Ginger Cat
11th August 2003, 09:37 PM
*clears throat*
*waves*
I wrote this about an hour ago and decide... Y'know, why not post it?
As the topic says, this is a short story/monolougeish type of fic. It's based on the musical Jekyll and Hyde, and is written as if in Hyde's point of view. At least, in what I could make of it. Please forgive any sort of breech of... something. Right, any coherent thought seems to have left me.
Enjoy if at all possible.
And if you haven't, I suggest that you look into the music from the play...
Murder,
Obsession, Revenge
Murder, obsession, revenge. I live in it. Murder, obsession, revenge. A way of life.
Is there any other? Not for me. My life is anger, my life is hate, my life is pure hell, and I love it like that. I must, because how else could I be what I am? A creature they say, and a creature is what I am. We are all creatures though, are we not? Each of us is worthy of the same fate. The simple fact is that while others wish for something, I carry an idea through. I see the results, and I adore them. Yes, the results of murder, obsession, revenge.
Revenge is my mission. I was not born for revenge--indeed, I was not born in any conventional definition of the world. Nor was a truly created. I am more of a manifestation, if you will. Yes, that is the closest that I can come to describing what I am. A manifestation forced into being through a series of experiments. That really does sound horrid, now that I think about it. It seems rather deranged but, I suppose, old Henry is rather deranged in his own way. There must have been some sort of derangement; look at me!
He didn’t expect what I was to become. Ha, and he called himself a scientist, an intellect in this world. Good old Henry, always believing in his science and false hope. Others cling to him even as he does so, hoping to catch his eye, to find some way into his heart. Isn’t that sad? They cry for him and he doesn’t hear them.
Silly little bitches. I find it most amusing that his attention in on what has resulted in me. What would they say if they knew all of this? His wife to be, that brainless beauty of a blond, follows his words as a dog in a collar; no wonder he says that he loves her. She’ll do whatever he says. She’ll follow him through anything. Sad, really. Why dedicate so much time to one person?
What? I’m off track of what I was saying? To hell with you. It’s a wonder that I’m writing something at all; I usually leave that sort of thing to Henry. He does love his journals. I considered burning them, watching his life’s work go up in flames--ah, but there’re so many other things to burn. Better to let Henry hold onto his false hopes. After all, I owe him enough to keep him alive and, more importantly, who knows what’ll happen to yours truly if Henry kills himself?
He’s thought of that before, but he won’t do it. He’s far to dedicated to his precious work. Ha, far too dedicated to me, and I do care very little for him. There is only sparse resolve in his being, little that will survive any true disaster. Good God, if the man were to walk out of his lab for once, he’d find himself completely at a loss. Live a little, Jekyll.
Ah, but that’s where I come in. I live, I feel, and I breath. He knows now that I am here, and he is starting to become aware of what I am. That’s rather funny, because I don’t know for sure what I am, or how I exist. I don’t know why I know everything about Henry while he knows precious little about me. I don’t know how he can become me. I don’t know how I become Henry.
Most important of all, I don’t know how I can be myself alone, without Henry. How to kill him without being rid of myself… It is the question most frequently on my mind. Granted, I don’t often concern myself with it--I have better things to do, after all. Much better and more satisfying things to be doing than sitting and thinking. That can become very tiresome after even a short time.
If I could kill him, I would but, as I’ve said, that won’t work very well. I personally have no intention of death. Henry’d be better off dead. After all, he’s going to be entirely insane soon enough. He doesn’t have the heart for this. Or anything, for that matter. Once he sees what a disaster his little experiment has become, he’ll certainly give up his hopes. Maybe that’ll be the time to take control. It seems logical enough. To think, I could be myself forever, without having intervals of the dream world where I can only watch from behind his eyes. Can you imagine seeing that tedious work through his eyes? It’s revolting.
I’m serious when I say that this man has no life. He’ll stay in his lab for weeks at a time, refusing to speak with anyone. How can that man survive such a thing? God, but it’s exasperating.
Back to what I was saying a while ago. Revenge. I’ve carried it out already, and it’s a wonder that the situation hasn’t become apparent to someone. After all, if the entirety of that hypocritical board of governors has been murdered--or most, rather, as Stride still walks the earth, though not for much longer if I have my way, and I will--I should think that at least one person in the whole of London would see that it might have something to do with the man whom they sent home depressed; the one who has come damned near to being a recluse.
These people are ignorant as all hell. A murderer walks among them, talks to them. Some of them love him, some think that he is insane. None see the side of him that is me. Better for him, maybe. Easier for me. Damnable stupidity can be an asset when placed against those committing acts of vengeance.
