𝕵ekyll

(Who knows, though, maybe this skin will one day finally wither and fall upon the ground like autumn dry leaves. When that happen, he will be at peace, for his exterior no longer mismatch his propriety; that he is, indeed, a corpse forced to breathe.)

In the midst of night, it so appears that the undead does unrest only when the sun already set. After all, the body might not decay, but the soul knows not to appear when the light of the day still shine itself on the skin of the one who should already be six feet under.

Slumbered and awoken for a second chance. (Then again, he is not unaccustomed to second chances.)

(—no one knows the fact that this is his favorite book, for it was a secret he kept to himself, when he was alone on his bed with a candle lit beside him—) "𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗴𝗻𝗶𝘇𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸?" (—except for 𝘩𝘪𝘮.)

"The book? Oh," (The book was a favorite of his. It was meant to be an anchor, to remind him of 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 before it was stolen from him—) "it must have fell out my bag, silly me! Thank you for noticing. But, if I may, humor me for awhile and tell me," [...]

Why is it sentient, acting as if it has an agency of its own? Who is the one inside? Who is the one hijacking the body? Who the 𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞 is pretending to be him? [...]

Pale complexion as if void of life. (𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.) It should be void of life because the owner is 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥. So why is it standing up? Why is it here in front of him? Why is it talking, as if it is sentient? [...]

Obsidian eyes so dark it does not reflect light. (𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳.) Glistening raven hair, locks on his face (𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵.) [...]

In the coming split of a second, he is submerged in total vacuum, his mind struggling as it tries to put itself together before insanity takes over. It tries to make sense the figure standing before it, eyes scanning his being. But the more it sees, the more it crumbles. [...]

A sharp ringing in his ears as the chatter and clatter of the world fades into silence. From that silence, emerges laughter. One that mocks him, a derision aimed at his indignation. The world stays silent as it witness Jekyll's entire psyche breaks down into pure chaos. [...]

𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. He knows it. It is 𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. He turns around, facing the owner of this voice. And—

𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. He would never forget this. He dreams of this voice, he dreams 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 this voice. [...]

𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. His whole body becomes tense. He recognizes this voice. He is 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦. It is years older, yet calling it familiar is an understatement—he knows this voice. [...]

distraction when external noise is unable to dampen the one inside. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. A sound. A voice? It comes from behind him. Wait. This voice. Oh. He recognizes this voice. Wait. Wait? [...]

Is it a self-inflicted mockery towards the state of his being—mindless, useless; a failure trapped in a body not of his own? 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. He hated the cold, but this new body is strong enough to withstand it. A fortune, as the prickly burn of winter serves as a [...]

routine forced upon them by the expectations around them? Is it a reminder of his own emptiness, mindlessly walking upon this village—this world—knowing his 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 is of the utmost importance, yet the broken nature of his mind is unable to follow through with it? [...]

conversing with each other. Everything is loud, yet his mind fixates on that one word. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. What 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 is being talked about here? Is it a form of criticism his mind create to the people around him, of how they are mindlessly participating in a [...]

𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. Such is the word that had been plaguing his thought for awhile now. Chattering and clattering of the village he walks upon does nothing to distract him from the repeating utterance the voice inside him spoke of. Kids running around the street, adults [...]

. . .i awＯ%∆ｋｅｅｅ???!!!ｍaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA