The Glass Scientists micro-fanfictions

True Opheliac

Hell bent to drive himself to destruction, Edward Hyde was the true Opheliac. The path of self destruction he sauntered down was as intoxicating as the wine that spilled from the broken bottle, the gin that burned the throat, the absinthe that dripped off the dingy bar counter as the first blow found home with a solid crack.

His footsteps were quickly swallowed up by music and chatter. The mask sitting snugly upon his face accentuated the madman's grin. Hair of spun gold drawn up in an elegant bun, soon to be spread out across the pillow of a stranger he hadn't cared enough to ask the name of. For all the heat of passion, he'd vanish off into the night before the stranger had the opportunity to turn back to him.
The night was still young and there were countless wonders still left to leave him in delicious ruin.

There was a stagger to his step as he retreated back out into the street, the crooning of gentle vampires, so young yet their life had long since left them, following him out of the smoke filled cavern that so many could never fully leave, part of themselves always staying in the darkness. But not he, for there was nothing that could hold him down, free of all the shackles that even now sort to bind him down to the earth.
Laughter bubbled up out through his lips as the sweet decay began to set in.

Heavy footsteps broke the silence of the alleyway, falling uneven and fast. He giggled as he brushed the hair, free and as wild as he was, from his eyes as they burned into the night. The alley was not as empty as he had thought it to be, for it served as a walkway for like-minded creatures of the night. As soon as permission was grated, his lips met those of another, and at once they fell in a heap upon the cold, hard ground. It was gritty and wonderfully voyeuristic, and as suddenly as it had occurred, the two were off into the night, leaving the alleyway a degree more disheveled and infinitely more marked than they had been when they came in.
The joyous dilapidation of one's own soul had never felt quite so wonderful before.

He shifted about on his toes as if he were in a dance, taunts filling the air from all angles. Four against one was unfair odds, but he could hardly of cared less, for he was the goddamned Spirit of London at Night, and he'd rather be damned than back away. Even as he was thrown to the floor, a kick to the ribs, to the gut, he couldn't help but laugh for he truly was alive! It was fortunate they chose to leave the pitiful little shape on the floor, and not without a few wounds to nurse of their own. Coughing and spluttering up blood, blood that had such a bizarre shimmer to it, he through his head way back and howled a laugh to the cold and unfeeling moon.
It was so perfectly easy to wreck oneself both bodily and of the soul.

It was harder and harder to stay to stay on his feet, but yet another glass' contents vanished down his throat, even as it ached and felt raw from the night. The morning sunrise shone in his glass, and he swirled it about as if it was the alcohol it once more contained. He ached all over, and he had never felt better in his entire walk of life. One more glass was drained before he vanished off into the morning, swallowed up by the gradually rising sun.

Like the perfect Ophelia, the little Opheliac was gone as soon as he had come, leaving behind him nothing but pain. Emerging from the darkness of the soul's corruption, the silent office was filled with the anguished cries of a doctor so beautifully ravaged by the self destructive tendencies of one that was not he. The good man could barely recognise the sight before him in the mirror, bruised and broken, clothes decorated with stains of substances that he wished not to ponder upon. But he was still alive. Henry Jekyll was alive and, even as he stood there, aghast, he could not fully shake the feeling that he felt more alive than he ever had, that he felt frighteningly wonderful. By god did it feel amazing! He let out a shuddering breath that was so reminiscent of the light footed beast he became.

Hell bent to drive himself to destruction, Henry Jekyll was the true Opheliac. It was only a matter of time before he released the beast inside of him, freed to destroy their shared self in whichever it, they, saw fit for them, and oh! by god was it exciting to know that the release he craved was but mere moments away at any given time.