The Modern Prometheus and the New Dionysus

The New Dionysus

Dr. Henry Jekyll stood beside his father's bed, looking down at the tied-down man. He and his father had had their... issues, but that didn't change the fact that he wanted to help the man. "He's beyond help, Henry," the man beside him, Gabriel John Utterson, one of his best friends, said softly. Jekyll gritted his teeth. "He still has a soul, John-just as pure as yours and mine. It's just trapped within the terrible world of his madness. There has to be a way to help him," he said.

Utterson's mustache quivered sympathetically. "Death will help him, Henry," he said gently. Jekyll stood unnervingly still. "My theories convince me otherwise," he said. Utterson's eyes narrowed slightly. "Henry, I understand you want to help your father; I really do, but surely experimenting with the human mind will only end in disaster. I know your colleagues don't support the notion," he said, voice kind but firm.

"My colleagues are cowards, afraid of what they don't understand! How can we even call ourselves human if we don't do everything in our power to help wretched souls like him out of their torment?" Jekyll cried, voice taking on a sharp contempt. Utterson put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I admire your determination, Henry, but you're treading on dangerous ground. Just... exercise caution. I'll give you some space. I'll be waiting outside," he said, stepping out of the ward.

When Utterson had gone, Jekyll stepped closer to his father, gazing into his hollow eyes. He resented the man for angering at him so often, but it had been his own fault. "Father, I'm going to help you. I know that I deserved everything you did, and that you were only doing what was best for me. I'll help you out of the darkness you're lost in. I promise."

Henry planted a soft kiss on his father's cheek. "Goodnight, Father," he whispered, hoping to reach him, but his father's face never changed from that hauntingly empty stare. It hurt, looking into those eyes that belonged on a corpse rather than a living man. Henry sighed deeply, running the tip of his finger up and down the crooked bridge of his nose. 'Why is man like this? Why are so many content to accept murder and madness? I need to know. "God, please guide me to the truth."

Henry said the last part out loud. Then he straightened up. "Farewell, Father. I'll return to see you once my experiment succeeds," he said before leaving to find Utterson. 

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Henry was woken by a sharp rapping on his laboratory door. He groggily lifted his head from where it had been resting on his logbook. He must've fallen asleep while working last night. He rubbed his eyes before another knock pulled him to his feet. "Coming, coming," he murmured, making his way up the stairs of his laboratory and opening the door.

His butler, Mr. Poole, stood there, a mildly frustrated expression on his face. "Dr. Lanyon to see you, Sir," he said. Henry frowned. "What time is it? I wasn't expecting him until later," he said. Poole bit back a sigh. "A quarter past twelve, sir," he answered. Henry's eyebrows shot up. He quickly pulled off his labcoat and hung it on the back of the door, hurriedly straightening his waistcoat as he followed Poole down the hallway.

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Victor tapped his fingertips together anxiously, looking around the sitting room that the elderly butler had led them to. It was well-furnished, containing two cushioned armchairs on either side of a fireplace. Bookshelves lined the walls. Victor squinted curiously at them, but he couldn't distinguish the titles on the worn spines from where he was standing. The floor was a dark mahogany, the only splash of color in the room coming from the two white hollyhock blossoms in a black vase on the table between the armchairs. They were rather lovely flowers, though Victor had a preference for asphodel himself.

His head whipped to the hallway that the butler had gone down when he heard footsteps approaching. A man was walking briskly down the hallway, straightening his deep crimson waistcoat and adjusting his black cravat. Victor's eyes flicked over him, studying his appearance. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and unusually fit for a scientist. His perfect posture lent to the air of gentlemanly perfection he exuded. Victor straightened up, suddenly aware of the little curve in his spine.