A Good Man

The night brings with it a kind of serene, welcoming peace with the darkness, the shadows of the night engulfing all indiscriminately. But the shadows whisper secrets of what is hidden from sight, flickering and dancing like a hidden creature lurking within the depths of the all-encompassing darkness. One might even be able to hear these whispers if they so chose to abandon rational thought and listen to the long-held secrets of the night.

Although this may be a night seeming to be no different than the countless others that had come before, the flickering of a light broke the darkness with its frantic glow. Although it was not entirely improbable that someone awake at such an ungodly hour were engaging in stimulating intellectual pursuits and simply lost track of the hour, this being an especially well to do neighbourhood after all, but it would hardly make for an interesting story if that were the case, and oh how the man involved would wish that it were the case! Oh, what he would give for even a modicum of peace!

Raspy, laboured breathing filled the bedchamber of the well-respected doctor, not that he could rightly hear his breath over the frantic thundering of his heart drowning out any sense of the world around him. Like a volt of pure electricity, another relentless rush of adrenaline set his nerves on fire, his breath hitching in such a way one could assume he was more likely shot than attempting to retire for the evening.

One had rarely seen a more pitiful looking chap, one hand curled tightly around his silken sheets, the other clasped to his temple, slender fingers clenching his ordinarily organised ebony hair - that was far more of a mess than a man of his standing ought to allow – as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it even did, in a sense at least.

The still of the room, which had been near stifling in its intensity, was shattered in an instant. The 'good' doctor, Henry Jekyll, flung himself from the bed in such a flourish it was as if the devil was at his heels, and perhaps for the man he was. All sense of perfectly crafted elegance was thrown to the wind, practically throwing himself at the table that lay across the room, looking more like a madman than he was necessarily comfortable.

"Where is it?" he exclaimed aloud through gritted teeth, scanning the tabletop with alarmed eyes. When had he allowed the table to fall into such a state of disorderly disarray? His frantic rummaging caused several items of little importance to him in this moment to spill onto the floor.

"What did you do with it?" There was a clear desperation in his voice, not taking into account that he was near shouting alone in his room, a room that only he may enter. Any and every part of his much practiced social niceties had clearly been forgotten in the face of such desperate times. No matter the extent of his frenzied search, his much needed medicine simply would not come into sight, a very troubling occurrence indeed. Even if he weren't shaking like a leaf, barely able to support himself, he was surely going to lose his footing as he took several steps back only to land on his haphazardly discarded cane.

"Oh, must you leave our cane out on the floor where it may cause us to fall?" he asked witheringly, entirely unaware of the fact he used terminology such as 'we' in regards to himself. His fall would surely leave a mark but at the present moment he truly couldn't give a damn, having significantly more pressing matters on importance to concern himself with.

Navigating the disorderly mess that he seemed more than content to worsen significantly would have been a struggle for a man with a wholly sound mind, unfortunately the doctor was in a far more frantic state of mind, making finding quite literally anything a challenge, the small vial containing a premade solution – one he couldn't rightly was would or wouldn't work as a result of it having not been freshly prepared – seeming to be an impossible find. It would be understandable difficult to locate if one were to take into account its state of being intentionally hidden making its location a feat he was in a well enough state to handle.

Giving up was becoming all the easier for the man. With a despairing sigh, he hauled himself back to his bed, knees drawn pitifully to his chest as if doing so would bring some relief to the cacophony that was plaguing none but him. Another rush of adrenaline brought his hands to his temples, hair once more bunched up in his grasp, frightened eyes shut tight against the welcome relief of nothingness he knew he couldn't allow himself to fall into.

Not now...

He was weary, every part of his body crying out for the much-needed sleep that he had so denied it, any weakening of his consciousness certainly leading to a disaster. As much as he craved sleep, and by the gods did he crave it, he knew it was a luxury he could not grant himself.

Not again...

Even now, memories that were not his own burned within his mind, hidden from him as if behind a curtain but ever teasing him with the faintest of glimpses from behind the veil. The gentle touch of a stranger, an agonised scream, a feeling of evil that struck cold fear into his very heart.

Not so soon after the last...

Lying to himself would do nothing. He knew that deep down he was not strong enough. Not strong enough to fight the change. Not strong enough to embrace it. The truth that he held left him as nothing but a shaking mess, knowing the monster that is him would win as he always did, himself being nought but a shell to hide away in under the light of day to escape the ramifications of his villainy. The thought that had once delighted the man so now brought with it nothing but the burning of painful regret.

A shock, more intense than the rest, forced his eyes open and him to hiss through his teeth as a wounded animal might. It was a losing battle that he dared not abandon, for though he may be a coward to himself he could not allow such a retched and foul creature into the streets of London, or at the very least he hoped to be able to prolong the inevitable as long as his body could withstand the primitive urges that would be sure to destroy his spectacularly crafted reputation, after all a man of his standing could never engage in such violent debauchery, he was a moral man and upstanding citizen, a reputation that he wouldn't dare risk.

The candlelight glinted against the ornate mirror that lay on the other side of room, the twinkling seeming to be calling to him, drawing his attention away from his tragic situation. He let his hands drop, looking to the mirror as if in a daze, a sense of still and almost chaotic calm taking over.

It wasn't him that stared back.

Jekyll looked down at his hand, the same hands he had seen all his life. The same hands that poured the chemicals that had gotten himself into this mess. The same hands that wrote every word that lead to his glorious, successful downfall.

The man that stared back wasn't human.

No man's eyes should be stretched do wide, filled with a burning malice that seemed to glow from the extent of its intensity. No man's lips should be twisted into such a cruel mockery of a smile, bringing with it nothing that would bode well for those it was intended for. No man should look so horridly twisted with a darkness long suppressed.

It certainly could not be himself that stared out at him through the glass. But if not he, then who? A cruel trick of the light reflecting someone that was he but at the same time wasn't. He was surely himself, but what had become of himself, so changed and played with that maybe Henry Jekyll himself no longer existed at all, his place filled by something that wasn't completely Jekyll nor completely Hyde but another entirely.

He was in control, he was sure of this. Every part of his mind seeming to be determined to have this cease being the case being the only way he could determine that he was truly himself – or what was left of himself – in this moment. But if he were truly he then there would have been no doubt as to whether he was, but a heavy scepticism still plagued his mind with the whispers of doubt that came with each rush of adrenaline, ever increasing in their frequency.

He was in control.

He was no other but Henry Jekyll.

He was a good man.

But was he?