Good and Evil

 

For several days, I didn’t know precisely what had happened to me. Erik had described what he saw, and in great detail, but I could not strike an equilibrium between who I knew I was, and the monster Erik was depicting.

Or, who I thought I was.

Watson was wrong to confirm Erik’s thoughts that I am not left-handed. I am actually what is called ambidextrous. I am an ambidextrous person who favors his right hand for everyday tasks, though. Apparently, when under the influence of the serum, the hand I favor changed. Erik informed me that I lashed out at him with my left hand. Something that, if I had done it as I am now, would have been more than coordinated enough to connect (after all, to keep up my physical dexterity, I had not only mastered fencing, but also boxing), but would not normally have had the power behind it to knock Erik off his feet from so awkward an angle.

I recall waking up the next morning to find that my leg was stiff, but in no more pain than usual. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I automatically reached for my cane. My fingers failed to find it. When I fully opened my eyes and gazed around, I saw it on the floor by my chemistry table and Erik standing by the window, staring out and holding . . .

“Erik, what do you have?” I asked softly. Watson was still snoring in the chair.

Erik turned and regarded me sadly. “Your violin. I’m so sorry, Holmes.”

For a moment, I mistook his apology and thought he was admitting his own guilt. But a flash of memory enveloped me as I opened my mouth. Me, holding the violin, then bringing it down on my upraised knee.

Look for the evidence, my mind whispered. I reached down and pulled up my right trouser leg to examine my knee. There was a slight bruise just above the kneecap and when I straightened my trouser leg, I found small slivers of polished wood stuck in the material.

Erik wasn’t admitting his guilt; he was apologizing for my loss.

“Oh, God . . . how could I . . . ?”

Erik stepped over to the couch, depositing the splintered remains in my hands when I reached for them. “You were not yourself, Holmes. It was as if a different person inhabited your body.”

“Whether or not that is true, it was still these hands that destroyed such a beautiful instrument.”

“Indeed. I cannot deny that. But it was not your mind.”

I considered his words. “Yes. From what I do recall, I had the distinct sensation that I was in the background of my own actions and decisions. It’s almost . . . I suppose I could say this part of me - the rational, thinking part - had gone dormant. And if that occurs, what is there left but instinct, cruelty, and the base needs of a human?”

Erik nodded. “The distinction isn’t usually so stark, however, as it was with you.”

That statement hung between us until our eyes met.

“Cruelty . . .” I murmured.

“Instinct . . .” he echoed my tone.

“Base needs . . . let’s say from a prostitute.”

“Hyde!” we shouted in unison.

“Wha - ? Hide what?” Watson, still half-asleep and woken mid-snore, said.

I smiled. “Sorry, old chap. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I doubt we did. He’s already back to sleep,” Erik observed.

“He should rest. I’m sure I provided you both with nothing but anger, panic, and worry last night.” Not to be completely derailed from my train of thought, I said, “Hyde, though.”

“Yes. This was the epiphany that shimmered in my mind last night. Watson distracted me and I had just woken from my rather unpleasant concussion, so the thought didn’t stick. Jekyll’s experiment means that Hyde has an alter ego. But how do we find out who it is?”

“We don’t need to find out,” I said slowly. “We already know who it is. He’s been in front of us the entire time.”

“What? I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“Erik, don’t you see? Jekyll’s secretiveness, his non-sanctioned patient, the screams, Erik! The screams that were Jekyll’s voice, but distorted. And suddenly his sentiment to me makes so much more sense. He told me he had started this alone, and that he must finish it alone.”

“Dear God . . .” Erik breathed. “You’re saying that Jekyll . . .”

“ . . . is Hyde.”

 

***

 

Here are some of the pages from Jekyll’s journal, included to make the timeline more complete, and to explain a few things. Some notes of mine are included.

 

August 23rd, 3:00 pm

I’ve procured the last of the chemicals which I believe will give me a base potent enough for use in humans. My rudimentary testing is concluded. HJ-R-14 was successful in the rodents. Results recorded.

My next step is to send an exact copy of my findings as well as an outline explaining what it all means to the Board of Directors. They cannot ignore me once they see this. They cannot ignore the good it will do mankind. They will have to grant me a human subject.

 

What results could he have reached with rodents? And perhaps the success came because their brains are so simplistic, especially compared to human beings who plan and feel and use logic.

How would he know he truly had success? It is unfortunate he doesn’t record his results in this journal.

 

September 12th, 5:00 pm

Damn those bastards on the Board! They are all hypocritical cowards, every miserable one of them!

I forget myself. Sir Danvers is not. Yet even he wishes me to concede my experiments. Why do they not see that were this to work on a patient in an asylum, it could revolutionise how we view mental illness? All I ask for is a forgotten soul that society has given up on! All I ask . . . all I ask for is the ability to save my father, if no one else. He is in there, I know, ultimately kidnapped and tortured by the disease that ravages his once brilliant mind.

I must continue these musings and rants later, if I’m to be ready for Emma’s and my engagement party at the Carew’s tonight.

