Frankenstein: A New Beginning

Isabel Babel

FRANKENSTEIN: A NEW BEGINNING

The numbing cascades of wind were the first things that roused him from his slumber, or rather, his unconsciousness.

He heard the echo of baying hounds mournfully suffering the pain of northern sleet. And the moment he woke he realized that hope was running on slim rations. Soon this raging bull of a storm would cover the tracks of the man-no, the monster- that he was pursuing.

The man groaned into his fur-lined overcoat. He had seen the horrid things that the haggard, tethered beast was capable of committing, the atrocities that reflected his bitter past and appearance. And now he was made to rampage, destroying villages and terrorizing towns without remorse or mercy.

And he, Frankenstein, remained responsible for this creature’s crimes. The blood that the monster spilled would paint the punishment of guilt and exile for Frankenstein, and Frankenstein would be left with no path of redemption. He would be a helpless babe, mewling and whimpering for a chance for something that would forever be unknown to him, God’s mercy.

Attempting to stand, Frankenstein merely fumbled once more and stumbled until his weary legs gave in. He landed harder than a comet, rolling cinematically down a steep slope on the icy tundra, and was now profusely bleeding from his punctured lungs.

Frankenstein glanced down at the snow he now lay in. The ice was now tainted by the crimson blood that spurted from his mouth. He clamped his jaw shut at the harrowing sight, and tore his eyes away. But the very instant his jowls closed, his lung capacity was filled to the brim with blood. Frankenstein’s mouth went agape, in both pain and in fear of drowning in his own blood.

My bleeding must be caused by a slight puncture wound in my lungs. I’m guessing that it is a result of a cracked rib, Frankenstein assessed. He put a hand to his side and wheezed. Perhaps more than one, he amended. 

Littered around were his dying canine companions, or at least the ones that remained were dying. By the looks of it, around a quarter of the twenty dogs he had commenced traveling with had disappeared in the vast expanse of the snowy plains.

Frankenstein decided not to share their fate. Whether he lived or died, it now made not a sliver of a difference to him any longer. His sheer will to exist, his muse, his lover, passion, pride, serenity, had been shattered like a looking glass. And it had caused it.

Frankenstein, driven by this new fury, wandered aimlessly for what seemed like years, though they were mere hours. Previously, he had seen a light, the hue of gold shimmering on the pristine ivory of the snow. And now, as the pink haze of dawn approached, he found himself staring at the glare of the golden light again.

In such a long period of hunting, of scouring and searching, he had never seen such a gilded sight. An outstretched hand grasped his own, and he soon found himself being hauled onto the mighty vessel, fading into unconsciousness with a grin.

He had a chance.