The story of the Monster of Frankenstein has always fascinated me. A man, essentially re-creating himself, out of the pieces of dead criminals.
Science and art and magic. Pushing the envelop of life to see how far you can go. Spiting in the eye of God if you will, and paying the price.
But I feel no sorrow for Frankenstein, or his Monster, both were given chances. Frankenstein could have never started his experiments, he could have given up his need to stroke his ego. The Monster could have learned to live alone.
But instead they created another … The Bride.
Legs and arms and bodies of women put together to please men. Borne out of darkness and given only one choice … accept the Monster and the life that has been planned for you. She rejects both and burns to death for it. For the few brief moments of existence she only knew loneliness, fear, and sorrow. Even the Monster was given more than that …
