JEKYLL'S FIX
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My shirt is drenched with sweat. I feel sick, wet, dirty - there aren't enough words in my vocabulary to describe the way I feel. "Wretched" does not do this feeling justice; how I wish I could feel wretched again. Wretched is bliss, wretched is ecstasy, wretched is a luxury that I doubt I shall ever have again.
I lay on a makeshift cot in the laboratory. The bottle of exlixir sits on a counter, shimmering red in the candlelight. I was foolish to leave it in plain sight. Were I wise, I would have destroyed it. It is calling me now, with a woman's voice, whispering sweet promises. "I will take your pain away," she says, and for a moment I almost believe her. "Worhip me," she says.
But I know, I know what sort of vengeful Goddess she is. I have knelt at her altar and felt her cruel enlightenment running through me. She has turned me into a monster, into a murderer and back again, and I have praised her for it. I have sacrificed life after life to this chemical savior, beginning with my own. I know how she gets her brilliant red hue; nothing shines so bright as blood.
With this knowledge comes pain, and I have been suffering since I last gave into her. There was a flash of joy as she slid past my lips, a short-lived euphoria, then murderous rage. I wish I could not recall what I did while I prayed to my Goddess. I wish I could block it out, but the screams of my victims play in an endless loop inside my head. I want to quiet them, want them to understand. It was not my fault, it wasn't my fault, it was SHE, she who shimmers in the bottle across the room.
With slow, tortured movements, I pull myself out of the cot and stumble towards the counter. I will destroy her. The Goddess shall die. I should never have created her. The bottle is in my hands now, it is in my hands and I shall crush it. Her stolen blood will drip down my skin. I will kill her. I will recover. I will kill her. My grip tightens around the glass and I squeeze. I can hear her scream mingling with the others, the screams of my victims - no, her victims, his victims, Hyde's victims, not mine. It wasn't my fault. I was only trying to work a miracle.
The bottle is at my lips without my knowing how. My heart pounds out a desperate rhythm. Drink it, drink it, drink it ... I want so badly to feel the rush, to end this agony. "I will take your pain away." Yes ... please, take my pain away ... I cannot help it. It isn't my fault. Maybe this time will be different, maybe no one will die. I can control it. I am the true God. All I need is one small sip to take the pain away. One sip.
The bottle is empty.
Bliss.
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My shirt is drenched with sweat. I feel sick, wet, dirty - there aren't enough words in my vocabulary to describe the way I feel. "Wretched" does not do this feeling justice; how I wish I could feel wretched again. Wretched is bliss, wretched is ecstasy, wretched is a luxury that I doubt I shall ever have again.
I lay on a makeshift cot in the laboratory. The bottle of exlixir sits on a counter, shimmering red in the candlelight. I was foolish to leave it in plain sight. Were I wise, I would have destroyed it. It is calling me now, with a woman's voice, whispering sweet promises. "I will take your pain away," she says, and for a moment I almost believe her. "Worhip me," she says.
But I know, I know what sort of vengeful Goddess she is. I have knelt at her altar and felt her cruel enlightenment running through me. She has turned me into a monster, into a murderer and back again, and I have praised her for it. I have sacrificed life after life to this chemical savior, beginning with my own. I know how she gets her brilliant red hue; nothing shines so bright as blood.
With this knowledge comes pain, and I have been suffering since I last gave into her. There was a flash of joy as she slid past my lips, a short-lived euphoria, then murderous rage. I wish I could not recall what I did while I prayed to my Goddess. I wish I could block it out, but the screams of my victims play in an endless loop inside my head. I want to quiet them, want them to understand. It was not my fault, it wasn't my fault, it was SHE, she who shimmers in the bottle across the room.
With slow, tortured movements, I pull myself out of the cot and stumble towards the counter. I will destroy her. The Goddess shall die. I should never have created her. The bottle is in my hands now, it is in my hands and I shall crush it. Her stolen blood will drip down my skin. I will kill her. I will recover. I will kill her. My grip tightens around the glass and I squeeze. I can hear her scream mingling with the others, the screams of my victims - no, her victims, his victims, Hyde's victims, not mine. It wasn't my fault. I was only trying to work a miracle.
The bottle is at my lips without my knowing how. My heart pounds out a desperate rhythm. Drink it, drink it, drink it ... I want so badly to feel the rush, to end this agony. "I will take your pain away." Yes ... please, take my pain away ... I cannot help it. It isn't my fault. Maybe this time will be different, maybe no one will die. I can control it. I am the true God. All I need is one small sip to take the pain away. One sip.
The bottle is empty.
Bliss.