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His eyes were still shut,
Helena noticed, even as she placed the warm compress on his pale chest.
His face was unlike anything she had ever
seen before . . . in the three days since the wedding, his color had
steadily drained, leaving the circles under his eyes to grow more and more
pronounced. "Oh Henry . . . " She mumbled, watching him shallowly draw
each breath, weary each one would be his last. "How can this be you . .
.
my proud doctor?" Her whisper implored, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Nothing to do but wait, wait as
the entire elite London society had been for days, to see if Dr. Jekyll-fiancee
of Sir Danvers Carew's
daughter--would regain consciousness, or if he would join his father
in that void of darkness all mankind is destined for. The wedding had been
a
nightmare, truly the events that took place were unreal. Visions of
Hyde's final attempt for control would haunt Helena St. Just's dreams until
her
dying day, the result of Henry's insatiable drive for the truth. With
her assistance, he had managed to destroy his life. She reached up and
slowly
brushed a stray lock of ebony hair from his face, smoothing his slack
cheek gently. He truly looked like a dead man, shirtless and uncovered
to the
waist, his pale skin bruising from the prick of needles and the insertion
of many contraptions designed to aid in respiration. One tube still remained,
draining any blood that may seep into his punctured lung, it's entry
way bandaged with scarlet-mottled gauze. She sat at his side, squeezing
his giant,
unresponsive hand. He had once held his fiancee's face so gently with
that hand, now he lay dying through her actions. Poor Emma, she had only
wanted to free him from his hell . . .
When the knife entered his chest
with a sickening, audible squish Helena's world had crumbled around her.
Hyde had to be stopped, this she
knew as she clutched John Utterson's arm shakily, but for it to be
Emma who struck the blow . . . unthinkable! His eyes had changed then,
right
before Helena's eyes, but the significance of this meant little to
everyone else. She saw Henry Jekyll reclaim his failing body, too late
to pronounce his
undying love for Emma . . . unable to win the battle of time. Emma,
thankfully, had not removed the knife from its place-although she gripped
his
body with such force she did drive the weapon slightly further into
his chest. Helena had arrived at his side in a blur, seeing the extent
of the injuries,
watching his vest turn sickeningly red. The worst by far was his eyes,
pleading not to be saved but to let him die . . . which is something she
could not
do. She had seen Emma in her state of shock, and the faces of Henry's
friends and colleagues, and knew she could not sit here and watch him,
let him
die. She made the move to save his life.
How to approach the wound, in such
an urgent situation and without supplies, was a split decision. To remove
the knife could be his downfall
or his saving grace. She knew what the wrong decision would result
in, but he would ultimately die if she did take the chance. "Someone get
me a
medical bag, there's one in Dr. Jekyll's consulting room . . . GO!
I need some warm water, a clean cloth . . . this man is going to die unless
I get what
I require!" She had shouted at the wide-eyed spectators, all frozen
in time. Emma's quiet sobs filled the church, as several men sprinted from
the
church to find the supplies, and again she shouted, this time at Sir
Danvers to remove his daughter from the horrible scene before her. Several
other
women began to exit the church as well . . . sniffling, heads bowed.
She took his head in her lap, taking
his pulse and checking his nose and mouth for exhalation. Just as she had
feared, he had not been
breathing, and his lips rapidly had begun to turn blue. "Henry . .
. you've got to hang on!" She spoke in a hushed cry. Lying him flat on
his back,
kneeling at his side, she gripped the knife in her hand and withdrew
it in one swift motion, a jet of blood spattering across her face. She
had fought
against the tears, the urge to become hysterical, and didn't even pause
to wipe it away, placing a hand over the squirting wound. She felt the
rush of
blood against her palm, and leaned forward to breathe into his mouth,
supply him with the oxygen his body craved. Her lips had met his ashen
ones,
and despite the pretences she still felt a hint of desire in her bosom.
Quickly she blew into his unresponsive mouth, and felt a sickening rush
of air
bubbling through the blood under her hand. "Oh dear God . . . he's
punctured a lung." She gasped, the situation worse then she had imagined.
"What can I do? Anything?" Utterson
knelt beside her quietly, touching Jekyll's hand tenderly. When she turned
to him her eyes sparkled with
tears.
"I need something . . . to drain
his lungs with, he's going to drown in his own blood!" She spoke, her volume
growing with each spoken
word. "A tube, a hose . . . anything . . . " She had whispered, pulling
back his jacket and unbuttoning the vest quickly. Her fingers slipped on
the
bloody fabric, and she ripped open his shirt, gasping at the gory wound.
"Dear God . . . my dear friend
Henry!" Utterson whispered in shock. The blood steadily seeped from the
gaping wound, and when a
gentleman guest returned with a clean cotton cloth she ripped it from
his hand and folded it, pressing it against the lesion. Unsure of what
she should
do until she was able to intubate his chest, she breathed deeply into
his mouth again, and lifted him onto her lap . . . rolling him onto his
side.
"Hold his head!" She whisper-shouted
at Utterson, who gently cradled the man's head in his arms, stoking his
hair away from his face. Just
as she had guessed, as she had hoped, a trail of blood began to pour
from Henry's mouth. His body shuddered, and a wracking cough and sickeningly
wet breath escaped his lips. He wheezed a few more labored gasps of
oxygen, before becoming once again unable to breathe. "Come on, Henry .
. .
breathe . . . please . . . " She whispered into his ear, tears saturating
her once calm tone-
"How is he? Any change?" Emma whispered
as she entered the dimly lit room. Her eyes were weary from lack of sleep,
lack of will to live,
having seen what had become of her darling Henry.
"Not a thing, good or bad . . .
" Helena whispered back, slowly removing the compress and exposing the
wound, causing Emma to turn away
in tears. Her beautiful golden locks shimmering in the soft light that
engulfed the bedroom.
Helena had demanded the doctor
be taken to his home, where she could care for him day and night, and be
sure he was properly tended to.
There was nothing a hospital could offer him now but an atmosphere
of death, a luxury best not taken advantage of. Emma paced wearily around,
still
recovering from the shock she had suffered. After the wedding she had
slept for almost two days, the laudanam Helena had administered to ease
her
shaking giving way to fitful sleep. She had awoken and literally burst
into Henry's room, where she sat and cried for sometime into the night.
Now
she mostly stayed away, checking on her love until she became to worked
up to stand it anymore, then exiting again.
"He looks as though . . . is he
. . . is he still breathing, Helena?" She asked, barely able to speak the
words. Helena nodded as Emma
continued. "I can't bear to see him like this . . . how could he .
. . how could I?" She stopped, unable to express her feelings. She approached
the bed
and gently traced her finger over his dry lips, tears slipping down
her cheeks. "I had no idea he was so far gone . . . that his work had so
totally,
utterly consumed him . . . " She gave into the sobs then, and after
leaning down to kiss his fevered brow she left again. Helena had been the
one to
explain . . . to explain how Dr. Jekyll's experiments had gone awry,
how Hyde had gained control. The response to her tale was to be expected
... half
of England scoffed at the doctor, the other half pitied his terrible
fate ... no one paused to see the breakthrough he had discovered, or the
sacrifices he had
made to save others lives. Placing the warm cloth on his swelling wound
yet again, Helena wondered when he would at last wake up. She was anxious
to see his eyes again, to replace the last images of his frightened
gaze . . .