Please could you write some Hyde angst?
There he was again, stopped by Jekyll’s house at exactly nine in the evening. Rain or shine, like clockwork, he came, looking longingly at the abandoned building with his bony hands resting on his cane. Gabriel Utterson. He truly was a pitiful sight with his tall scarecrow frame, his lanky limbs, and his scantily skinned, worn-parchment face. The years had not been kind.
Edward wondered if he’d been eating properly. It certainly didn’t look it. He took a pull from his cigar and wrapped his fox fur coat tighter around himself as he observed Utterson. It had become Utterson’s habit to visit Jekyll’s abandoned house. It had become Edward’s habit to watch him.
“Mister seek indeed,” he scoffed and dropped his smoke, stubbing it out against the damp cobblestone with his foot.
Today it was cool and foggy, as it often was in early spring, after winter’s rains had saturated the air and mingled with London’s dirt and grime. The rusty-yellow sputter of the street lamps cast hazy patches of light against the gloom. From his secluded place in a nearby alley, the short, muscular man watched as Utterson checked his pocket watch and glanced around slowly.
Was he waiting for something?
Anger flared in his chest. What right did he have? Why was he haunting Jekyll’s old house as if the good doctor would simply come back and invite him in for drinks by the fire?
“Gabriel doesnae even like drinks!” Edward muttered, “He just sits and watches ye fall intae yer cups and smiles all pleasant under his stupid mustache. I hate that thing! I always did!” he wanted to shout it but contented himself with hissing between his teeth.
“He gets crumbs in it and they stay there and ye cannae stare at him because t’will make him feel self consious and he’ll look at ye wi’ his big dumb brown eyes and gae ‘tis there somethin’ on my face?’ and ye’ll start tae feel like the devil himself for putting a worry in his head,” he paced a bit, unable to remain static.
Edward was caught up in his quiet ranting, which did much to soothe his agitation. He even allowed himself a gratifying stomp or two, certain he was still safely out of sight.
Then, the wind changed, and Utterson lifted his head and looked around, turning until he faced the alley where Edward was hiding. Edward went still and ceased his ranting. He held his breath and waited for Utterson to look away. He didn't. Utterson took a single step closer to him.
When Utterson stopped only a few paces away from the alley, Edward nearly bolted. It was the look in Utterson’s eyes that kept him there. Despite the age on his face, Utterson’s eyes were as dark and clear as they had been when he and Henry Jekyll were schoolboys. Even now there was a lingering, familiar, stubborn hope in them. There were some things time couldn’t touch. Edward's chest tightened. He sighed; it was the low, trembling escape of breath that a man gives when he is on the cusp of weeping.
Utterson gripped his cane and took another halting step towards the alley.
Why had he used that name?! A thin, chilled bead of sweat ran down Edward’s spine. The weight in his chest turned to a lump of suffocating fear. He lurched backward, and his heel caught on a loose sewer grate; the metal gave a dull clang as it jostled up and then back down when the pressure of Edward’s foot was removed from it. Utterson was running toward him as fast as he could with bad knees and a worse back.
There was one moment, one split moment, where Edward was caught between staying and running. If Utterson found him, maybe it would be a relief. Maybe his friend would recognize something of Jekyll in Hyde’s face, and he’d forgive him.
Utterson always forgave him.
But he wasn’t Henry; he was Edward. That was the rub. He was never going to be Henry again. The world blurred into a dull smear of greys and browns as Edward flew down the alley without looking back. The thick London smog swallowed him until Utterson’s cries for Henry could no longer reach his ears.
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