I’m done with your shit

I’m done with your shit. The majority of you are fucking idiots. You think you know what you’re talking about but you have no idea. I may have started this whole mess, but you assholes perpetuate it. You’re caught up in the drama, the hype, the fucking insanity surrounding me and never even take the time to think about if I’m actually doing anything wrong. My name is familiar to you. Elizabeth Lavenza. You see me in red letters, in bold, in huge print splattered all over your newspapers and magazines. You see me on the fucking evening news! *Monster* *Killer* *Murderer* *Unrepentant* *Psychotic* *Vicious* *Freak* I don’t know why any of you even bother calling me a human. I may as well be It from *It*, the Riddler from *Batman*, maybe even Buffalo Bill from *Silence of the Lambs*. You don’t bother thinking about the fact that yes, I am a human, capable of rational thinking and feeling. I’m sure you’ve all heard the *horror stories* of what I’ve done. I’m sure you’ve all heard about Robert Walton’s tragic demise. But did any of you actually stop to think, what could have possibly led up to that? What could have ever made me snap? You don’t even know what happened. I’ll tell you what really happened. *It all started with Victor.* I know you’ll all be shocked to hear that. How could I possibly badmouth the dearly departed Victor Frankenstein? He was an upstanding citizen, a brilliant scientist, an all-around stand-up guy. I knew him. I know he wasn’t. I ended up on the streets when I was barely more than a toddler. My father died in a tragic accident when I was still in diapers, and my mother was stuck to her bottle. She dropped me off at a local monastery when she couldn’t deal with taking care of me anymore and never looked back. She died only a few years later, from what I was told. I spent a few years in the monastery. I had no idea what my life was like before; I didn’t even remember my name. I was just called ‘Girl’ by the nuns. I was barely five years old when I ran away, but I remember the cold, dismal walls that comprised every waking moment of my life. I was forced to live on the streets, barely scraping by on table scraps and stolen food. I had to fight to survive, and not many other children on the streets made it to adulthood. I was one of the lucky few. That was until the day Caroline and Alphonse Frankenstein took me in. They were an older couple, unable to have children and looking to adopt. I was ‘lucky’ enough to be chosen by them. I don’t know why, but I think it was because I never cried. I was silent; emotionless. I didn’t bother trying to make friends with their two eldest children, William and Victor. I didn’t expect to be there long, anyway. I figured they would get bored of me and kick me back out onto the streets. But they didn’t. Caroline and Alphonse were kind to me. Even if their children weren’t, at least they tried their best to make me feel like family. Eventually, they even adopted two more children; Ernest and Justine. We had a happy family, even if Victor never saw me as a sister. Then Caroline died. I had no idea how much her death would affect all of us. The house was torn apart; no one knew what to do. Alphonse broke down and cried; Justine and Ernest were sent away to boarding school; William and Victor were the only two to stay at home, with me. Alphonse paid more attention to his two elder sons, and never even spared a second glance for me. I didn’t expect him to; I was only an adopted child, after all. Then I started bleeding. I vaguely remember my mother mentioning periods, but I don’t think she ever told me what they were for. So when I woke up one morning to find my bed covered in blood, I had no idea what to do. I knew it couldn’t be good. Victor was the one who found me; he was the one to tell me what a period was. I remember him telling me, word for word: ‘Your uterus is shedding its lining in preparation for the next possible fertilization of an egg, which didn’t happen this time. It’s natural, you’ll get used to it.’ It didn’t help. He just made me feel stupid; lesser. He took pleasure in doing so; he had a smirk on his face that I will never forget. But, despite that, he took care of me. He helped me clean up the sheets, and he helped me put a pad between my legs. So despite his occasional jabs, I grew closer to him. So did William. We became like a second family; Victor, William, and I. And then Victor went off to university. I missed him horribly, but I never told him. I kept it bottled up, just like I always did. And then he came back. I didn’t even recognize him at first; he was so different. His smile was gone, and his eyes seemed to be perpetually shrouded in a thick, grey shadow. His eyes *looked* dead. He barely talked to me; barely acknowledged my existence. It was as if I no longer existed to him. But when I asked him what was wrong, he just laughed. He said there was nothing wrong at all; he was fine. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t push the issue. Maybe it was better I didn’t know. But then, months later, he left again. This time I wasn’t worried; I knew he would be back. I knew he was the only one in our family who still saw me as human. But I was wrong. He didn’t come back. He didn’t answer any of my letters, and when I tried to visit him I was turned away. I didn’t hear a word from him until his wedding, to his cousin; Elizabeth. I saw him for the first time in years on their wedding day. He looked happy, and I think he was. But in less than twenty-four hours, all of that was gone. Elizabeth was dead; murdered on her wedding night. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to think; I was reeling in shock. I had lost count of how many times I had fainted, but each time I woke up I was met with the same heartbreaking truth. Elizabeth was dead. Sweet, innocent, beautiful Elizabeth. I know now that Robert Walton was the one to kill her; but I didn’t know that then. All I knew was that she was dead, and I was left alone to pick up the pieces of Victor’s broken life. But no matter what I did, nothing seemed to make him feel any better. Nothing seemed to ease the pain. Until I received a letter from him. In it, he told me of what he had created; a monster; an abomination. That was the turning point. I knew I had to find him; I had to save him from himself. I didn’t know where he was, or how to find him. I didn’t even know if I *could* find him. But I knew I had to. I scoured the continent looking for any sign of him. It wasn’t until I received a letter from Robert Walton that I had any idea where he was, or what he was doing. I know you all hate me; you all think I’m a monster; and maybe I am. But I’m *human.* I’m capable of love; I’m capable of hate. I’m capable of revenge. And that’s exactly what I got. After years of searching; after years of hard work and dedication; I finally found him. I finally found the man who had killed Elizabeth; who had ruined Victor’s life. He was exploring the Arctic; looking like a fucking idiot with his stupid white skin, pasty face, and bright red lips. He smiled at me when he saw me; he thought I was there to kill Victor. But I wasn’t. I was there to kill *him.* He didn’t expect it; he didn’t even see it coming. I stabbed him in the chest; right between the ribs. He gasped; tried to talk; but I just pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. And again. And again. I didn’t know how many times I had stabbed him until after he died. I didn’t even know *when* he died, just that he did. I didn’t bother moving his body. I left him were he lay; frozen on the ice in a pool of his own blood. I didn’t even cry as I left him. I felt no remorse, no regret. I had done what I had to do; done what needed to be done. And now you all paint me as a monster. Murderer, killer, psychopath. All because I got revenge; all because I took justice into my own hands. I don’t even know why I bothered explaining myself. You won’t care; you’ll just continue to berate me; beat me while I’m already down. I don’t care. I’m done with your shit.

I’m done with your shit

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