Really, Henry should be pleased with me. I did kill the ones who had been tormenting him, the ones that he had secretly loathed. In his heart, he had wished them dead. If you believe no one else, then believe me; I have seen into his deepest secrets, you must remember. I wonder if he knows this. Certainly he didn’t plan on it.
He didn’t plan on the deaths, either, but they were carried out. Those who had shot down his work for their pathetic reasoning--their hypocrisy, yes--have been slain. I saw to it that they crumpled to the streets of London and died choking on their own blood. Henry knows that they are dead and is beginning to suspect that he has something to do with it; he’s catching on, he is. Slowly but surely.
I’d think he’d be happier about the justice than he is. After all, he was the one who had first wished for revenge. I had only carried out his wish. I am Henry’s angel of death, his demon of vengeance. I can only hope that one of these days, I will be my own.
The obsession? I am a product of that. Henry is tied to his work more than anything. As dull as it is, perhaps I should be glad for it. Had he not spent all of his time working, I would amount to nothing. Even so, it is tedious and now entirely unnecessary. Doesn’t he know about me? He’ll never be rid of me, oh no.
Henry should have been more careful. In all of his obsession, I became more than a passing wish for vengeance in the heart. I became a solid being, and I have my own obsessions. This is my life, now, and I refuse to give it up.
Of course, some of Henry’s own thoughts have passed to me. This is irritating, but I have come to live with it. Take the whore, for example. In a rare splurge of outward enthusiasm, Henry had taken a visit to one of the many local whorehouses, where he met the prostitute who has become my dearest Lucy. She really is quite the specimen, though she dreams rather too much for her own good. Ah, but she knows what she does, and she does it well. She is the closest to beauty that I know, and the closest to a possession of mine. Perhaps, now, she is a possession of mine. If one were of a mind to take her, he would die before he had the chance.
Yes, it’s true, I am possessive of this one. There is little to have for yourself when you don’t truly have your own being, however. It is a rarity. A lovely little rarity.
Who is to read this, I wonder? No one? Ah, but if someone is reading this… Hmm. Who are you?
If you don’t know who I am by this point, don’t worry about it. I’m not talking about my name. Of course my name is Hyde; perhaps you’ve heard of me? Perhaps not, though. Miss Harris and Henry are the only two who seem to know my name.
Ah, but you must have heard about me. Why else would be reading this? Yes, I was the murderer. As I have said, I live to kill. Someone must. How else could we keep this world from true insanity? Ah hah, how amusing that is. No, I don’t kill to keep sanity. I kill because I can. Sometimes for vengeance, sometimes out of rage, sometimes just because I can. You’ll find that I can do damned near anything that I put my mind to.
Why not murder, after all? I challenge this world, and here is a way to go about doing so. Perhaps there are other ways--Henry has his own methods of worming under the skin of others when he wants to. This is mine, and it has been effective up to this point. Very effective. They cannot find me; I am hidden within another. And really, who would suspect dear Henry? Those who know him either love him or think him a bit crazy if nothing else. Nobody fears Henry.
Everybody fears Hyde. It’s as if I smell of evil, positively reek of it. Maybe I do. I’d ask you, but you obviously can’t answer that question, as you can’t possibly see me, let alone smell the reek of evil. Ha ha, the reek of evil. That sounds like something that Henry would say… In an entirely negative manner, of course. Not that it bothers me. I enjoy when others try to degrade me. It really can make my day.
I’ve seen many avoid me, many through me looks of entire fear, and many freeze damned near to dead when I’ve spoken. It’s a wonder that I haven’t killed anyone by simply giving a passing glance. These people are terrified of what they don’t know. Or, you know, it’s that reek of evil. Is it something like is stench? Is it more like some sort of feeling?
Damn it all, I’m starting to sound like Henry with all of these questions. I need to go out soon. I can only stay in for so long before the boredom overwhelms me. I’ve tired of this business of writing. I now know why Henry does it--it’s boring as hell. How could he pass up the opportunity to indulge in something that’s as boring as hell?
All right, all right, I’m off. Now you have something other than blood to remember by--though, personally, I think that the blood leaves a more appropriate touch. If only I could find some to smear on the paper. My own? No, too predictable, too easy. If I come back later, if I do kill, and I am still in my own mind, then perhaps I will. Blood does add a charming touch.
Ha ha, charming. That makes me laugh, too. Maybe that’s what Henry needs; a good life. Maybe a good laugh and a good job by a whore. Speaking of which, I’ve got a rendezvous with Miss Harris tonight. That should prove to be quite satisfying, shouldn’t it?
Now I go off into the night again. Perhaps we’ll meet sometime. If we do, just remember; murder, obsession, revenge. Oh, how I do revel in murder, obsession, revenge.
