The Modern Prometheus and the New Dionysus

The Moment

The pain reached a point where Henry couldn't even scream. He lie on the ground, clawing at the floor to the point where his nails broke, leaving streaks of blood on the wood. And then... nothing. He lie on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, utterly stunned by the complete absence of pain. Without it, he felt... hollow. He reached for the lab table to pull himself to his feet-he froze. This hand wasn't Henry's hand. Henry Jekyll's hand was steady, professional, and comely, marked with several small scars from different experiments over the years. This hand, however, was small, pale, corded, and had an unhealthy pallor to it. Henry, if that was even who he was, sat up quickly, all memory of the pain gone. As he did, something dark fell over his eyes. He instinctively grabbed it-hair. His hair was black.

He staggered to his feet, dazed. At a loss for what to do, he did the one thing he always knew he could fall back on. "I have to-" He tensed. This voice was a new, unfamiliar one. Higher than his own, but with the huskiness of a man. He reached for his notebook and began to write. He noticed that it was with his left hand again, but this time, he didn't care. As he wrote, brand new feelings arose in him in an intoxicating surge. A heady euphoria, a burning excitement, and an overwhelming freedom, though not the innocent freedom of a child come of age. No, this was the deadly freedom of a devil set free from hell. The freedom to do whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted. He began to laugh, the feeling of being so alive exhilarating him. "Free!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Victor groaned softly as he popped the lid of the coffin off with his shovel. He was lucky that the ones for the less-than-wealthy were poorly made, as it made the lids much easier to remove. Now that he'd gotten the lid off, he glanced over the body and nodded. This man hadn't died of disease, and he was still fresh. Though he'd already known that-he'd watched the gravediggers finish their job. Victor leapt down into the grave and lifted the right arm, looking it over. It was large enough to be used for his creation, and the flesh was smooth and clear. Victor glanced around before taking a bone saw from his bag. He didn't need the entire corpse, only the most beautiful pieces. His creation was going to be exceedingly perfect, and to that end, he would comb through all the graves in London if he had to.

Victor placed the corpse's left arm and right foot into the bag, folding them ever so carefully over each other so as to not damage them. Once he'd fit them in and laid a cloth over the top, just in case he were to run into anyone, he wiped the sweat off of his forehead, smearing dirt and cold blood across his face. Funnily enough, it wasn't the blood that bothered him. Victor sighed. He'd have to wash his greatcoat soon, before the stains set in. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

Victor carefully left the graveyard, saying a quick prayer as he passed the church. He wasn't entirely sure what he believed, but he knew there was something, and he didn't want to risk eternal damnation because of a few borrowed limbs. It technically wasn't stealing. It wasn't as if the original owners would be needing them, or even really owned them anymore. Victor slunk through the streets, trying to emulate the few nighttime stragglers and avoid suspicion. However, no one spared so much as a second glance at the skinny young man in a dirty overcoat and goggles. Victor knew it was odd to go out wearing the latter, but they were comforting to wear. He was especially fond of the slight weight of the goggles resting on his head. And besides, he wanted to protect his eyes at all costs. He needed them to complete his experiment, and they were the one part of him that resembled his late mother.

Victor managed to make it back to the laboratory within twenty minutes without event, though a dark-haired man had dashed past him shouting something about being alive. He slipped into the laboratory and into his lab coat, making a beeline for the corner he had moved the operating table into, clambering over the boxes, careful to not damage the limbs he'd collected. When he'd steadied himself, he removed the pieces from his bag and laid them gently on the operating table before reaching underneath the table and taking out the bottle of formaldehyde solution he'd modified earlier.

After draining the blood, which he would replace with his own later, Victor slipped a needle containing the preservative into the cephalic vein with the finesse of a thief, injecting the clear liquid into it. Once he was certain that enough of the preservative had been put into the arm, he moved on to the foot, which was much quicker a process, what with its smaller size. Once he had finished, Victor delicately laid the limbs in roughly the right position and cast an extra bedsheet he'd taken from a closet over them. He knew Jekyll wouldn't pay much attention to the table, if any, but he wanted an extra layer of concealment.

Having done as much as he could for the moment, Victor slipped out of his little corner with a yawn. It had been a long time since he'd gotten a good night of sleep. As he walked towards the stairs, he stopped, catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye. Jekyll's labcoat lay crumpled on the floor beside shattered glass and a splattering of nearly dried green liquid. Victor glanced around. Jekyll had instructed him to not tamper with his experiments, but surely he wouldn't fault him for taking a step closer. As Victor picked up the lab coat, something fell from it, hitting the floor with a tinkling sound. A small test tube, containing traces of what seemed to be a more concentrated version of the green liquid spattered on the wood.

Victor gingerly lifted the vial to his nose, lightly sniffing it. He gagged at the overwhelmingly acrid, sharp scent of the unknown formula. He could handle the stench of all the morbid things that could happen to the human body, but something about this smell instinctively disgusted him, and he couldn't stand it. Victor placed the vial on the table and stepped away from Jekyll's lab station. He wasn't sure of what had happened, and he didn't know if he wanted to be. Victor continued on his way. If he left the problem-if it even was one-alone, then maybe it would resolve itself. He hung his and Jekyll's lab coat on the hook on the back of the laboratory door before silently opening the door and poking his head out.

When he was sure that the hallway was empty, he slipped out and into his own room. He kicked his boots off and flopped down onto his bed with a tired huff. As Victor stared up at the ceiling, a smile spread across his face, and he wiggled excitedly. So far, his experiment was off to a perfect start.

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Alternate chapter name: Two Hot Messes Do Weird Science and Make Bad Life Choices at the Same Time.

Yeah... these two were my childhood role models and idols. Thank God I also practically idolized Lafayette. Who knows how much weirder I would be if I didn't have him. On another hand, I really like writing Victor like this. He's fun, and I really relate to him. He's the embodiment of my problems with socializing.

And what do you think of the story so far?

Also, quick note. I know it isn't book-accurate, but I will be taking the 'Hyde as an alternate identity' approach for the story's sake. In the book he wasn't actually another personality, just a second face for Jekyll to use to commit unspecified debauchery and crimes. It's not until the very end of his letter when he decides he doesn't want to take responsibility for his actions (book Jekyll was incredibly selfish and hypocritical) that he refers to Hyde as a second person. Meanwhile, he's been saying 'I' the whole time.

And don't get me started on how horrible Victor was. So yeah. Little me idolized Henry-Responibility-what's-that?-Jekyll and
Victor-instead-of-accepting-the-consequences-of-my-own-actions-I'm-gonna-abandon my-corpse-son-and-collapse-for-three-to-six-months-in-a-nervous-fever-whenever-something-bad-that's-totally-my-fault-happens-Frankenstein. 

These author's notes are long. Do you mind them?