Tell me why, O creator of mine,
Tell me why I feel remorse for Victor Frankenstein, who made my life as miserable as it was. Tell me why, why I consider him not my creator any longer, but only a fellow being who shares my painful and twisted existence.
I no longer know what to believe in. I stand here, at the end of the long road that I have followed, and now my thoughts are becoming new and creative. My head is whirling with things I have never thought of before, and I feel exactly the way I was before, when this all started, when I first opened my eyes in that beautiful woods.
Frankenstein, if you are reading this, as you surely must be as I wrote this for you, look around. There are no more trees, or rivers, or towns for us here. There is only an endless wasteland of ice, much like where we first met one another.
I feel sorrow in my soul for you Frankenstein, sorrow without a reason. I don't know what to believe anymore. Everything that was ever once dear to us is now gone; my future companion, your beloved, and your friend. What left have we got in the world?
Nothing. I can think of no reason to continue this mad and self-eluding chase. You and I both wish vengeance upon each other, but the fire that is our revenge is the only thing keeping us alive. I know nothing of joy and happiness, so perhaps you can tell me, Frankenstein, if this is all there is to life. Were you not happy at one point, before I came into being? Have we become so blind to the world around us, that all we can think about is destroying one another?
It is too late. I have seen no sight of you these past few days, and my dogs are beginning to die on me. Neither one of us shall ever find happiness again here. Yes, I am searching for you. Here, completely and utterly alone, I think I am starting to understand things that I could not believe with other humans around.
Surely, in our next life, if we escape hell, we will find what we have been looking for. How would you sign a letter?