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The last time Jason read Frankenstein, he’d been a Sophmore in high school.
He didn’t remember the book very well. Everything that happened before the Pit had blurred in his mind, becoming a murky pit of memory that was almost impossible to clear. He knew the basic plot for sure. He could remember the mad scientist, the monster, and something about a boat. But he couldn’t remember how they interacted and when.
For example, he didn’t remember Frankenstein being such a massive dick. Or the monster being really sympathetic. Or the boat part being so damn boring.
“So class,” his professor said, standing up at the front of the class. The place was a small room in the Gotham community college with stark white walls, half broken desks, and a chalkboard that had a fracture running down the far left side. His professor, a tall, African American man with a bright green tie, pointed to the sentence on the board, which was written in beautiful penmanship. It said “Intro to Lit 201: Classic Gothic.” The professor cleared his throat and placed his own copy of Frankenstein on the table. “Who do you think it the real monster of the story is? Victor or the monster?”
The ten students in the classroom were entirely silent.
Jason resisted the urge to walk out of the classroom right then and there. What was he thinking, signing up for college classes? He was a vigilante for God’s sake, not an intellectual. At 8 in the morning, he should be fast asleep, not stuck under the watchful eye of an under-paid professor.
It was all his mother’s fault, honestly. Back when Jason was a kid, she had always wanted him to go to college, to do something with his life besides sticking to the streets. Jason had intended to honor that wish before his death; after it had sort of fallen to the wayside. But after passing a flyer for a new semester at Gotham Community College, he couldn’t help signing up. His Mom would have at least wanted him to try.
Jason wasn’t sure if she would have wanted him to be an English major, though.
“The monster,” one of his fellow students said, a guy who was thin as a beanpole. The professor turned to the kid.
“What makes you say that?”
The student backed up in his chair so his back was pressed right against the plastic back. His shirt rode up a bit with how fast he moved. “Um,” the kid said, flipping through the book with both of his hands. He made it to the inside of the back cover where Jason spotted a note card before flipping it shut. “Because he killed people?”
Jason scoffed. If only the kid knew what he used to do with his nights. The noise attracted his professor’s attention.
“Mr. Peters,” the man said, a trace of amusement in his voice. “You have something to share with the class?”
Jason felt his mouth go dry. Great. Spotlight to Todd. He looked down at his own book, the same copy he had his Sophomore year of high school. The corners were dog eared, and the cover was duct taped to the front. Back when he was a teen, he must have loved this book, to have read it so much.
Now, he couldn’t remember what it was that made him adore it so in the first place.
“Well,” Jason said. “I don’t think the monster is the bad guy.”
“And why do you think that?”
There it was. The follow up. Jason tried to think back to being 15, to sitting in his room in Wayne manor, reading through the pages over and over again. What he came back to. Why he came back.
An old man and a pile of books came to mind, and suddenly, Jason had his answer.
“Because he got screwed over.” The professor raised his eyebrow, and Jason rushed to continue his explanation. “Look, there’s no other way to say it. His father abandoned him. He had to figure everything out himself.” Images rushed into Jason’s brain, of bringing home groceries at the age of 4, of using an old math book to help teach himself arithmetic. “He tried to play by the rules-” Another image, this one a flash of red, green and yellow. “and think past his looks” Autopsy scars across his chest, jagged edges of a knife that cut him open “but in the end everyone rejected him anyway.” Bruce’s scowl, deep, dark, and full of blame.“Look, I’m not saying killing the kid was right, that shit is fucked, but it would have never happened in the first place if someone gave him a chance to begin with.” Jason shrugged. “So he got screwed over.”
His professor stared at him for a few moments before nodding, a small smile appearing on his face. “Good job, Mr. Peters. That could make an excellent thesis for your next paper. Though next time-” He tapped the desk in front of him. “Watch the language.”
That night, waiting outside a warehouse in the narrows, the Red Hood began to start reading Wuthering Heights.