Nothing is more painful to the human mind than the emptiness that follows after a whirlwind of emotions—when the certainty of what has happened leaves no room for hope or fear. Justine was gone. She was at peace, while I remained alive, carrying the unbearable weight of guilt and despair. My heart still beat, my blood still flowed, but my soul was crushed under the burden of what I had done. Sleep abandoned me. I wandered like a restless spirit, tormented by the knowledge that my actions had led to horrors beyond imagination. Worse still, I feared that more suffering lay ahead. And yet, I had once been full of kindness and a desire to do good. I had set out in life with the best intentions, wanting to help others. But now, all of that had been destroyed. Instead of a clear conscience and hope for the future, I was consumed by guilt and remorse that dragged me into a personal hell that no words could describe.
This torment soon affected my health. I avoided people, unable to bear the sight of their happiness, which only reminded me of what I had lost. The only thing that gave me any relief was solitude—deep, silent, endless solitude.
My father noticed the change in me and tried to comfort me, speaking from the calmness of his own guilt-free heart. “Victor,” he said gently, “do you think I don’t suffer too? I loved your brother more than words can say.” His voice broke, and tears filled his eyes. “But we must think of those who remain. It is our duty to those still living to not add to their sorrow with excessive grief. And it is a duty to ourselves as well, for drowning in misery makes us unable to grow, to find joy, or even to fulfil the simple tasks that make us useful to others.”
His words made sense, but they did not apply to me. If my grief had been the simple sadness of loss, I would have hidden it and tried to comfort my loved ones. But this was different—my sorrow was poisoned by guilt and terror. I could not answer my father. Instead, I turned away, unable to bear his gaze.
Around this time, we moved to our house in Belrive. I was relieved by the change. In Geneva, the city gates closed at ten o’clock, restricting my movements, but in Belrive, I had more freedom. Many nights, after my family had gone to bed, I took our boat out onto the lake, drifting aimlessly. Sometimes I let the wind carry me; other times, I rowed to the middle of the lake and let the boat drift while I sank into my miserable thoughts. On more than one occasion, I was tempted to throw myself into the cold, dark water, to let the lake swallow me and all my sorrows. But whenever the thought grew strong, I pictured Elizabeth—brave, suffering Elizabeth, whom I loved so deeply. Her happiness was tied to mine, and I could not bring myself to leave her. I thought also of my father and younger brother. If I abandoned them, who would protect them from the monster I had unleashed?
At such moments, I wept bitterly. If only I could find peace, even for a short time, so that I could bring comfort to those I loved. But peace was impossible. Remorse had destroyed all hope. I lived in constant fear that the creature I had created would strike again. I felt sure that another terrible crime was coming, something even worse than before. I hated him with every fibre of my being. When I thought of him, my blood boiled with rage, my hands clenched into fists, and I longed to hunt him down and destroy him. I would have climbed to the highest peak of the Andes if it meant I could throw him from the top and rid the world of him forever.
Our home was now a place of mourning. My father’s health had suffered under the weight of recent events. Elizabeth was no longer the lively, hopeful girl I had grown up with. She had once taken joy in the smallest things, but now even the thought of happiness felt like a betrayal to the memory of William and Justine. She believed that endless sorrow was the only way to honour them.
One day, she turned to me and said, “Victor, when I think of Justine’s terrible death, I can no longer see the world the way I used to. I used to believe that tales of injustice and cruelty were just that—stories, distant and unreal. But now I know that such horrors are real, that they can reach into our very homes. I cannot help but see mankind as monsters, always ready to turn on each other. And yet, perhaps I am unfair. Everyone believed Justine was guilty. If she had truly done such a thing, then she would have been the most evil of creatures. But she was innocent. I know it, and you know it. And that frightens me, Victor. If lies can seem so much like the truth, how can anyone ever be certain of happiness? It feels as though I am walking along the edge of a cliff, while others push and shove, trying to send me over. William and Justine were murdered, and the true killer is still free. He may even be respected! But even if I were accused and condemned myself, I would never trade places with such a wretch.”
