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January 28 - February 1, 2020
His books always required further knowledge and intense study, while Justine was an illuminated manuscript—beautiful and treasured and instantly understandable.
Words and stories were tools to elicit the desired reactions in others, and I was an expert craftswoman.
He never could stand it when I cried. It would hurt him. I smiled in anticipation, letting the meanness at my core stretch like ill-used muscles.
The decor left a bit to be desired, if one desired things like taste or elegance.
As I turned, my eyes lingered on his walls. They were lined floor to ceiling with books. The room smelled of leather and paper and dust. I had always been jealous of Victor for leaving. Now I knew to be jealous of what he had left for.
I had worked too hard, too long, to give up now. I had spent my entire life being what Victor needed. Now I needed him, and he would be found.
“Elizabeth does not mind.” Victor’s knife winked in the sun as though it wanted to play, too. “She is always concerned with the beauty and poetry of the world, but I want to know what lies beneath every surface. Give me your hand, Elizabeth.” Henry, on the verge of tears, tugged me farther away. “You cannot go around cutting people open, Victor. It is simply not done!”
“Will you answer something for me? Truthfully?” I nodded. But I knew I would not, regardless of what the question was. The truth was not a luxury I could indulge in.
We were not allowed knives, and yet Victor nearly always had one.
“I am better.” “But you will not always be. Someday death will claim you. And I will not allow it.” His eyes narrowed, and his voice trembled with fury and determination. “You are mine, Elizabeth Lavenza, and nothing will take you from me. Not even death.”
“You really do not need to come. You have already done so much.” “Not nearly as much as you.” She grinned wickedly. “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.”
How could someone so effortlessly happy ever understand me? Would I have to pretend to be a new Elizabeth to keep him happy as a wife in some imaginary future? What Elizabeth would I be at his side? I had worked so hard to be Victor’s Elizabeth, and I had failed.
He dropped his head back against the pillow, but I knew every expression of his face. He was the text I had devoted my life to studying.
“Should I bring you back a flower?” Ernest called as the boat pulled away. “No! Bring me back an equation. The most beautiful equation you can find!”
There was something to be said for children after all. There was a deeply restoring and restful happiness watching a creature like William discover the world. He was all curiosity and joy.
“Damn you!” I shouted at the skies. “Damn you for watching and never helping! I curse you! I curse you for ever creating man, only to let him destroy the most innocent among us, over and over and over again!”
When I finally came down from my room with enough strength to at least pretend not to hate everyone in the house, I found Ernest packing.
It was so hard, sorting through what was left of me when I cut off the parts that existed for others.
I set my feet on the richly polished wood floor on which generations of Frankensteins had trod. My soaked skirts dripped a steady puddle of water that would damage the wood if left unmopped. As a child, I would have cleaned it immediately, wishing to leave no trace of myself and no opening for censure. I leaned over and wrung out my hair all over the floor.
I thought of the woman in the asylum, locked away for daring to want a life free from pain and abuse. How mad she must have been indeed for dreaming such a thing was possible.
