burden

Sep 13th 1799

I, of course, know that my days are numbered. And while I embrace this, as I must, I do find myself wishing just for a mere moment that, it didn't have to be so soon. Thus ends the Frankenstein line; no children of my own to carry along my story. Or, perhaps I should be grateful, for then no children would be weeping for their father – or their mother.

Alas, my Dear Elizabeth. You did not deserve the fate you received. If I were capable, I would turn back the clock, and I would never have created the wretched monster I did. But the travelling of time is something that no man, no matter how great and powerful, can accomplish. And so, I must lay upon my death bed with only the memories of a life easily avoided.

I mourn for the days long gone and the ones that never were. I mourn for my Elizabeth. For William. For Father. Justine, Henry, whomever else may have been the victims of mine own creation; I wish upon them, in Heaven, every happiness, and I encourage them to only remember the good lives they lead, I ask them not to mourn for their Victor Frankenstein for if I arrive at the gates and find them weeping I will be very sorrowful indeed.

I dare not entertain the thought that no such place exists.

I am weak. I am sick. And, indeed, I am dying. I wish only that my story be told, I wish for it to become legend and myth – what greater honour is there? If I am to die, let my legacy be great. Let it be bold. Let it have children weeping as I once did, and let them learn from what I did not. For if my life did not have a purpose, then what has my life been for? What purpose did my mistakes have if not to have my fellow men learn from them, grow from them, and heed their warnings? If none of these are accomplished after my passing, then I render my life a waste.

Watching my parchment fill up with writing pains me. My burden is the knowledge that these words will be my last. The end of the scroll approaches nearer, and it reminds me of mine own sorrowful life. The greatest burden of all is knowing the hour of your death. For I know I shan't make it to the next. The tick, tick, ticking drives me to weep. Every second passed is another second gone to the wind. Never again will that single second be experienced. Never again will our humble Earth, and our grand universe, have that second. To many, it may seem as a mere measurement of time. To many, perhaps it is not so important. But to me, and to others, it is the world. It is our universe, as grand as the one we are forced to live in.

After my passing, I will end. My thoughts, my ideas, my happiness and my sorrow. If there is no such Heaven – then allow my soul rest. Finally upon my death I will have peace of mind... No more burdens and responsibilities. Debts. My thirst for revenge, my intent, gone; this is a good thing.

I have no more will to live. While I mourn for days that could have been, I must accept it as it is given to me. And now I must die, abandoned by all who knew me. A sorrowful life indeed.