He ascended the icy slopes to the summit of Montanvert, fear rampant in his heart. For he knew what he would find, knew that the very harbinger of all that was nefarious awaited him just beyond. Yes, he was terrified, but it was his creation, his harbinger, and would die trying to destroy it.
A bitter wind rose as he reached the summit, and immediately spotted his quarry, a dark hulking mass in the distance veiled by flurries of falling snow. “ This ends now, unnatural demon,” Victor Frankenstein whispered, nearly collapsing from his exertions. He was ailing, his body expiring, yet all he could see as he trudged on were the faces of his family and friends: William, Justine, Henry… God, his Elizabeth! All dead, killed by what his own hands – through ignorance and conceit- had wrought. A fire burned fierce in his soul, keeping his mortal shell aloft for this last act of setting right what was wrong. “ Upon this mountain, I shall send you back from whence I dragged you.”
The monster, unable to hear his words, sat stolid and unmoving. The doctor’s weakened eyes could not make out its features, yet he could tell its back was turned. This was an advantage he would need, for he was not nearly as strong or swift. Only by the element of surprise would he have enough time to sneak up and hurl it off the peak. He would die in this endeavour, no doubt, but he was dying all the same.
He thought he heard the heavy breathing above the howling of the mountain air, thought he could see the undulation of its massive shoulders and the fiery hatred grew hotter. He quickened his step; closure near enough to reach out and touch. ‘ That thing had wanted me to make him a companion, another killer just like him. As if I would ever agree to such an abomination.’ Victor rallied his remaining strength, preparing to lunge …
It wasn’t his monster. Instead, a looming monolith was before him, a gray slab of granite that seemed to silently mock his dismay. For a moment he stood trembling, his mind a blank frame. Then it struck him, the pieces that were his tormented existence at last falling into place.
“ No,” he moaned. “ No, no-”
It wasn’t his monster because there hadn’t been a monster.
“ No, no, noo -”
His experiments with the corpses, the attempts at reanimation, it had all failed. The failure had turned him unstable, and he, Victor Frankenstein –
“ No, not true, not true-”
– had killed the little boy, then framed Justine for it. He’d killed William. He’d killed his father. He’d killed Elizabeth. Then he’d created, not with his hands but with his mind, an imaginary monster to take blame for his actions-
– “ Not true!” he screamed at the air, tearing at his hair.
But it was. All of it was true. He was a murderer, and now that there was no demon conjured by his guilty conscience, he couldn’t stand it.
He walked to the edge of the summit, staring down at the swirling darkness below. ‘ Ironic’, he thought. ‘ I was going to push the monster to his death.’