I loved Frankenstein so much that I ended up writing this after finishing it. I wanted to capture Victor's grief, the Creature's suffering, and the question of who the real monster was.

Unable to process his grief, he created his own monster, which gave him no relief. He ran away in shame; a tangible creature awoke in vain, never given a name, only words like “wretch” and “daemon,” which Victor profusely proclaimed. That left a murky stain of vitriolic pain, leaving Victor Frankenstein profoundly petrified of the secret where madness grew inside. As he looked upon his reflection, he murmured with his last breath, This is only something a monster could have done.

(Probably will delete)😰