Her words were agony to hear. She did not know it, but she was speaking to the true cause of all this misery. She saw the pain in my face and took my hand. “My dear friend,” she said softly, “you must not despair like this. I have suffered, deeply—but not as much as you. There is something in your expression, a look of revenge, that frightens me. Victor, please, do not give in to these dark feelings. Think of those who love you. Can we do nothing to make you happy? As long as we have each other, as long as we remain true to one another, we can still find peace. This is your home, your country, a place of beauty. What could disturb us here?”
Her words should have comforted me, but they only made me more afraid. I drew closer to her, as if expecting that at any moment, the monster would appear and tear her from my life as he had done with William and Justine.
No love, no beauty, no kindness could lift the darkness that surrounded me. I felt like a wounded animal dragging itself into the shadows to die.
At times, I was overwhelmed by my despair, but sometimes, movement and change offered brief relief. In one of these moments, I suddenly left home and began travelling towards the Alpine valleys, hoping that nature’s grandeur might help me forget my suffering. I set out for the valley of Chamonix, a place I had visited often as a child. Six years had passed since then, and while I had become a ruined version of myself, the mountains remained unchanged.
I travelled on horseback at first, then switched to a mule to navigate the rough paths. It was August, about two months after Justine’s death. As I ventured deeper into the valley, I felt a slight relief. The towering cliffs, the crashing river, and the thunder of waterfalls all reminded me of a power greater than myself. I forgot, for a little while, my own insignificance. As I climbed higher, the landscape became more striking—ruined castles perched on rocky slopes, the rushing Arve River, and small cottages hidden among the trees. But the most breathtaking sight of all was Mont Blanc, rising above the valley like a king among the mountains.
For the first time in a long while, I felt something close to peace. The familiar sights brought back childhood memories. The winds whispered around me, as if nature itself was urging me to let go of my pain. But as quickly as these moments of relief came, they vanished. The weight of my grief always returned. Desperate to escape my thoughts, I rode on, pushing myself to exhaustion.
At last, I reached the village of Chamonix. That night, too tired to think, I sat by the window, watching the lightning flicker over Mont Blanc. The rushing river below was the only sound. As I lay down, for the first time in weeks, sleep found me, and I welcomed its temporary escape.
This torment soon affected my health. I avoided people, unable to bear the sight of their happiness, which only reminded me of what I had lost. The only thing that gave me any relief was solitude—deep, silent, endless solitude.
My father noticed the change in me and tried to comfort me, speaking from the calmness of his own guilt-free heart. “Victor,” he said gently, “do you think I don’t suffer too? I loved your brother more than words can say.” His voice broke, and tears filled his eyes. “But we must think of those who remain. It is our duty to those still living to not add to their sorrow with excessive grief. And it is a duty to ourselves as well, for drowning in misery makes us unable to grow, to find joy, or even to fulfil the simple tasks that make us useful to others.”
His words made sense, but they did not apply to me. If my grief had been the simple sadness of loss, I would have hidden it and tried to comfort my loved ones. But this was different—my sorrow was poisoned by guilt and terror. I could not answer my father. Instead, I turned away, unable to bear his gaze.
Around this time, we moved to our house in Belrive. I was relieved by the change. In Geneva, the city gates closed at ten o’clock, restricting my movements, but in Belrive, I had more freedom. Many nights, after my family had gone to bed, I took our boat out onto the lake, drifting aimlessly. Sometimes I let the wind carry me; other times, I rowed to the middle of the lake and let the boat drift while I sank into my miserable thoughts. On more than one occasion, I was tempted to throw myself into the cold, dark water, to let the lake swallow me and all my sorrows. But whenever the thought grew strong, I pictured Elizabeth—brave, suffering Elizabeth, whom I loved so deeply. Her happiness was tied to mine, and I could not bring myself to leave her. I thought also of my father and younger brother. If I abandoned them, who would protect them from the monster I had unleashed?
