It was with considerable ease that I was able to procure the logs that were to fuel the extinction of my being. Nevertheless, it was increasingly cumbersome to travel miles from the forest that resides in this implacable tundra to the edge of the frigid ocean, which was decided to become the site of my immolation. This round trip back would be the last. My sledge dogs, born with a predisposition to run, were showing signs of lethargy and inanition. I ceased their movement, unable to bear their suffering and released them from their harnesses. Exhausted, they paced back towards the forest hoping to convalesce. Once again, I was alone. Alone to suffer the existential despair, a dreadful neurosis that has lingered throughout my creation. It would
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Laborious, not from the sheer weight of the logs (my body, though slim and disproportional, was gigantic and robust) no; rather the intrusive and inescapable introspection that was working to eviscerate my very being. Not even the bitter chill of the icy gales, nor the fact that my feet would be encased in algid snow with each step could distract me from this scrutiny. I reluctantly recalled my last moment with Frankenstein. His cold, exhausted body in my arms. A grave and sombre countenance remained after the exhaustive indignation of his final days. He created me in a naive state; a creature to which he expressed no intention to nurture or to obviate prejudices from others. He left me. Treacherous fiend. You abandoned me like a stray dog. You left to survive and experience the horrors and malevolence of your kind. If only I was met with dignity and benevolence. Instead, your prejudices and vanity stubbornly viewed an atrocious and malicious wretch. Fear and belligerence prohibited an opportunity for vindication; to rectify a superfluous judgement. The reception of a modicum of reverence would have eliminated my lamentable and gratuitous impulses. A moment of magnanimity to mollify my accursed existence. An ounce of elation. A break from this introspection, for this despair is bemusingly onerous
Laborious, not from the sheer weight of the logs (my body, though slim and disproportional, was gigantic and robust) no; rather the intrusive and inescapable introspection that was working to eviscerate my very being. Not even the bitter chill of the icy gales, nor the fact that my feet would be encased in algid snow with each step could distract me from this scrutiny. I reluctantly recalled my last moment with Frankenstein. His cold, exhausted body in my arms. A grave and sombre countenance remained after the exhaustive indignation of his final days. He created me in a naive state; a creature to which he expressed no intention to nurture or to obviate prejudices from others. He left me. Treacherous fiend. You abandoned me like a stray dog. You left to survive and experience the horrors and malevolence of your kind. If only I was met with dignity and benevolence. Instead, your prejudices and vanity stubbornly viewed an atrocious and malicious wretch. Fear and belligerence prohibited an opportunity for vindication; to rectify a superfluous judgement. The reception of a modicum of reverence would have eliminated my lamentable and gratuitous impulses. A moment of magnanimity to mollify my accursed existence. An ounce of elation. A break from this introspection, for this despair is bemusingly onerous