 

September 13th, 11:50 pm

I have just come from a place called the Red Rat, where prostitutes and other unfortunates of the London streets linger, and I met an exceptional woman named Lucy. We spoke. She propositioned me, but I refused. I have Emma to think of. However, I sensed something more in this young Unfortunate. There is most definitely something special about her. I wonder what life dealt her that she found herself in such a compromising position. I did give her my card, promising if she ever needed a friend - and only that - to come to me.

I find I am drawn to Lucy. Despite her situation in life, she retains a spark. Not something often associated with ‘ladies of the night.’

She makes me wonder . . .

 

-11:56 pm

I have reached my decision. Seven years ago, I began this endeavor alone and that is how I must complete it. The Board has refused me a patient numerous times. They refuse to sanction a candidate, even though I ask for one of London’s forgotten, one who has been placed in their institution with no hope of recovery. No hope from any of them, anyway. I, however, retain an immense sense of hope. And to that end, I must use myself as the subject of the experiment.

 

-11:58 pm

Injected vial of HJ-1 into my veins. Entered through the left arm, at the inside of the elbow. No real changes in sensation yet. A strange, sweet warmth seems to spread through my veins. My tongue feels swollen. Slight fuzzy feeling in my brain. No noticeable behavioral differences.

 

-Midnight

FREE!

 

This must be Hyde’s handwriting, for it slopes slightly to the left and is much messier. Perhaps Jekyll isright-handed and Hyde is left-handed?

 

September 27th, 2pm

Damn this experiment! Two days ago, I radically altered the formula in an attempt to control Hyde’s evil influence, but it has backfired on me! I learned of my father’s death and it caused me such anguish that at half-past eight, I transformed again!

In thinking upon things from a somewhat rational standpoint, as I have vowed to do concerning these transformations, I believe the reason for this one came about on its own (without the serum,) because I was in such a state of grief.

God in Heaven, how can I attempt logic and rationality after what I’ve done?! As Hyde, I went to find Lucy. She seemed to vaguely recognize Hyde, yet he assured her they’d never met. He bought her for the night but, after he injured her to the point of immobility, he left in disgust. He prowled the streets for about two hours, and then saw Sir Danvers Carew on the street. I believe his rage stemmed from my own grief of just having lost my father. Why should Emma have one when I am alone in the world? I began this Hellish experiment to save my father, but he was taken by the cold hand of Death instead.

Hyde attacked Sir Danvers with a fervor and a sense of detachment I have never known before. Then, he came back to my laboratory, injected himself so I could take control again, and left me to remember the horrible things this beast inside me has done. I was so distraught, I stayed up the entire night, creating more HJ combinations. I finally came up with HJ-7 and HJ-8, the latest formulas that may eradicate Hyde forever. I only wish I could be sure that would be the final result. There are things extremely worrisome about the transformations, especially this one. I did not need the serum to become Hyde. The experiment is only in its third week! How could the serum have absorbed so fully into my body? Of course, I have increased the potency, but for the sake of control over the evil side of my mind. Hyde . . . his influence is growing, not only in my sleeping mind, but in my waking. I must admit, I have an immense fear that the formulas are not as potent as they could be, because Hyde does not want to be destroyed. He wants to gain control, and to that end, what will the next injection do? I’m terribly afraid to find out, but I more fear stopping the experiment at this stage. If I did, what more would Hyde do? Bringing us back into unity is out of the question. Hyde has performed too heinous an act. He must be destroyed before he can consume me.

He emerges from the darkest depths of my soul to wreak havoc on the innocent, then escapes back inside me, no more substantial than a stain of breath upon a mirror.

He has the perfect hiding place . . .

 

I did not need more than one injection to transform independently of the formula. Perhaps this says something about how strong Jekyll was making the serum. Or perhaps it depends from person to person and hinges upon the strength of the mind, or possibly the expectation of the formula. Jekyll knew his intent, and therefore had a possibly easier time keeping control.

 

-4 pm

Indeed. Inside this pathetic fool’s body rests the perfect hiding place. And I will not be so easily manipulated. I know that appalling excuse for a man wants to rid himself of me.

I won’t be gotten rid of so easily. And if it takes more murders to show that to Jekyll, then I will happily kill again.

 

-7:34 pm

Sherlock Holmes is wrong. How dare he insinuate Hyde steal my formula? That formula is the very reason for his existence! He would do nothing to compromise that situation!

Besides, every time I’ve transformed, I’ve still retained some sense of consciousness. In the very recesses of my mind, perhaps, but I’ve always been present, been aware of what was happening, even if I could not control the actions myself.

But then . . . I just noticed the page before this stuck to the one prior. Now I see why. There was ink on it, dried into place because someone - Hyde - had written an entry and pressed the page down to purposely catch. From the time, I’d say he wrote it shortly after Mr. Holmes left my laboratory.

Dear God. I . . . I don’t remember him writing this.

I don’t remember . . .

 

-11:42 pm

Ah, so my ‘better’ self is worried, is he? Thinks that I may alter the formula somehow? He should be! I know his thoughts, and Edward Hyde is not one so easily destroyed!

