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I was wrong.
It's driving me mad. He set me free with his chemicals, but that freedom is a prison to itself, complete with shackles and treadmill.
What, don't believe me? I'd march
into Scotland Yard this minute if I could, confess everything and let him
wind up with the damned
chains.
I'm not - I'm NOT - like this.
It's all him. That's what he says about me, you know. "Not me, not me,
him."
Well, if he can say it, I can.
Except I can't, because of what
he's done - what he's doing - to me.
I should clarify. Yes, I did it,
I did it all from the pettiest vandalism to murder to worse. "All these
several sins, all used in each degree",
isn't that the phrase? But I don't
regret a second of it, that much is true.
It's the rest of it that's driving
me over the edge. The little things. I can't smile, you know. Not like
other people can, pleasantly. I can
scarcely greet people civilly
unless I want something in the worst way for the worst reasons. I can think
about it. I can think all I like, but
I'll never be able to do it.
He's taken all that for himself, you see. Somehow he's trapped me so all
I can do is evil, because he's fool
enough to think himself good.
My chains are long enough to reach a woman's throat, to strangle her, but
not enough to embrace. It's
enough to make me very bitter.
I left a woman back there, in the
maze of filth they call Whitechapel. I left her in a dingy room covered
in her own blood. And dear,
good, virtuous Henry is
going to wake up this morning and see the blood all over his clothes and
decide not to read the morning paper
so he won't know what I did. What
he
did.
Because if he'd released me, maybe I'd have taken the whore, not killed her.
You'd think, from the way he carries
on, that he knows it's his fault, but no. He just feels guilty for unleashing
me on the world. I'm not
natural. This isn't natural.
If he'd just let go of the goddamned leash, maybe it would be better
for both of us. Or maybe it's already
too late.
It's lucky for him he has no family. I'd kill them all to spite him. Slowly.
It's what he'd expect of me. I'm
forced to live up to his expectations - and nothing else. Body and soul.
Do I even have a soul? I'd
better. I don't - I will not be
- I am no part of him. I am Edward Hyde.
He claims he doesn't remember what
I do. Is he lying? Do you remember her, Jekyll? Could you hear her screaming?
I'm sure no one
else did, not in Whitechapel.
Losing my mind. God, I hope someone
reads this, even if it is just Jekyll. Except ... it just occurred to me.
Am I even writing what I think I
have been writing? The room is
spinning, I'm losing hold. Can't see the words. Close the book; he got
it from his father, now I've ruined
it, haven't I? Too bad, Henry,
too bad. Shelve it, then stumble back to bed while I can walk.
... I looked but couldn't focus
on what I'd written, just a dark blur. So, have I really been writing everything
I'd meant to? Or was I
thinking one thing and writing
something else, something that's just what he expects?
* * *
-T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men