The Glass Scientists micro-fanfictions

It's Only a Cabaret, Old Chum!

A bitter laugh slipped through the man's lips, bringing with it a cloud of wine, whiskey, and all manner of other alcohols that had been ingested due to the less than marvelous fact that when he was to lose himself, he lost the part of him that knew when to stop, to think, to have any real sense of self preservation whatsoever. But why should be care? His story would be lost to history like all those scientific greats who he had dared follow their fading footprints in the sand!
What good has his life brought him? Life should be spent living to the absolute fullest, and yet each and every second he had lived so far had been wasted chasing the approval of anyone who so looked at him, wishing that they would praise him, help him, speak fondly of him, anything? And for what? A life that lead him to ruin and despair? He could have almost laughed again, and in fact that was precisely what he did!

Or maybe it was just the lingering echoes of Edward Hyde laughing at him within his mind, his laughter still managing to cling to the room even once he was gone.

Oh good lord, Henry made the mistake of looking across to the largest of the mirrors in the room. He would have been better off without knowing, he wished he didn't know, he wished he never looked, but there were a good many things he wished he hadn't done but it was far too late for wishing now.
He was a mess, more than a mess, it was so unfortunate that he winced outright. While he did not regard himself as much, he did take care in his appearance, and that had to count for something, but his clothes - one of the rare expenses that he was willing to spend on himself - were tatted and torn, stained with nothing he wanted to know. It was a marvel that the sleeve of his left arm managed to remain connected altogether, though it would not be too difficult to assume it was unsalvageable.
Oh, and his face! It would surely take more than a singular washcloth to clean away the smudges of what had, he could only assumed, to have been artfully applied, but nonetheless scandalously designed, makeup that had been smudged following the application and whatever exploits had been undertaken before the moment he returned to Henry Jekyll.

But as he stood there, the ache in his head growing in ferocity with every second that ticked on by, he could not help but laugh! Nothing really mattered anyway, so why not find the humour in things, make merriment in his destruction while he was still there to laugh at himself?
The laugh died away, a cough taking its place with a violence that sent him sinking to his knees, but was that not, by some strange matter of circumstances, not hilarious in its own right? He had far too many unanswered questions, but there was no point, no time to seek out some semblance of an answer to them! Time was so incredibly short, so why should he waste precious moments trying to find the answer to why he was to suffer so incredibly?

If he could not laugh, he'd surely weep, but the two so often overlapped so he could not say for certainty what shook his body so horribly.

Oh yes, he had ruined himself, but there was something wonderful in his ruin, something deliciously dark and forbidden in the destruction of his very soul, and it was out on display for all to see! Of course it was, there was nothing about him that was safe from the prying eye, so he might as well let it be seen! Come see, come look, the fine ruin of the once good Dr. Henry Jekyll! Come laugh, come cry, gaze upon what was once a man like you or I!
They were watching anyway. He knew they were, for every moment of his life was spent being watched and so he shaped his life into performance, into something that he wanted to be seen, everything horrible, everything unbearable locked away to poison him so wonderfully from the inside. But why should he care? They thought his performance to be wonderful, and if life is but a performance then that was all that they needed to think about him! What did they think about him? Did they care? Did they wonder? Did they see that he was falling apart at the seams that he was forever resewing? Of course not! People watch the performance, not the performer! As long as he played his part right, he will be celebrated and remembered, and if he didn't then he would simply cease to be!

Perhaps, instead, they would simply peek behind the curtains and see the truth of the man and let the deep rooted decay take him on its own.

If anyone happened upon him at that moment, they surely would not recognise the giggling and gibbering madman in the room as the good doctor.
Oh, the glass felt so wonderfully cold under his palm, a clear difference from the flames that still seemed to race through his veins, setting him alight from the inside out. So so wonderful, but the cool reflected too much back at him. Perhaps it would be better if it was gone? Yes yes! What good is there seeing the ruin displayed before him? Not when life still raced around him, no time to stop, no no, no time for rest! Life was so terribly, wonderfully short so why the hell should he waste it sitting around and moping as he locked himself away from the world in the walls of his room?
There was far too much that he needed to do, so why hide away? Inside, he was lost to himself, left to be but himself, but outside, life was wonderful, wonderful in its capacity to rid him of all that he was! Life was beautiful, life was tragic, and life was nothing but a bright and flashy mask for the ruin that lay beneath!