The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein

by Kiersten White

“While I saw the destruction of the tree as nature’s beauty, Victor saw power—power to light up the night and banish darkness, power to end a centuries-old life in a single strike—that he cannot control or access. And nothing bothers Victor more than something he cannot control.”

I wanted more time with the books. I wanted to spend the day in a quiet corner, sitting against a window, lost in words and worlds I had never been given access to.

“I have been stuck in the business of books for so long, I forgot how much fun being a part of a story can be.”

“My time here has been for naught anyhow. I sought to puncture heaven and instead discovered hell.”

Sometimes we were strangers even to ourselves.

I wandered to the edge of the lake and collapsed to my knees. Then I lifted my face to the heavens and screamed. I screamed my rage, and my despair, and my intolerable solitude. Somewhere nearby, a creature answered my call. I was not alone. The other cry contained the soul-deep sense of loss I could scarcely breathe around. I curled into a ball around myself and wept until my senses left me.

It was easier to rage than to despair.

“Your hours will pass in dread and misery! Soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your goals forever. You have stripped me of everything save revenge—revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your form, which hides so much. I, the monster, who shrinks now from sight, while you walk freely! Be careful what you do, Victor, for I will watch with the patience of a snake.”

They had stripped us of everything we were taught made us women, and then told us we were mad.

was exactly who they wanted me to be. Who Victor’s father and mother had groomed me to be. Who Victor had created me to be. I was a prisoner. All my life of surviving, of being someone else’s Elizabeth, had led me here. And what was I left with? Who was I when I was not performing for someone else?

Each day was the same, an infinite parade of degradations and torture accomplished by unyielding women and overseen by the condescension of uncaring men. If not mad already upon internment, surely no mind could withstand the torment of this hell.

“Not being blameless is not the same as being guilty.”

Where are the girls? Even Mary’s wild and expansive imagination could not put a girl at the forefront of this story. They’re relegated to the background, mere caricatures.

To Lord Byron and Percy Shelley, thanks for being insufferable and thinking there was no way Mary could write something better than you two could. Joke’s on you.