At such moments, I wept bitterly. If only I could find peace, even for a short time, so that I could bring comfort to those I loved. But peace was impossible. Remorse had destroyed all hope. I lived in constant fear that the creature I had created would strike again. I felt sure that another terrible crime was coming, something even worse than before. I hated him with every fibre of my being. When I thought of him, my blood boiled with rage, my hands clenched into fists, and I longed to hunt him down and destroy him. I would have climbed to the highest peak of the Andes if it meant I could throw him from the top and rid the world of him forever.
Our home was now a place of mourning. My father’s health had suffered under the weight of recent events. Elizabeth was no longer the lively, hopeful girl I had grown up with. She had once taken joy in the smallest things, but now even the thought of happiness felt like a betrayal to the memory of William and Justine. She believed that endless sorrow was the only way to honour them.
One day, she turned to me and said, “Victor, when I think of Justine’s terrible death, I can no longer see the world the way I used to. I used to believe that tales of injustice and cruelty were just that—stories, distant and unreal. But now I know that such horrors are real, that they can reach into our very homes. I cannot help but see mankind as monsters, always ready to turn on each other. And yet, perhaps I am unfair. Everyone believed Justine was guilty. If she had truly done such a thing, then she would have been the most evil of creatures. But she was innocent. I know it, and you know it. And that frightens me, Victor. If lies can seem so much like the truth, how can anyone ever be certain of happiness? It feels as though I am walking along the edge of a cliff, while others push and shove, trying to send me over. William and Justine were murdered, and the true killer is still free. He may even be respected! But even if I were accused and condemned myself, I would never trade places with such a wretch.”
Her words were agony to hear. She did not know it, but she was speaking to the true cause of all this misery. She saw the pain in my face and took my hand. “My dear friend,” she said softly, “you must not despair like this. I have suffered, deeply—but not as much as you. There is something in your expression, a look of revenge, that frightens me. Victor, please, do not give in to these dark feelings. Think of those who love you. Can we do nothing to make you happy? As long as we have each other, as long as we remain true to one another, we can still find peace. This is your home, your country, a place of beauty. What could disturb us here?”
Her words should have comforted me, but they only made me more afraid. I drew closer to her, as if expecting that at any moment, the monster would appear and tear her from my life as he had done with William and Justine.
No love, no beauty, no kindness could lift the darkness that surrounded me. I felt like a wounded animal dragging itself into the shadows to die.
At times, I was overwhelmed by my despair, but sometimes, movement and change offered brief relief. In one of these moments, I suddenly left home and began travelling towards the Alpine valleys, hoping that nature’s grandeur might help me forget my suffering. I set out for the valley of Chamonix, a place I had visited often as a child. Six years had passed since then, and while I had become a ruined version of myself, the mountains remained unchanged.
I travelled on horseback at first, then switched to a mule to navigate the rough paths. It was August, about two months after Justine’s death. As I ventured deeper into the valley, I felt a slight relief. The towering cliffs, the crashing river, and the thunder of waterfalls all reminded me of a power greater than myself. I forgot, for a little while, my own insignificance. As I climbed higher, the landscape became more striking—ruined castles perched on rocky slopes, the rushing Arve River, and small cottages hidden among the trees. But the most breathtaking sight of all was Mont Blanc, rising above the valley like a king among the mountains.
For the first time in a long while, I felt something close to peace. The familiar sights brought back childhood memories. The winds whispered around me, as if nature itself was urging me to let go of my pain. But as quickly as these moments of relief came, they vanished. The weight of my grief always returned. Desperate to escape my thoughts, I rode on, pushing myself to exhaustion.
At last, I reached the village of Chamonix. That night, too tired to think, I sat by the window, watching the lightning flicker over Mont Blanc. The rushing river below was the only sound. As I lay down, for the first time in weeks, sleep found me, and I welcomed its temporary escape.