 

***

 

Over the next week, I did extensive testing on the few drops left in Jekyll’s vial, as well as the small portion I’d already extracted to inspect. I learned that Watson had seen nothing of my transformation and I was not eager to describe the sensation to him. Erik, as well, remained strangely silent, merely keeping up an almost twenty-four hour straight vigil to watch over me each day. I encouraged him to sleep, but when he insisted he was fine, I said nothing else to deter him from his course. I was glad he was doing it, for I didn’t feel quite myself during that period. There were times of complete normalcy, but then there were others . . .

How to describe the sensation? It felt like someone was scurrying around in my head, but never quite slowly enough for me to pinpoint his location. Sometimes, especially when tired or stressed, I felt a push in my head, like he was trying to get out. It was times like that when I could have most used Erik’s beautiful violin playing. Alas, my alter did not appear to care for music and I had been unable thus far to procure a suitable replacement. Luckily, the realization that I had no violin didn’t provide me with more stress. It actually helped me be angry at the monster inside my head, thus making control easier.

On October third, I had an interesting conversation with Erik, concerning madness. I’d had a particularly frustrating day at my chemistry set, unable to decipher anything new about the makeup of chemicals Jekyll had used, so finally I collapsed in my chair, lit my pipe, and asked him, “What do you make of insanity?”

“Hmm?” he murmured, looking at me through quizzical and sleepy eyes.

“Madness. Insanity. What sense do you make of it?” I asked, feeling bad that I was evidently keeping him from much needed sleep.

Erik sighed, rubbed his eyes, and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back. When he was finished, he said, “Only that there truly is no sense to it.”

“There must be,” I argued. “A degree, a measure, something by which one can compare.”

“Compare what?” he challenged. “By what measure would you put my actions at the opera house? Or yours several nights ago? Or Jekyll’s for creating - or perhaps just releasing - Hyde? When all this began, you said sanity was relative and used yourself and your odd habits as an example. You’re only realizing now how relative and tenuous sanity truly is. You didn’t know the price some have to pay.”

“I do now,” I said.

Sighing again, Erik replied, “No. I’m afraid you don’t. You are grappling with madness, I will not contest that. But you won’t fully realize the price you’ve paid until the battle is over.”

“Until I come back from it, or it consumes me, you mean.”

“Yes.”

Turning that over in my mind, I was quiet for several minutes before asking, “How did you come back?”

He looked down at his hands, clasped knuckles facing up in front of him. Just when I was sure he wasn’t going to answer, he said, “How do you know I did come back?”

“Erik . . .”

“I’m serious, Holmes. How do you know I’m not still the obsessed madman that I was down in the lair beneath the opera house? Simply because I’m in a different setting? Or perhaps because I haven’t mentioned Christine?”

“No. It’s because you are different. Your mannerisms, your speech, your thoughts, they are all changed since the opera house.”

“Ah, but I could just be a very good actor. You and Jekyll, you’ve both had a chemical separation occur in your brains. For others, the distinction is not so sharp. Good and evil are never so black and white.”

“All right, yes, I see your point.”

But Erik was relentless. He moved over so he was standing before me. “Do you? As I said in my letter, you never know what is lurking beneath the surface. The ones who give off the sanest appearance can be hiding the cruelest madman underneath. How can you truly judge if one has come back from that brink? Sometimes the ‘madmen’ themselves cannot even judge that correctly. And certainly not without a bias.”

“Erik. Please, stop! I understand.”

He took his seat again. “Do you, Holmes? For all your intelligence, can you truly grasp the answer?” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You extended your hand to me. You asked me to become your partner. Did I accept?”

“No. You physically threw me from your lair.”

“Precisely. You could not save me. You couldn’t bring me back from the brink. I had to make that decision. I had to face myself and decide to continue fighting.”

“And have you?” I asked, uncertain now that he had indicated otherwise.

He smiled behind the mask. “Yes, Holmes. That is why I came to you. I looked at myself, at my situation, at what I had become and what I could still become if I didn’t fight. I did not, would not, let complete insanity take over.”

“I’m glad.”

Erik went to the window and looked out. “You see, that’s what most people don’t realize. And never realize. Murder, carnage, madness? Those things are easy. A madman can commit murder because he’s truly beyond the point of caring if he’s caught. He’s given up and is going by what instinct tells him to do. The most difficult thing for a man to do in this life is to live it, and live it well. We all have circumstances that are - at best - unfavorable to us.” Here, his fingers lightly touched the mask that hid his face. “We can blame others for the misfortune that befalls us, or we can take charge of our own destiny and continue that never-ending uphill battle.”

“The battle of intelligence over base instinct.”

He turned and stared at me. “The battle of holding on to sanity even when one wants to let it go.”

 

The general meaning of our conversation and Erik’s soliloquy was crystal clear: I had a battle ahead, and it was one that, while Erik would be close by, I would have to fight alone.

Considering that I knew I had a lunatic prowling around in my head, I looked to this battle with nothing but trepidation and apprehension.