-------------------
*waves*
I wrote this about an hour ago and decide... Y'know, why not post it?
As the topic says, this is a short story/monolougeish type of fic. It's based on the musical Jekyll and Hyde, and is written as if in Hyde's point of view. At least, in what I could make of it. Please forgive any sort of breech of... something. Right, any coherent thought seems to have left me.
Enjoy if at all possible.
And if you haven't, I suggest that you look into the music from the play...
Murder,
Obsession, Revenge
Murder, obsession, revenge. I live in it. Murder, obsession, revenge. A way of life.
Is there any other? Not for me. My life is anger, my life is hate, my life is pure hell, and I love it like that. I must, because how else could I be what I am? A creature they say, and a creature is what I am. We are all creatures though, are we not? Each of us is worthy of the same fate. The simple fact is that while others wish for something, I carry an idea through. I see the results, and I adore them. Yes, the results of murder, obsession, revenge.
Revenge is my mission. I was not born for revenge--indeed, I was not born in any conventional definition of the world. Nor was a truly created. I am more of a manifestation, if you will. Yes, that is the closest that I can come to describing what I am. A manifestation forced into being through a series of experiments. That really does sound horrid, now that I think about it. It seems rather deranged but, I suppose, old Henry is rather deranged in his own way. There must have been some sort of derangement; look at me!
He didn’t expect what I was to become. Ha, and he called himself a scientist, an intellect in this world. Good old Henry, always believing in his science and false hope. Others cling to him even as he does so, hoping to catch his eye, to find some way into his heart. Isn’t that sad? They cry for him and he doesn’t hear them.
Silly little bitches. I find it most amusing that his attention in on what has resulted in me. What would they say if they knew all of this? His wife to be, that brainless beauty of a blond, follows his words as a dog in a collar; no wonder he says that he loves her. She’ll do whatever he says. She’ll follow him through anything. Sad, really. Why dedicate so much time to one person?
What? I’m off track of what I was saying? To hell with you. It’s a wonder that I’m writing something at all; I usually leave that sort of thing to Henry. He does love his journals. I considered burning them, watching his life’s work go up in flames--ah, but there’re so many other things to burn. Better to let Henry hold onto his false hopes. After all, I owe him enough to keep him alive and, more importantly, who knows what’ll happen to yours truly if Henry kills himself?
He’s thought of that before, but he won’t do it. He’s far to dedicated to his precious work. Ha, far too dedicated to me, and I do care very little for him. There is only sparse resolve in his being, little that will survive any true disaster. Good God, if the man were to walk out of his lab for once, he’d find himself completely at a loss. Live a little, Jekyll.
Ah, but that’s where I come in. I live, I feel, and I breath. He knows now that I am here, and he is starting to become aware of what I am. That’s rather funny, because I don’t know for sure what I am, or how I exist. I don’t know why I know everything about Henry while he knows precious little about me. I don’t know how he can become me. I don’t know how I become Henry.
Most important of all, I don’t know how I can be myself alone, without Henry. How to kill him without being rid of myself… It is the question most frequently on my mind. Granted, I don’t often concern myself with it--I have better things to do, after all. Much better and more satisfying things to be doing than sitting and thinking. That can become very tiresome after even a short time.
If I could kill him, I would but, as I’ve said, that won’t work very well. I personally have no intention of death. Henry’d be better off dead. After all, he’s going to be entirely insane soon enough. He doesn’t have the heart for this. Or anything, for that matter. Once he sees what a disaster his little experiment has become, he’ll certainly give up his hopes. Maybe that’ll be the time to take control. It seems logical enough. To think, I could be myself forever, without having intervals of the dream world where I can only watch from behind his eyes. Can you imagine seeing that tedious work through his eyes? It’s revolting.
I’m serious when I say that this man has no life. He’ll stay in his lab for weeks at a time, refusing to speak with anyone. How can that man survive such a thing? God, but it’s exasperating.
Back to what I was saying a while ago. Revenge. I’ve carried it out already, and it’s a wonder that the situation hasn’t become apparent to someone. After all, if the entirety of that hypocritical board of governors has been murdered--or most, rather, as Stride still walks the earth, though not for much longer if I have my way, and I will--I should think that at least one person in the whole of London would see that it might have something to do with the man whom they sent home depressed; the one who has come damned near to being a recluse.
These people are ignorant as all hell. A murderer walks among them, talks to them. Some of them love him, some think that he is insane. None see the side of him that is me. Better for him, maybe. Easier for me. Damnable stupidity can be an asset when placed against those committing acts of vengeance.
