Who’d even notice if the Bride of Frankenstein has forty-seven or forty-eight lines of catgut stitching her together? Either way she’s the unwilling bride of death for death, despite her superbly tinted and coiffed hair, tulle gown straight from a runway in Milan. Talk is she’s even well-read. Educated. A suffragette. Norma Ray of the reanimated.
But Frank’s back-story was really about a stillborn after all, poor Mary Shelley thinking thoroughly through the consequences of breathing life back into her daughter, born too soon. Mary was smarter than Percy or Byron. Byron a prisoner to more base drives, pinned in the Villa Diodati. Percy crying “Alas, this is not what I thought life was,” or “Death is here and death is there.”
By then Mary already knew what it was to create life, watch that which you fed with your own blood, pumped by your hopeful heart, cease. Death always wins in the end, and sometimes even in the beginning.
So what does that leave for our reluctant reanimated bride-to-be, created as a sacrifice for an outcome already determined?