It had been days, weeks, perhaps months since he had left the terrible ship. His last view of humanity ever. His dead creator at his feet—it was his fault. But now wasn't the time to think of that. Now wasn't the time to think. The cold made that impossible. The cold that made his yellow skin want to split. It was nearly unbearable—even for a monster like him who hardly could feel the sensation of cold. A mere human would have frozen long ago and not had to suffer any longer. But he was still here. It was punishment. Punishment for his unspeakable deeds. He refused to think of those. He tried not to think. It was easy. He tried not to feel. All he felt was cold—and guilt. It weighed him down, heavier than the ice. But thinking about why he was guiltily made it worse. He was sorry, inexpressibly sorry. But now the only one to grant him forgiveness was gone. Dead. It was his fault.