Frankenstein - Chapter Seven
We spent a few sorrowful hours until eleven o’clock, when the trial was set to begin. My father and the rest of my family had to attend as witnesses, so I went with them to the courtroom. Throughout the ordeal, which was nothing less than a dreadful mockery of justice, I felt as though I was being tortured. The trial was to decide whether my own curiosity and reckless actions had caused the deaths of two people: one an innocent, joyful child, the other murdered so cruelly that the memory of it would haunt forever. Justine, too, was someone full of promise, a kind and deserving girl, but now her future was to be wiped away in disgrace—and all because of me. I would have confessed to the crime myself a thousand times over, but I had not been present when it happened. Any such confession would have been dismissed as the ravings of a madman and would have done nothing to save her.
Justine entered the courtroom calmly. Dressed in mourning, she looked serene, and her usual charm was made even more striking by the dignity of her sorrow. Yet, even though she appeared confident in her innocence, her composure was clearly forced. She had been accused of being confused earlier, and now she was trying to show courage. When she entered, her eyes quickly sought us out, and though a tear briefly filled her eye when she saw us, she soon regained her composure. Her sorrowful expression seemed to declare her innocence more powerfully than words ever could.
The trial began with the prosecution laying out the case against her, followed by witness testimonies. Strange and damning evidence was brought forward, enough to make anyone doubt her innocence—anyone, that is, who didn’t know what I knew. She had been seen near the site of the murder on the night it occurred. When questioned by a market-woman, she gave a confused answer, and when she returned home the next morning, she claimed to have been searching for the missing child. She fell into hysteria upon seeing the child’s body and was bedridden for days. Most damning of all was a small picture found in her pocket, one that had been placed around the child’s neck just before he was last seen. When Elizabeth identified it in court, the room erupted in murmurs of anger.
When called to defend herself, Justine was deeply shaken but gathered her strength to speak. Her voice wavered but was steady enough to be heard. She declared her innocence and explained her actions that night, recounting how she had stayed with her aunt and searched for the child when she learned he was missing. She admitted she could not explain how the picture had come to be in her pocket but insisted she had no enemy who would frame her. Her closing plea was for the judges to examine her character and judge her fairly.
Witnesses spoke to Justine’s good nature and virtuous character, but their fear of the crime and the public’s anger made them hesitant to defend her. Elizabeth, visibly distressed, begged the court to hear her. She spoke passionately about Justine’s kindness, her care for others, and her love for the child who had died. Elizabeth’s words moved the crowd, but they saw her plea as misplaced loyalty rather than proof of Justine’s innocence.
As the trial went on, the evidence weighed heavily against Justine. I could see the faces of the judges and the crowd; they had already decided her guilt. Unable to bear it, I left the courtroom, consumed by guilt. I knew Justine’s innocence, but I also knew that it was my actions that had brought us to this moment. That night, I endured unimaginable torment. The next morning, I returned to hear the verdict: Justine was condemned. To my horror, I learned that she had even confessed to the crime. She later admitted this was a false confession, forced from her by threats and fear of eternal damnation.
Elizabeth and I visited Justine in her prison cell before her execution. She was sitting on a pile of straw, her hands bound, her head bowed. When she saw us, she broke down, throwing herself at Elizabeth’s feet. She pleaded with Elizabeth to believe in her innocence, explaining how she had been pressured into confessing. Elizabeth tried to comfort her, but her sorrow was overwhelming. Justine, however, remained remarkably composed, speaking of her readiness to meet death and her hope for peace in heaven.
The next day, Justine was executed. Despite Elizabeth’s heartfelt appeal and my own silent torment, nothing could sway the judges. Watching her die filled me with despair beyond words. I had caused all of this—the deaths, the grief, the destruction of those I loved most. My family, once so joyful, was now burdened with sorrow, and I knew this was only the beginning. My guilt would never leave me, and the weight of my actions would haunt me forever.
