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If you may indulge me, I shall endeavour to show you a glimpse into the more mundane aspects of the fever that plagued me for those months. I believe, though this may not seem of great import to the whole of my tale, that the memory of my fallen friends is magnitudes more valuable than that of the rambling madman the events of my story have reduced me to. Forgive me for the aside.
It was near the beginning of my illness, perhaps a month past the mistake which had caused it, in a rare moment of lucidity where my eyes were not entirely consumed by visions of the wretch created by my hand and my bedchamber was not ringing with the sound of my screaming. Clerval was attempting to care for my soul and mind while my body was not wrapt in terror, bless him. We spoke, me in my bed, him beside, while he took his comb (damn me, I'd lost mine sometime in my manic state before Henry arrived) to my long, matted hair, when I interjected.
"Clerval, my friend, did you bring any scissors, or perhaps a knife, from Geneva?"
He looked at me with what seemed like concern, before I assured him, "Henry, I want you to cut my hair."
His countenance had lightened, but returned back to familiar concern again. "Are you sure you wish for me to cut your hair, Victor? I recall you prefer to let it grow, and I do not want you to regret changing it once you are better."
I smiled at him (although Henry had later recounted it was more of a grimace), and again told him, "friend. Be good to me now, as you have been the past month, and cut my hair. I promise that whatever regret I may feel in the future can not overcome the suffering I feel now."
He sighed, and went off to find scissors somewhere in the mess I had left him.
At length, he returned. The sun had begun to set, and shadows began to dance across my vision once more.
"Make haste, Henry. The light is dissappearing."
He had hesitated before starting.
"I am no expert of hair, Victor, perhaps we should wait until the sun rises tomorrow--"
"Good God! Do not fear my displeasure now, Clerval! Tomorrow I may not even be alive, for heavens' sake, and you are afraid I might regret the style of my hair, perhaps for when my family looks upon me in my casket?" Henry was seemingly shocked to silence, and I immediately felt remorse for words.
I do wish, now, especially, I had not spoken to Henry in this way. I wonder if, when he took his final breath, did he think of me? I do not wish to appear self-absorbed, but if he did, did he recall cherished memories of boyhood, and our time sailing upon the Rhine? or did he remember with vitriol what I had done to doom him, my inaction in his moral arguments with his father, and the times I had spoken to him with such utter hatred when, truly, it was myself who was the "miserable wretch," not he. Oh! How I wish he though of the former, how I fear it must be the latter.
Apologies. I am sure you are absolutely riveted by my domestic tale, and are urging me to continue.
A tremor began to overtake me before he was quite finished with my hair, and although he was surely upset with my outburst, he cared for me nonetheless.
"Victor, you must sleep. If you truly do not mind the way you hair is styled, you will not care if I leave parts for the morning."
Although my vision was again clouded with shadows and the face of the dæmon I had created, I did not want Henry to worry. I had hurt him enough with my words.
"I am sorry for what I said to you, Henry."
"Dearest Frankenstein, I am not upset. It pains me to see you suffer enough to speak untruthful sentiments, but you could never hurt me. Please sleep, friend."
I nodded, and let him set me gently back to my pillow before he impressed a kiss upon my forehead. I feared for him to leave, as I could not protect him if he left my bedchamber (this was my reasoning at the time, my present temper did not allow for much logic), and clung tightly onto his sleeves.
"I will not leave, Victor. I will always be by your side," he murmured, caressing my face and smiling upon my already distant eyes.
His gentle touch urged me into sleep, albeit restless, but it would never have come without him. Oh, how I wish I had told him to leave, to never return! To let me die, so my misery could not infect him and my friends, as my cousin's disease doomed my mother for her attentions. Alas, I did not. I hope I have not doomed you similarly, friend. Perhaps I should not continue with my tale.
No, I shall. The memory of those I loved cannot die with me, and I fear for your safety if I do not conclude with the moral my tragedy.