The Glass Scientists micro-fanfictions

Shed Like An Old Coat

(TW body horror and general grossness)

The papers scattering across the floor was nothing like the meticulous neatness that the doctor exhibited in his daily life, but at that very moment the thought of keeping things clean was far from his mind. His breath, Henry found, was coming faster than he could recall it had ever, heart pounding like a frantic little bird trapped within a cage of bone. A horrid, filmy sensation had him running his tongue across his teeth in a futile attempt at ridding it. Had his teeth always been quite so sharp? He had stopped gagging at the bitter, salty taste that he had continuously assaulted his senses with, or perhaps he had simply poisoned himself enough to burn away his gag reflex altogether, like an undesired blemish upon his skin.
Each observation he wrote down, studiously recording any and everything that he felt that was abnormal, was shakier and slightly less legible than the line that came before him, but with his shaking hand and swimming vision, this was the least of his concerns.

All at once, it felt as if his skull would split in two. Worse than any migraine he had the misfortune of experiencing to that date, and nauseating in its intensity, it was suddenly far more important for him to keep himself steady than to record coherent notes on the matter. This was, as part of him knew it would be, a losing battle as he crashed down hard onto the solid ground that so kindly rushed up to meet him. Mercifully, he struck his elbow in such a way that it fell numb rather than adding to the already ever growing cacophony of agony that sounded in his ears and spread out through to every inch of his body and soul. He coughed, once, twice, and then thrice, each jerk of his body this created shaking his already tormented frame.

And then the cracking happened.

Henry heard it before he could feel it. A wet snapping of bone in some part of his body, the agony so much already that he could not say where it was coming from, white hot pain racing his nerves and sparking what was left of his vision with a kaleidoscope of colours stealing away his sight. Another broke, the flesh around the jagged bone tearing like a blade through a cloth, blood splattering the ground. His nerves were raw, and a flickering of coherent thought broke through the screaming to have him wondering if what he felt at that moment was what was felt at the hour of one's death.

Blood, or he could presume it was blood as his taste was corrupted by the taste of the chemicals he had so foolishly ingested, bubbled horribly up his throat, making him gag and wheeze in an attempt to get the offending liquid out of him with the fear that he might choke. Oh, the poetic irony it would have been to choke on his own blood rather than succumbing to the poisons that he so willingly, enthusiastically even, drunk without a thought of what may come of his decisions.
Desperation does strange things to a man, and there was no man more desperate than he was at the time he had stared into the little glass vial in his hand. There was no way that a man such as he could ever achieve the perfection that he needed to reach, for he needed to reach the perfection that those perfect gentlemen that he could see on their afternoon strolls and luncheons managed with such ease. It came so easily for everybody else, so why in god's name could it not come to him in such a way? He knew the part that he needed to play, knew the words he needed to say and how to say it, and yet they seemed so clumsy and false when they came out of his mouth. It was not his accent that was tripping him up anymore, any hints of the Scottish lilt that he had once been so proud of had been long since pushed aside to walk among the higher society, but that meant the fault lay not on his circumstances but on himself as a person, and that idea frightened himself all the more than the alternative.

A cold chill, cold as the grave, shook him right down to the core, bringing with it the feeling that he might not ever be able to feel truly warm again until the day that he was finally cast off into the grave that seemed to be opening itself wide to invite himself in. Perhaps if he were to succumb to the death that seemed to be reaching out to him through the fog of his mind then, well, maybe he would be free from the repercussions that were already tearing him apart from the inside.
But, of course, nothing would ever be so easy for the foolish, foolish doctor.

It would be a pitiful sight to behold the poor Henry Jekyll curled up on the floor, shaking and bleeding, and the thought of that brought about a shame to his soul that he could not fully comprehend with his mind in such a state.
Gritting his teeth, teeth that were definitely sharper than they had once been, he forcibly hauled himself up onto his knees, crawling pitifully towards the mirror that he had brought down there on a whim one day.
He could not recognise the man that stared back at him through the glass, as if he was peering into some strange funhouse mirror. The ghoul that stared back at him had the sickroom pallour of a man that had been dead for a day and a night, bubbles of green formula that his body had rejected leaking painfully from his orifices, blood joining the greens when it spilled from his lips and nose. Oddly enough, the liquid had spilled into his eyes, patches of green staining the whites and distorting the brown of his eyes, colour striped from his hair leaving irrational patches and streaks of gold-blond among the brown he was accustomed to. All this was ghastly enough, but what brought the fear of the devil into his heart was the smile that had curled across his face despite it all.