We spent a few sorrowful hours until eleven o’clock, when the trial was set to begin. My father and the rest of my family had to attend as witnesses, so I went with them to the courtroom. Throughout the ordeal, which was nothing less than a dreadful mockery of justice, I felt as though I was being tortured. The trial was to decide whether my own curiosity and reckless actions had caused the deaths of two people: one an innocent, joyful child, the other murdered so cruelly that the memory of it would haunt forever. Justine, too, was someone full of promise, a kind and deserving girl, but now her future was to be wiped away in disgrace—and all because of me. I would have confessed to the crime myself a thousand times over, but I had not been present when it happened. Any such confession would have been dismissed as the ravings of a madman and would have done nothing to save her.
Justine entered the courtroom calmly. Dressed in mourning, she looked serene, and her usual charm was made even more striking by the dignity of her sorrow. Yet, even though she appeared confident in her innocence, her composure was clearly forced. She had been accused of being confused earlier, and now she was trying to show courage. When she entered, her eyes quickly sought us out, and though a tear briefly filled her eye when she saw us, she soon regained her composure. Her sorrowful expression seemed to declare her innocence more powerfully than words ever could.
The trial began with the prosecution laying out the case against her, followed by witness testimonies. Strange and damning evidence was brought forward, enough to make anyone doubt her innocence—anyone, that is, who didn’t know what I knew. She had been seen near the site of the murder on the night it occurred. When questioned by a market-woman, she gave a confused answer, and when she returned home the next morning, she claimed to have been searching for the missing child. She fell into hysteria upon seeing the child’s body and was bedridden for days. Most damning of all was a small picture found in her pocket, one that had been placed around the child’s neck just before he was last seen. When Elizabeth identified it in court, the room erupted in murmurs of anger.
When called to defend herself, Justine was deeply shaken but gathered her strength to speak. Her voice wavered but was steady enough to be heard. She declared her innocence and explained her actions that night, recounting how she had stayed with her aunt and searched for the child when she learned he was missing. She admitted she could not explain how the picture had come to be in her pocket but insisted she had no enemy who would frame her. Her closing plea was for the judges to examine her character and judge her fairly.
Witnesses spoke to Justine’s good nature and virtuous character, but their fear of the crime and the public’s anger made them hesitant to defend her. Elizabeth, visibly distressed, begged the court to hear her. She spoke passionately about Justine’s kindness, her care for others, and her love for the child who had died. Elizabeth’s words moved the crowd, but they saw her plea as misplaced loyalty rather than proof of Justine’s innocence.
As the trial went on, the evidence weighed heavily against Justine. I could see the faces of the judges and the crowd; they had already decided her guilt. Unable to bear it, I left the courtroom, consumed by guilt. I knew Justine’s innocence, but I also knew that it was my actions that had brought us to this moment. That night, I endured unimaginable torment. The next morning, I returned to hear the verdict: Justine was condemned. To my horror, I learned that she had even confessed to the crime. She later admitted this was a false confession, forced from her by threats and fear of eternal damnation.
Elizabeth and I visited Justine in her prison cell before her execution. She was sitting on a pile of straw, her hands bound, her head bowed. When she saw us, she broke down, throwing herself at Elizabeth’s feet. She pleaded with Elizabeth to believe in her innocence, explaining how she had been pressured into confessing. Elizabeth tried to comfort her, but her sorrow was overwhelming. Justine, however, remained remarkably composed, speaking of her readiness to meet death and her hope for peace in heaven.
The next day, Justine was executed. Despite Elizabeth’s heartfelt appeal and my own silent torment, nothing could sway the judges. Watching her die filled me with despair beyond words. I had caused all of this—the deaths, the grief, the destruction of those I loved most. My family, once so joyful, was now burdened with sorrow, and I knew this was only the beginning. My guilt would never leave me, and the weight of my actions would haunt me forever.