Frankenstein Alternate Ending

“Jenna? Are you going to come with us?” my dad whispers, gently awaking me from my land of dreams. I rub my tired eyes open. “Of course I am,” I groan, stretching the sleepiness from my body. As my dad leaves my room, I roll out of my soft, warm bed into the cool darkness of my bedroom. I look out the window into the deep darkness of the world outside. Great, I think, seeing the trees whip back and forth. It’s windy. I shut the plastic white blinds and cross my room to turn on the light. The immediate brightness of the lights jolt my body to a level of consciousness that I was unaware was possible at this hour. It was only seven o’clock, but my drowsiness can be accounted for because of the night before. (We had been out setting and checking …show more content…
Dave walks over to his truck and pulls out a small, black case from under his sheet covered seats. He opens the case and pulls out a small pistol, then pulls out two small, smooth, gold bullets from the depths of his pocket. I watch him as he loads the gun and walks over to the closest coon. I stay back, but I am able to catch a glimpse of the small creature. Its small body is caked in mud, and more mud latches on as he tries to escape from the foot-hold trap. I used to look away and even sometimes cry, but I don’t anymore. I know that these animals are a nuisance and if we didn’t do this they would overpopulate and cause more problems. I understand that what we are doing is legal and is helpful in the long run. Suddenly I am jolted out of my thoughts by the loud POP! of the pistol. After Dave clears out of the way, my dad hops down into the water filled ditch and detaches the trap from the convulsive yet lifeless raccoon. He tosses it up onto the side of the road and begins to reset the trap, while Phil and Dave repeat the same steps on the other side of the road. After they stop twitching, we load the raccoons into the back of Dave’s …show more content…
As we pull up to the large farm, I see the brown, droopy, crunchy flowers of Mary Jane’s once prismatic flower beds. I sigh. I love being here. As we drive to the back of the property on the meandering sludgy paths, I can see the old fashioned merry-go round that Dean used to push me on. I see the old dog that always greets us, and I see the dirty white building that houses our small fishing boat during the fall and winter months. Then I am greeted by the smell of the cattle lots. When I was younger I would have to cover my nose in refuge from the rancid smell of cow manure and cracked