Author: AuthorSwimmerPoet PM
An extension for the ending of Frankenstein, what happens to the monster after disappearing into the Arctic.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 410 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 1 - Published: 07-12-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7172589
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The cold is beginning to sink within me. I had not felt it for so long. My form is much more resistant than that of the one who created me. The penetration of the chill, signals to me, the end. Shortly I will no longer possess this much despised form. This form will perhaps be preserved by a bed of ice, but the eyes which so loathe it shall never see it. Perfectly maintained and horrid to behold. Even the most adventurous explorer will need to. It will be buried, by snow, frozen in ice. This form will at last make peace with the world, even if I the spirit inhabiting it will never be reconciled to it.
The ice is cold. Brilliant white. Its brightness sinks behind my eyes, blinding me even when they are closed so that I cannot see.
There is nothing. Only that whiteness prevailing even behind my eyes, whiteness and the crack of the ice. It constantly shifts and breaks, but has not taken me to the depths of the sea with it yet.
Now in this frozen world, I contemplate what I have been, what I have become.
The cold seems stronger now, turning that little emotion left in me to the ice of the world I'm surrounded by. Truly it is done. I am numb to all feeling. I no longer crave life, death or love. I will merely continue to exist here, until I reach my end.
No one will see my end. No one understood my life. I produced a brief effect upon this world, but not to a lasting degree. All them who saw their end by me would have passed from the world in the end. All does. Humans, mortals, monsters. All must pass from this earth. Spirits cannot forever linger in bodies, much as they may try or regret the passing from it.
I do not hope, but consider that perhaps there would be retribution for me. The God of these mortals, the God of the mortal that created me, is not my God. He cannot be. He is not my creator, but perhaps He a God would find pity for one such as me. I did not ask for form. I did not request creation, but perhaps it shall be justified in a punishment to my creator from his.
I shall die as I lived, alone.
This is my end. Bound in a frozen tundra. Alone.