Geneva, October 15th, 1892. It was late that night, and the storm raging outside seemed to mirror my innermost being with every clap of thunder. I hadn't stepped out of my laboratory for weeks.
My fingers were sore from work. My eyes burned from the constant light of the lamp that never went out. The last pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place.
I stood on the threshold of a miracle or an abyss. The Galvanic experiment was ready. I do not regret what I have done.
But everything I put together is the result of countless silent sins. And then the body lied before me in perfect peace. But not for long.
The lightning was the final force that should ignite the spark of life. Heat. Heat.
I hardly dared to breathe. It seemed lost. The body lay motionless.
Even the lightning was unable to awaken a spark in it. For a moment, I thought it had all been in vain. Years of deprivation wasted on a dead dream.
But then his left hand jerked upwards. A twitch in the left hand, barely visible. But there at that moment, I could not yet comprehend the nameless horror I had created.
And how bitterly I was to pay for it.