conversation as was recounted in the book. Perhaps Frankenstein’s lies were so deeply embedded within his mind that he could not imagine the conversation being anything other than what he wrote.
As I read this book to completion I marveled at Frankenstein’s cunning and deception, even during his last moments. If I were to believe Walton’s words, which I have no reason not to, then Frankenstein even went as far as to forge letters from an imaginary Felix and Safie to support his outrageous story! And he must have done this before I had sent him chasing after me!
I threw the book in the gutter after finishing it, and as I began my travel back to my remote home, I realized I needed to tell the true story of Frankenstein to counter his lies. I turned back to the center of Leipzig to steal steal paper and writing instruments, and then began my long journey back to my cabin.
During my travel I forced myself to remember all of it. Most of it I had long forgotten or tried to forget, but as I concentrated to recall these events they crystallized in my mind as if they had only just happened, and I was amazed and sickened. I had gone through what no man could have ever imagined, and while at times I had saved the lives of innocents, I had also committed grave evil. I did not blame myself for the helpful push that had sent the devil worshippers and Frankenstein’s guests to their deaths, but there was no justification for my murder of Elizabeth, nor of how I had allowed my obsession with vengeance to twist me into the same abomination as Frankenstein.
When I returned to my cabin, I took pen to paper with every intention of exposing the truth, even if it exposed myself in the process. I believe my crimes are severe enough to keep me forever from Johanna, but perhaps one day I will be judged differently. At least I can pray that God will take pity on me and my failings.
