Doctor Jekyll; to relearn humanity.

Chapter 3: Horrible decisions, truly.

The party was surely over by now, yet the drinking went on in people's houses. Honest conversations, laughs, sobs, and eventually passing out after doing something stupid. If you couldn't tell, Dr. Jekyll was the 'people' in this scenario. The only difference between him and the many others drunk on nights like this?
He was alone.

He rested his head in his hands, looking over a 'freshly' opened bottle of wine, already two thirds drunk. I say 'freshly' because it had been about two hours and thirty minutes of him just drinking this alone.
Even if it was the first time he drank in months, he still recognized the symptoms: Blurred vision, even greater losses in coordination, a feeling of warmth even as the night gets colder. His head was still pounding, he should have expected as much. He was feeling the effects, a lot.
The table he placed the bottle on was as pristine as when it was first brought here, and the chair he sat on was coloured similarly to the one in his office. He didn't have anywhere else to put it, and he wasn't expecting guests any time soon.
Besides those two stand out pieces of furniture, the living room was empty. He just... never found a need to fancy up the interior.

He was left to his thoughts when he was alone.
The memories were all flooding back, every time he did something stupid. Every time he messed up in a public setting.
He wasn't always like this, he was a happy kid. A charming teenager. Something caused him to forget how to interact with people, or did he never know to begin with? The memories of when this first started were the worst, the ones where he fumbled over a conversation so much he vowed never again shall allow it to happen.
He couldn't afford the risk.

Jekyll cleared his throat as he struggled to a stand, nearly falling over. He knew where this was going, where he was going, something had to give. He couldn't take it when drunk.
He trudged throughout the empty house, hands held out to keep himself from falling over. Even if it was small, it didn't make it any less of a hassle to get through; getting scared at the floorboards creaking under his feet, nearly tripping over his own shoe, and not noticing the doorknob when walking to his personal office. He just walked right into it, probably leaving a bruise.
The door opened with a creak, and closed with a click.

The office was the most 'lively' part of the house, cabinets full of dried out herbs, powders, medicines without names, medicines with names, cocaine (because there was always something with cocaine), along with a bunch of other things I don't care to remember the names of. There was a lot of everything, ok? All dangerous in their own ways and all reflecting and refracting onto the ceiling from the moonlight. The pure silver mirror hung by ropes from a support beam, it left him surprised it hadn't fallen yet.
There was a desk that faced the window outside, one of its drawers filled with miscellaneous papers, receipts for medicine and such. It was another drawer he reached for, one he promised himself he wouldn't touch again. He needed to get down on a knee in order to reach it without falling over.
It rolled open revealing an ingredient list... six of them, actually.
Each and every time the poor old doctor did something stupid, he would try and find something to stop himself from being like this. Something that would force him to understand all the intricacies.
He was too much of a coward to ever test it out on himself, let alone make it. Every time he came close to starting, he threw the new list into the drawer and tried to forget about it.
That was when the doctor was sober, when he allowed himself to think over what he was doing.

He was too inebriated to care at the moment.

The doctor's handwriting was legible even under the influence, and so, he got to looking over the ingredients. Maybe it'll kill him, maybe it would fix everything to ever happen to him. He wouldn't know until he drank or ate whatever he made.

Looking over the list once more, he had to write out all the changes he made, to build atop of it in the future if he came back to the desk in a similar mind.
When he came back it, because he knew this wouldn't be the end if he survived.
All the lists had similar naming patterns, it was just his initials and the number of rough drafts he was on; 'HJ7' was what this one was called. It was simple, and it was effective. Everything on the list he scribbled up looked... fine? The doses were averaged out to what worked for him, everything was on the shelves, all he really needed to do was mix it together and create.