My dear Elizabeth,

 

I fear that little time remains. Life for me shall soon be no more. The utter despair for the crimes of which I have been falsely accused has inundated me to the point of ailment. The shackles on my arms and legs only frail in comparison to those that now tug on my feeble soul. However, this unbearable pain will soon dissipate, and at last, I shall be condemned to the fate that He has planned for me.

My fair Elizabeth: that which I am about to confess to you will perhaps bring sense to a situation that only seems senseless. These final moments of mine are becoming scarce, and I must admit to you a crime that I have committed. So heinous in nature was this offense, that I tremble writing these words. I have been accused of murder, and, I am shamed to say, murder I have in fact committed. However, this act was not carried out against the innocent William, (for whose death I have been falsely blamed) but instead, my own mother. The wretched woman begged for my return home. She sobbed for all that she had done to dismiss my existence, and pleaded that I find it in myself to forgive. As a good Catholic, I did such, and thus returned home with great sadness and some reticence. However, upon my arrival, I found that nothing had changed. My mother, once again, execrated my very presence. She accused me of causing the deaths of my sister and brothers. However, I suppose I played the part of the fool for believing that those so wicked could actually change. Dreading this relentless abuse, and desperate to return to the Frankenstein family, I formulated a plan which would forever sever my connection to a woman whose very existence diminished my own. And thus, in a moment of rage, I slipped a poison into her broth, and could not help but watch with a sense of amusement as she consumed every last drop. She withdrew herself from her seat, only to fall quickly to her knees. As she pleaded for my help, I knelt down—resting my head gently against her chest. I took her arm—now limp, and wrapped it around my shoulder. I closed my eyes, and listened intently to her pulsating heart—its rhythm now slow, and its beating becoming more faint. At last, it had stopped completely. I sighed, and perhaps due to the relief of her demise and the realization of the crime I had committed, I then began to sob uncontrollably. I returned to the Frankenstein’s, and brought with me the false news that my mother had died from a terrible ailment.

So you see Elizabeth—the unfortunate circumstance that I now find myself in is the consequence of a separate crime for which God is forcing me to pay the price. And thus, I confessed falsely to the murder of William Frankenstein, as I fear that I have been condemned to hell either way. And so, Elizabeth, please do not try to save me—nor should you attempt to defend me, as I have committed a grievance perhaps far worse than that I have been accused of. After all, how could a child take the life of the very person who game them theirs? You are fragile and innocent Elizabeth, and I apologize to relaying to you the nature of these horrendous events.

 

Forgive me, and stay well.

 

Justine M.

Return to game