Really, Henry should be pleased with me. I did kill the ones who had been tormenting him, the ones that he had secretly loathed. In his heart, he had wished them dead. If you believe no one else, then believe me; I have seen into his deepest secrets, you must remember. I wonder if he knows this. Certainly he didn’t plan on it.
He didn’t plan on the deaths, either, but they were carried out. Those who had shot down his work for their pathetic reasoning--their hypocrisy, yes--have been slain. I saw to it that they crumpled to the streets of London and died choking on their own blood. Henry knows that they are dead and is beginning to suspect that he has something to do with it; he’s catching on, he is. Slowly but surely.
I’d think he’d be happier about the justice than he is. After all, he was the one who had first wished for revenge. I had only carried out his wish. I am Henry’s angel of death, his demon of vengeance. I can only hope that one of these days, I will be my own.
The obsession? I am a product of that. Henry is tied to his work more than anything. As dull as it is, perhaps I should be glad for it. Had he not spent all of his time working, I would amount to nothing. Even so, it is tedious and now entirely unnecessary. Doesn’t he know about me? He’ll never be rid of me, oh no.
Henry should have been more careful. In all of his obsession, I became more than a passing wish for vengeance in the heart. I became a solid being, and I have my own obsessions. This is my life, now, and I refuse to give it up.
Of course, some of Henry’s own thoughts have passed to me. This is irritating, but I have come to live with it. Take the whore, for example. In a rare splurge of outward enthusiasm, Henry had taken a visit to one of the many local whorehouses, where he met the prostitute who has become my dearest Lucy. She really is quite the specimen, though she dreams rather too much for her own good. Ah, but she knows what she does, and she does it well. She is the closest to beauty that I know, and the closest to a possession of mine. Perhaps, now, she is a possession of mine. If one were of a mind to take her, he would die before he had the chance.
Yes, it’s true, I am possessive of this one. There is little to have for yourself when you don’t truly have your own being, however. It is a rarity. A lovely little rarity.
Who is to read this, I wonder? No one? Ah, but if someone is reading this… Hmm. Who are you?
If you don’t know who I am by this point, don’t worry about it. I’m not talking about my name. Of course my name is Hyde; perhaps you’ve heard of me? Perhaps not, though. Miss Harris and Henry are the only two who seem to know my name.
Ah, but you must have heard about me. Why else would be reading this? Yes, I was the murderer. As I have said, I live to kill. Someone must. How else could we keep this world from true insanity? Ah hah, how amusing that is. No, I don’t kill to keep sanity. I kill because I can. Sometimes for vengeance, sometimes out of rage, sometimes just because I can. You’ll find that I can do damned near anything that I put my mind to.
Why not murder, after all? I challenge this world, and here is a way to go about doing so. Perhaps there are other ways--Henry has his own methods of worming under the skin of others when he wants to. This is mine, and it has been effective up to this point. Very effective. They cannot find me; I am hidden within another. And really, who would suspect dear Henry? Those who know him either love him or think him a bit crazy if nothing else. Nobody fears Henry.
Everybody fears Hyde. It’s as if I smell of evil, positively reek of it. Maybe I do. I’d ask you, but you obviously can’t answer that question, as you can’t possibly see me, let alone smell the reek of evil. Ha ha, the reek of evil. That sounds like something that Henry would say… In an entirely negative manner, of course. Not that it bothers me. I enjoy when others try to degrade me. It really can make my day.
I’ve seen many avoid me, many through me looks of entire fear, and many freeze damned near to dead when I’ve spoken. It’s a wonder that I haven’t killed anyone by simply giving a passing glance. These people are terrified of what they don’t know. Or, you know, it’s that reek of evil. Is it something like is stench? Is it more like some sort of feeling?
Damn it all, I’m starting to sound like Henry with all of these questions. I need to go out soon. I can only stay in for so long before the boredom overwhelms me. I’ve tired of this business of writing. I now know why Henry does it--it’s boring as hell. How could he pass up the opportunity to indulge in something that’s as boring as hell?
All right, all right, I’m off. Now you have something other than blood to remember by--though, personally, I think that the blood leaves a more appropriate touch. If only I could find some to smear on the paper. My own? No, too predictable, too easy. If I come back later, if I do kill, and I am still in my own mind, then perhaps I will. Blood does add a charming touch.
Ha ha, charming. That makes me laugh, too. Maybe that’s what Henry needs; a good life. Maybe a good laugh and a good job by a whore. Speaking of which, I’ve got a rendezvous with Miss Harris tonight. That should prove to be quite satisfying, shouldn’t it?
Now I go off into the night again. Perhaps we’ll meet sometime. If we do, just remember; murder, obsession, revenge. Oh, how I do revel in murder, obsession, revenge.
-------------------