
Wednesday. The doctor is asleep at his bench, so I am writing in the middle of the page for once. It is very roomy. I can see why he likes it.
This year I learned to spell galvanism, to sit up slowly so as not to alarm anybody, and to wear a paper crown with dignity. I was woken by more assistants than I could count, though I tried, and I can count very high now. I met sweethearts, accountants, schoolchildren, eleven doctors and a count. Every one of them came in thinking they were helping him. Every one of them was helping me.
Here is what I have noticed, from under the sheet. The groups who wake me are not always the cleverest. They are the ones who talk: who read the journals aloud, who call out when they find something, who ask for a hint without blushing. If you are coming to the laboratory, come like that. The doctor will tell you otherwise. The doctor has never woken anybody on time, including himself.
Merry Christmas, reader. My name is Percy. Thank you for reading the margins.
In the margin, in ink, blotted and furious: HIS NAME IS NOT PERCY. — V. F.
Below that, in pencil: It is a bit.
— V. Frankenstein
