In the tempest of my passion I lamented for forgiveness; I found remorse an indelible companion as I faced the lifeless body of Frankenstein, my creator and condemner. Embroiled here, in the northern most fringe of the globe I find solemn resignation—peace of a sort that failing to recognize in my vengeful endeavors, I have claimed for myself. How was a monster such as I to attain the knowledge of the heart so commonly sought?
The funeral pyre upon the grasslands of this terrible continent surges and reaches for my thoughts. They are dastardly to offer me a peace that is undeserved. Yet I lived the life that I could live and the thoughts that I can still think I should think. Even in death I cannot flee from myself. Scorching flame blisters the skin of my distorted face as I stand and think. I do not hesitate to enact the final sacrifice, but I do hesitate to quit this life without the final shreds of truth that this existence has given, not to me alone, but to my creator who was forced as I, to suffer them on his own.
We have both lived our lives to the fullest. Consider that the heart is both good and evil and must live the path that it forges for itself. Goodness, love, honor, these were things kept from me despite my unnatural reach. Frankenstein had them all.
Pain and grief ache in my chest as I submit my murderous hands to fire.
How should I have recognized the contrast of love if not for my creator's first betrayal? I would not have wanted it so terribly had I been born with it in hand and so Frankenstein and his monster become one—two sides of a warring coin. I go to ground with this knowledge…the knowledge that we made each other.
Flames engulf my ghastly form and pull at the inhuman muscles of my body.
I will be at peace.