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From his cottage atop the cliff, Victor could see both the green farmland as well as the ocean. York was pleasant enough. Not as idyllic as Geneva, but then again, nowhere else in the world could be.
A book sat open on his lap, unread. Grey clouds rolled in from the sea. They darkened the sky outside his window and drew his attention; he could not help but wonder how different his life might have been if he had never witnessed that violent storm from his youth, if the great oak had remained whole, if Nature had not revealed her power so explosively, so illimitably, so alluringly. If he had not succumbed to the temptation.
A year had passed since his voyage to the Arctic. His body still bore the scars of that near-fatal journey; the dark circles around his eyes lingered, and the veins on his temple stood out every time he looked in a mirror. His clothes hung loose on his emaciated frame. Even keeping his head up was a struggle at times.
He put the book aside and settled deeper into his chair. It was no use trying to read when his mind was already full to the brim. There was too much to do; he would need to go to London later in the week to address more issues regarding his father’s estate. Ernest would be on leave soon, and had written that he would come to visit at the end of the month. Even that prospect held little joy; with no other remaining family, who else would Ernest visit?
Rain began to patter on the thatched roof. Victor pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and let his eyes fall shut. His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten that day. He sighed, but stayed in his seat. Food could wait until later; for now, he just wanted sleep. To see his loved ones for a few brief hours. Perhaps he would beg their forgiveness again.
A knock at the door brought him from his drowsy state. Another neighbor with a basket, he had no doubt. He stood, took his walking stick, and made his way to the threshold.
“My apologies, but I am not well enough to entertain this evening…” he began, opening the heavy door with a struggle that was only partially feigned.
It seemed to him that a mountain stood without. He furrowed his brow in confusion, then followed the dark shape upward. There his gaze met a pair of dull, yellow eyes.
A surge of panic shot thought his veins. His breath caught. His heart paused. He stumbled backward, only just catching himself on the table before he could fall to the ground.
The creature took a step inside and rested a hand on the doorpost. Every movement filled Victor with fresh terror. He fought to find his voice.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Victor demanded. “Are you so lacking in decency that you even refused to perish on the ice? Begone!”
The creature remained silent. Rain dripped from his limp, black hair. Victor’s mind reeled with a combination of fear and venomous rage. He questioned if the loathsome being was truly there, or if it was another conjuring of his frayed mind—his guilt made manifest.
“Do not insult me with your silence, wretch,” he said.
The creature took a breath as though to speak, then let it out. He looked away.
“I…” he paused to take another breath. His voice was quiet, fearful, and, above all else, weary. “I have a request to beg of you.”
Victor made no attempt to hide his malice. His hands shook with the sickening ire that rose within him.
“Do you dare—?” he choked on the words.
The creature took a tentative step further into the room, letting the door close behind him.
“Hear me once more,” he said, “and be assured that whatever punishment you wish for me shall soon be fulfilled.”
“Yes,” Victor said, “it shall.”
He lunged at the creature and threw his shoulder into his middle. For the first time, he did not elude the onslaught. He staggered and fell back against the door.
His massive form slumped over, taking on the posture of one who had endured a sound beating. He clutched at his chest. He slid to the floor, still leaning against the wood. His shoulders heaved as though every breath was a struggle.
The sight gave Victor pause. Surely a colossus such as he could not be so affected. He pushed aside his confusion.
“After all that you have done,” Victor said, “after all the innocent blood you have spilled—Tell me why I should not end you at this moment.”
The creature met his eyes. All the fire—every mote of passion, be it love or hate, anger or admiration—each ardent emotion that once lit his dull eyes—had vanished. He looked utterly broken.
“Because I am beyond recall already,” he said. “There is little time left to me.”
Victor studied him. He still spoke with a quiet hesitation, and his breath shuddered. Yet the devil was more than capable of treachery—of that Victor was sure.
“What are you saying?” he spat.
The creature was quiet for a time. He stared at the floor. He tried to speak, but it took several tries before he could say anything coherent.
“It is my heart,” he managed at last. “I cannot endure how it pains me.”
“Is that why you have come to me?” Victor said. “Do you think I will help you? Good God, what a greedy, deluded beast you are to think that I would lift a finger to save you—you, who most deserves death.”
The creature tensed, as though a great pain afflicted him. He clutched at his chest so hard that his knuckles turned white. When it passed, he took a shallow breath.
“I do not ask for your help,” he said.
“What do you want, then? Why do you disturb my solitude?”
He braced a hand against the wall and pushed himself to his knees. There he wavered before finding his balance. A long, heavy moment passed before he spoke.
“All my life I have lived alone—” he murmured.
“And whose fault is that?” Victor said.
A hint of that old fire leapt up in the creature’s eyes.
“Yours,” he shouted. “For cursing me with this face.”
As quickly as it had come, the fire disappeared. The creature’s expression softened. He looked away.
“...And mine,” he added, “for behaving wickedly. For thinking that indulging my rage would save me from my pain. By both our actions have I been condemned to solitude. But...” his voice grew thick with emotion, “I do not wish to die thus.”
He hid his face in his hand. The other wrapped tight around his middle. Whether he trembled in pain or from the effort to stifle a cry, Victor could not tell.
“And you think I will indulge you in this request,” Victor said.
“Who knows better than I that we are enemies? Yet I—I have no one else—” his voice broke.
