Chapter Text
It is only within the absence of Victor was I able to realize something. I have no real self. I remember vaguely coming from a crowded, poor home, and into the manner of the Frankensteins. I remember my first time meeting Victor. Being there for the birth of William. Soothing Ernest through his horrible illnesses. I remember always being what the Frankensteins needed me to be. It is through this reflection that I’ve realized I am empty. I was so devoted to my adoptive family, that I never thought to cultivate something for myself. Now, being miles away from Geneva, with my last direct tie to said family institutionalized, I have been given that chance.
It sounds horrible, but the simple fact is that Victor and his kin were keeping me from myself. Before I would wake up each morning on the hour, lest William sob at my seeming disappearance. Now I wake up on the hour as I wish not to lose a single moment I spend with Lucy.
Lucy has been a reassuring presence throughout this realization. She has cleared the guilt from my conscience.
“If you continue to live for other people, you’ll have nothing left once they’re gone.” She told me. Horribly grim, yet wholly accurate. I am ever grateful towards her. Perhaps it is silly to say, but she has revived me. Her presence is like a rejuvenating mountain gale. I truly believe she has saved me.
My only concern now resides with Henry, who has taken the loss of Victor much harder than anyone else. Even so, he has informed me that he finds much comfort and kinship with Arthur and Quincy. Their intercourse is loud and jovial, discussions vary from literature to the different cultures they all have, even if Henry holds a look of subtle melancholy throughout. We have both found peace within our foreign friends.
Though it may seem odd for us all to have recovered so soon, I have a cruel theory as to why. Victor, despite our love for him, has been to us a dark and storming sky. Now that he is gone? We are finally witnessing the splendor of the heavens.
Lucy has taught me to be selfish. I know it is wrong, and horrible, and vile, yet I wish that Victor has a slow recovery. Oh, dear cousin, forgive me. You are the reason I live in comfort, and the sole source of my misery. I need your continued existence, and your continued distance. I can only pray that what you are being subjected to isn’t as fearsome as my imagination concocts . May your soul be at peace, sweet Victor.
June 20
I’ve spent less and less time within my own room, and more where Samson is being kept. This greatly enhances the risk of being caught by those dreadful phantasms of women, but I feel it is much worth it. When neither of the doors are locked, I go to the library and collect as many books of interest as I can. Then, I store them within my room. When I go to visit Samson, I hold the spine of the book with my teeth so I may scale the walls with little interference. It is awkward, but brisk. I find myself getting better at climbing these bricks each day.
We read together, Samson and I. Even now he is so considerate and kind, asking me if I have finished a page yet, and waiting if I haven’t. I often find myself running my fingers through his hair, carefully working out the knots that have accumulated. He told me that the women grab his hair and tug on it until he cries out in pain. He has also told me that is the most they can do without being harmed by his crucifix. I do my best to remove all signs of abuse. I do my best.
Despite my circumstance, I find that I am much calmer when in Samson’s presence. He soothes my worries so easily. He has repeatedly woken me up as I have fallen asleep in the middle of our reading. It’s dangerous, to feel safe enough to sleep in a place like this. I barely get any of it.
Aside from reading, I also spend much of my time sawing away at Samson’s chains. At the base, where the iron is connected to the wall, the link is rusted. I have found a letter opener in the library, and have been using that to try and carve away at the chains. It is not the best tool for the job, to say the least, but the small pile of orange and silver flakes collecting on the floor is a testament to having some effect. I know Samson appreciates it.
I feel foolish for not thinking of visiting him more often sooner. It has done wonders for both of our spirits, and gives me more and more reason to get out. However, I still don’t have a plan! I don’t know what to do, between the count, his female counterparts, and his hits of thralls, it feels like there’s nothing that can be done. The most I’ve got for now is breaking Samson out while the Count is either away or asleep. Can the count even sleep? I’m so unaware of so many things.
At least I have Samson here with me. I fear what I would have ended up like without him.
Jonathan Harker