The Glass Scientists micro-fanfictions

Good

There was not a soul who could look upon the good, highly esteemed Doctor Henry Jekyll and not be left with the impression that he was a perfectly pleasant and perfectly, well, perfect young man. It was a, more or less, well accepted fact, but of course it was, he had spent far too long cultivating this impression for anyone to doubt this. Surely that was what was thought of him by those of high society, he risked far too much to cultivate a specific view of him to have anything but this be the case. 

Each word he said was only said after he ensured it was as smoothened back and refined to perfection. The voice he spoke it with was not his own, and even as its outstanding falsities rang in his ears he could never have truly recognised it as his own. With each syllable tapped, and not always just in a figurative sense as, often in increasingly more and more stressful times he would quite literally tap the syllables out on palm in as subtle a way he could manage without letting on that was what he was doing, nobody would ever need to really hear him. Each word he uttered the less he could recognise his own voice, each instance of the refined perfection that was expected of him making him sound as if he truly was supposed to brush elbows with the finest of London aristocracy, as if he deserved to be there, as if he really was one of them.
After all, if he were to change the pronunciation of his name, if he were to alter the cadence of his speech, if he were to play his part well enough then there was no way anyone would be able to see through him.

Not that there was anything for them to see if they did try to see through him. Under all the layers of perfection, of kindness, of well honed social niceties, and of every little thing that was was expected of him, there really was nothing real. Reality was a privilege that he had long since accepted that he would have to give up if he wanted to truly succeed, and that was assuming that he ever really was real to begin with. Perhaps he really was just as wonderfully fabricated as he felt. A series of desired traits all held together in the attempt to form the shape of a man. That was all he felt he was, and maybe it was even true. 

But it was good that nobody could see through his mask. That nobody realised that he was nothing more than just a human. That nobody bore witness to the profound and most beautiful ruin of the man Henry Jekyll that left nothing more than the esteemed Dr. Jekyll. Nobody saw the blood he washed from his hands yet seemed to forever stain the skin. He seemed to be in a perpetual state of gathering more and more red stains, be it of blood - his own or others - or even his eyes, it was a wonder nobody else could see it.
Had nobody ever realised his eyes were brown? Or did they really just believe his lie that his eyes really were the colour of rubies and rich wines and blood? Did anybody really recognise him, not when he could not even recognise himself? Was there a self to recognise at all, or did it so perfectly shift and change to whatever form those before him wanted of him? This was feeling more and more like the case as the years rolled by, and if it did not stop, if he could not claim a control over the uncontrollable it would roll right by him.

But he would not be forgotten. His sacrifices of his very self would not be lost to the sands of time. His name - the name he made for himself, not the name he left behind him with the very first footstep he made in London - would be remembered, his work in the name of science will be spoken of with the revere that only the greats had won, and even in his eventual death he would be immortal, and he would be remembered as being a good man. A wise man. An incredible man. But never a madman. No, never mad. 

He was a good man, everybody said so. The little old ladies crooned it as they patted at his cheeks. The gentlemen declared it when they slapped him on his shoulder as if he was one of them. He never corrected them. It was a lie and he knew it, he knew he was absolutely dreadful, for he was but a human and that was the worst infliction he could have suffered. He never corrected them. Their belief in his goodness meant more to him than anything else, than his health, his very life. 
He had worked so hard to earn this, he was not going to let himself fall from grace, and so, despite what those scientists he had so selfishly invited to work under his wing might think, he played his part well. Even as those rats continued to chew holes in the bottom of the boat - and damn each and every one of them for it - he knew that he could still keep them afloat. He had no. There was no other option other than to drown and he was not going to let them drown now, not after all he had done for them. 

There was not a soul who could look upon the pitiful, altogether tragic Henry Jekyll and not be left with the impression that there really was nobody at all there anymore, nothing beneath the polished, perfectly refined surface. He had given each and every part of himself away time and time again and now, even with each breath that he breathed, each beat of his heart, the man was dead.