and refused to accept any of this. While I felt a sickening dread sinking into my heart, my mind worked to keep me in ignorance; otherwise the horror of the events would surely have crushed me.
The judge arrived at the jail a short time later, and I was brought out. The rest of the mob charged in behind me and filled up the room. I had heard stories of this judge, of course, but this was the first time I had been within his company. He was every bit as compassionless and stern as his reputation. A short and stout man of sixty with a harsh pallor to match his gray hair, he had the unnerving eyes of a bird of prey, and his features were likewise as sharp as a hawk’s. I looked away from him and saw Herr Klemmen, but there was no love or compassion in his face either, and as he looked at me he trembled with rage. He only looked away when he was shown Johanna’s locket. He confirmed in a choked voice that the locket had belonged to his niece.
The judge addressed me next. In a voice every bit as harsh as his features, he told me that the evidence against me was insurmountable. That with my victim’s blood on my coat sleeves and her locket found in my trouser pocket, as well as the unexplained nature of my being found asleep in an alley, I had, without doubt, ravaged and murdered Johanna Klemmen.
It was only then that the fog surrounding my brain lifted and I could no longer deny what was evident. I fell to my knees sobbing. The thought of my Johanna being robbed of her life sank me into the deepest misery the human heart could know.
“Please, let me see my dearest Johanna,” I begged through my weeping.
The judge scoffed at that. “You wish to view the fruits of your villainous act?” he asked in a voice bitter with outrage. “Herr Hoffmann, I find you one of the world’s most contemptible creatures, and you will be shown the same mercy that you showed your betrothed, Johanna Klemmen. You are to be broken at the wheel in such a fashion as to cause the greatest amount of suffering. The executioner is commanded to wring every drop possible from your wretched body.”
The crowd enthusiastically cheered the judge’s decision. I couldn’t speak. I had little concern for my own fate, and instead was too overwhelmed with what had befallen my beloved to utter a single word in my defense. They took me quickly from the jail to the courtyard beyond. The executioner’s wheel sat there beckoning.
Sleep did not come to me that night, and my eyes had remained open to witness the first morning light that seeped into the room. The only physical movements available to me were the opening and closing of my eyes, but my senses seemed sharper. I could hear birds singing from outside, and as sunlight spread throughout the room my vision was no longer filled with a golden haziness, but instead I could now make out distinct patterns within the wood beam ceiling above me. All of this left no question that I was still of this earth. A body as shattered as mine should have fallen into death within hours, if not minutes. All I could imagine was that my host was indeed a sorcerer and had bewitched me. I had never before believed in witchcraft or spells, always attributing the stories I would hear to that of an uneducated and superstitious mind, but what else could explain my still being alive? The words of my host also troubled me. What could he have meant by calling me his
Later that morning my host arrived. At least I believed it was still morning, for I had difficulty in my present state judging the passing of time. But it seemed as if only a few hours had passed since those first morning rays of sunlight appeared before I heard a door opening, and then footsteps creaking along a wooden floor. While I couldn’t see him, I recognized his voice when he called out to remark how glad he was that I was now able to open my eyes.
“Good, good,” he exclaimed with much excitement, “this means that you are becoming stronger, my pet!”
His voice sounded familiar, and not just because I had heard him the other day. Somewhere in my past I had heard his voice before. When my host sat beside me and leaned over me to peer into my face, I could see his own face clearly. The other day where I saw a hazy blur I now saw well-defined features. His was a youthful but serious face, a face that many would judge as handsome. Thin with a high forehead and a Roman nose. His lips were full and his eyes held a piercing quality. But it wasn’t an angelic face as I had first deluded myself the other day. There was a falseness to the smile that he bestowed upon me, and his eyes while sharp and intelligent had a cruelty to them. As I had recognized his voice, so I also did his face. He had been a customer of the apothecary, and there were several occasions when we had conversed. His purpose at the apothecary had always been to buy compounds for his studies, being that he was a student at the University. From our conversations, I remembered that his field of study was medicine, and at one time we had discussed advances in chemistry at length. With a great effort of concentration I recalled his name. Victor Frankenstein.
He moved his face very close to mine and stayed positioned that way for a long moment before straightening in his seat.
“Your eyes are still very watery,” he said, “but your pupils are more defined, less dilated. I would venture to say that you can see far more clearly today, my pet. I would also guess that your sense of hearing must likewise be improving, but for what purpose? What could you possibly make of my words? To you they must sound as the same garbled noises that any newborn would hear. A pity.”
Once again I was greatly confused. Frankenstein suspected that my hearing was improving, so he would have known I wasn’t deaf. So why would he believe that I would be incapable of understanding his words? We had conversed before, he must have remembered that. Did he think that my injuries had left me unable to understand my own native language? I tried to call out to him for I badly desired to ask him those questions and many more, but I remained mute, for I lacked the strength even to open my mouth.
Frankenstein left his seat. His presence remained near to me, and I presumed he had set about to vigorously rub life back into my deadened limbs. This was a presumption on my part, for while some of my senses were returning, my skin remained devoid of sensation. Occasionally he would enter my field of vision and that appeared to me to be the activity that he was engaged in.
While this went on I thought about what had occurred the night before. Maybe I was mistaken. How could I trust my perceptions with everything that has happened? What I thought had been satanic chanting could have been nothing more than hallucinations, perhaps even brought on by the foul-smelling balm that he had applied to my person. Frankenstein was a medical student, a man of science like myself; perhaps during his studies he had discovered a new procedure to restore health to a body as broken as mine. And while I prided myself on being familiar with all materials known to an apothecary, that strange balm that he used could have been a new discovery of his instead of something unholy as I had imagined. As these thoughts consumed me, I felt a great anger that he had interfered with my dying; for by keeping me constrained within the earthly plane he was robbing me of being reunited with my Johanna within the kingdom of Heaven. Eventually, though, I realized that if Frankenstein could truly bring me back to health, then I would have the opportunity to discover and expose Johanna’s murderer and seek justice for my beloved. While my additional days on earth without her company would be torturous, eventually those would pass, and when we were eventually joined it would be with the knowledge that this terrible crime committed upon her had been avenged.
My thoughts were interrupted by a dizzying sensation as the room moved on me, and I realized that the table I was lying on was being tilted upwards by a hand crank so that I would be in a more upright position.
“This should help keep your blood from congealing,” Frankenstein said, his voice strained from his exertion. He giggled in a mad sort of way that chilled my blood. “Besides,” he added with a sly overtone, “I am sure you must desire the company of the fairer sex.”
Before my eyes lay a severed head. I squeezed my eyes closed, not believing what I had seen, maybe even thinking it could have been an apparition, but when I opened them again the head was still there. The head was that from a woman. She had perhaps been beautiful when she was alive, but there was now a horrible gauntness to her features, the cheeks hollowed, the eyes sunk deep within the flesh, only wisps of brownish hair still remaining on its scalp. The skin was grayish in color and had the appearance of parchment paper, and from the way the mouth pushed inwards it gave the impression that the teeth had been removed. The severed head sat in a bowl, positioned so that it was facing me, a short stump of its neck still attached. A milky substance that was about two inches deep filled the bottom of the bowl. For a long moment I stared, transfixed. Then, seemingly, it came alive and its eyes shifted to lock onto mine. I would have screamed if I could have.
