Revelations
Victor is unwell. That much is
obvious to even the blind eye.
It worries me greatly; what if I
have married a madman? He traipses off into the foreboding dangerous wildernesses
again and again and each time returns in a less healthy condition of mind or
body than before.
I have loved Victor for as long as
my young mind can remember. Since his mother took me into her open arms from
the poverty and destitution that awaited me in Italy, Victor embraced me as
friend and cousin, as his. He has always been loving and protective of me, but
I cannot help but fear that he is unstable. It is wrong of me--he is my
benefactor! I owe him so much and love him from the darkest depths of my soul.
I feel unfaithful and cruel.
He has acted strangely for a
while--arriving in such a state from his researches in the city after a
mysterious prolonged illness, proclaiming to know the murderer of our cherished
brother. But he did not reveal the cursed stranger's name or place to be found,
and Justine herself was killed without reason and William never avenged. His
reluctance to consummate our love by marriage troubles me also. Even though he
reprimanded me for my letter that begged him act as he wanted and not as he
felt obliged to, I still wonder if he perhaps does love another, or if he
simply does not love me at all. It is very possible--after all, we were brought
up nearly as brother and sister. Perhaps he feels nothing but fraternal love for
me and does not wish to marry a close family member. I could perhaps empathize
slightly, but I feel so close to Victor that marriage to him is merely another
step in our precious friendship.
That is, I used to feel close to
him. He is keeping secrets, this he has told me. This dreadful confidence he'll
reveal to me in the morning has me shivering, even though the room is warm.
What could someone as sweet and harmless as Victor have that seems so
life-threatening? He speaks of this something as though it might endanger him
or me; as though it might rise up out of the depths of the night and slaughter
us! I have never harbored such particularly morbid thoughts, as they are not
befitting and will undoubtedly lead to nightmares, which I loathe.
I imagine that part of Victor's
secret might be he knows how dear Henry died. I can hardly believe the horror
myself--it seems that each of us, our carefully constructed family that is so
close and safe, is one by one being killed. The thought is again a morbid one that
I don't like to have in my head, but it haunts me as I gaze out of the window.
Does Victor have anything to do with all of the recent deaths? He claimed he
knew William's slayer, and Alphonse related to me, under strictest confidence
of course, that Victor claimed himself to have killed Henry in his fits of
fever!
What was Victor so involved in,
that he believes himself the killer of his closest friend?
There is a rustling by the door;
Victor must be back from his perambulations on the shore. I turn, but the
figure towering in the doorway is not my husband but some daemon! I freeze by
the bed-post and he walks towards me. "You are Elizabeth," he states.
In the midst of my spinning thoughts, I realize that he speaks in fluent
French.
"What are you?" I demand
in the same language, hoping to stall him.
"I am wretched," he
confesses, but I do not understand.
"What do you want? How do you
know who I am? What are you--"
He shakes a shaggy head
impatiently and holds up a monstrous hand to silence me. Before I can move, he
is standing directly before me. I have to crane my neck to look into his eyes,
and then immediately wish I had not. His eyes are a frightening combination of
cold and sad and regretful and angry and murderous, and it is the last that
makes me shrink back against the bed. "Do you know what I am?" he asks,
cocking his ugly head to the side, considering me.
He is a monster, I think, but I cannot tell him
that. "I do not know," I answer untruthfully.
He places huge hands on either
side of my neck. Each one encircles my throat entirely. "I am a
monster," he says deliberately, "Created by your precious Victor
Frankenstein."
Victor? Is this your terrible
secret that you were going to tell me tomorrow morning? What devil-work is
this, the creation of life from dead parts? His hands are cool against my
heated skin. I can see tiny stitches on his own neck and flinch away.
His hands tighten, and too late, I
scream.