The expression of anguish on his face turned Victor’s stomach. Once, long ago, he had felt a brief compassion for this being; now he felt it beginning to return. He could not let it. Not after all that had happened. He turned and stepped away.
“Die then. Do it elsewhere, and be quick about it,” he said.
“Wait—”
Behind him, he heard the creature trying to follow. There came a series of thumps. Victor looked back to find him lying flat on the ground. Now he wept in earnest, his form shaking with quiet sobs.
“Do not abandon me in my final hour,” he whimpered. “Remember that—that I am thy creature.”
Victor gritted his teeth. Sickness threatened to overcome him, but he continued walking. The creature reached out and grasped his ankle.
“You formed me. Set me adrift in a world that could only hate me. You—you left me—you scorned me—”
His voice grew more frantic with every word. Victor couldn’t abide the sound. In a burst of rage, he silenced the creature with a kick to the ribs.
The creature clutched at his side and wept. He murmured something that Victor could only just make out.
The word chilled his blood.
“What?” he hissed.
The creature curled onto his side, contorted by another wave of pain. He caught his breath.
“Father…” he said.
A thousand thoughts flooded Victor’s mind. Violence and mercy warred for supremacy, colliding and distorting with such force that it left him dizzy. Then the creature spoke again, sobering him instantly.
“Please, father…” he cried. “Do not send me away…”
Victor could do nothing but stare at the pathetic mass at his feet. Was this, then, his mighty and terrible creation? The culmination of his career? Every hour that he had spent in study, every grave he profaned, all the comforts he sacrificed—and all that came of it was the pitiable excuse of a being who now lay sobbing on the floor. It made him sicker than before.
There were knives in the kitchen, he thought. There was a pistol by his bed. And the wretch was utterly vulnerable. He would not fight back this time. It would be as simple as the squeeze of a trigger to finally be rid of him. Then William, Justine, Elizabeth, and Henry—kind, loving Henry, dearer to him than a brother—would finally be avenged.
He set aside his walking stick and fetched the pistol from his bedroom. When he returned, the creature still lay on the floor. He made no sound; were it not for his quivering shoulders, Victor would not have been able to tell that he wept. He aimed the gun and drew back the hammer.
The trigger felt cold against his finger. His breath grew ragged. He devoted himself to the task, but his hand refused to obey him.
He stared at the creature’s side, watching as his ribs rose and fell with uneven rhythm, clearly defined even under his thin cloak. An unwanted memory cropped up in Victor’s mind; he recalled placing those lungs within that broad chest, breathing blessings over his labor, promising the lifeless form that it would speak wise and beautiful things. He recalled nestling a heart between them.
Yet the voices urged him on, the sound of all his friends, now lost, begging him to put their wandering, unquiet souls to rest at last.
The strife muddled his thoughts. His hands shook violently.
Had he not already failed? It was true that he had abandoned the work of his hands—in the folly of his pride, but in folly nonetheless. The only way to remedy the situation would be to have never undertaken the venture, yet that opportunity was years past. There was no fitting solution. Each path would bring about some degree of evil. But one course—one last choice remained to him, and with it he might alleviate a fraction of the insurmountable suffering of his creation. There was still time to do right by him—too little, too late perhaps—but still time.
The weighty decision bore Victor down. He fell to his knees and tossed the gun away. The creature had not moved. His damp, lanky hair hid the hideous face; Victor could almost look upon him with affection. Though it turned his stomach to do so, he stretched out a hand and smoothed down the creature’s tangles.
He flinched back. Victor repeated the gesture. Though the creature remained tense, he allowed the contact. His mannerisms reminded Victor of a frightened dog.
He did not deserve the kindness. But Victor decided, almost against his will, to show pity to the dying.
He moved closer and brought the creature’s head to rest upon his leg, then resumed the work on his hair. The creature shuddered. He gasped with the effort to hold back a cry. After a time, his endeavor failed, and he sobbed aloud, crying out with the pent-up anguish of a lifetime.
Victor considered the creature. What might have been if he had been brave all those years ago? If he had not been blinded by fear? This creature was a sensitive, rational being; what heights might he have reached, had he been given the opportunity? Yet it was too late; all hopes lie in ruins.
Victor squeezed his eyes shut. His greatest creation lay dying. He could not help but weep for the loss.
The creature reached out a tentative hand and placed it on Victor’s knee, clutching at the fabric. There was something innocent about the gesture, unpracticed—it occurred to him that his creation had likely never experienced that which was so common for all others. The realization flooded Victor with an emotion he had not felt since the days he spent constructing the being: that of paternal instinct.
He gathered the creature closer to him, wrapping an arm about his shoulders. The creature curled tighter and held his breath. A long moment passed before he gasped for air again. Victor did not need to ask; he could tell that the pain was getting worse.
“It’s alright, my boy,” Victor murmured. “It’s alright.”
If the creature heard, he did not show it. He merely whispered the word “father” again and again, softly, reverent as a prayer.
His breath grew more and more shallow as time went by. Victor wished he could think of something to say. Yet no words seemed sufficient to mend the chasm-like rift between them; in addition, it would also require words from his creation. So he remained silent.
He leaned upon the creature’s shoulder. He grew weary; soon he rested his head, too. Before he knew it, he had dozed off into a shallow sleep.
When the first rays of dawn came through the window, he awoke to find that the work of his hands had grown still.