You might've read the story of Dr. Jekyll, and Mr. Hyde,
but indeed they do not exist. However, I AM the real Dr. Jekyll. I'm controlled
by something Ilve hardly even heard of, but yet something I seem to love, and
desire. The pain, the torment, the sheer torture of being controlled, yet the
power of destruction is at my fingertips. As I sit here writing down my
thoughts, in this book, I fear someone will come to found out the terrible,
horrible truth of the images, the characteristics, the personality traits, that
I've seen, and become. My hands literally have been stand the forbidding color,
of crimson water. How I remember, faintly, bleakly, and so slightly, it's just
there.
* * * * *
"Sabin! HEY, SABIN, you cheeky bastard!" My
eyes shot open like gun. I realized I'd fallen asleep during my piano lesson. A
roughly, built Irishman was almost breathing down my fair skinned neck. His
orange-ish, red, beard was obviously not kept in good trimmed, and proper. I
blinked at him, and smiled nervously, "Sorry, Master," I replied,
almost in a wreck. I'd been working two days flat. I didnt know how much more I
could take. My heart raced with the dull tintinnabulation of the metronome.
"Syncopate, Sabin. Syncopate with the metronome." With trembling
hands, clicked a piano key. I couldn't think, and I stood up and closed the
piano lid, "I'm sorry, Master, I'm just. . .not feeling well." The
man shook his head and threw up his hands, "WHY!? Why do I bother with
this brat!?" He shouted, opened the doors, and slammed them shut. My eyes
closed than opened sharply at the noise. The blue-grey optical that were the
eyes of myself were half-alive. I closed my eyes and fell to the floor with
exhaustion, but banged my head against a chair, and with a sickening crack
broke my head open like an egg.
With the thoughts in my head screaming, and yelling at me
I could recall my father talking about how they could make money through my
piano playing, and my literature writing. No, I refused to be a puppet of my
father's hand. He was the tyrant of London, ever since we'd moved here, he was
always demanding more, and more money. It made me sick! Sick to think that man
that was partly responsible for my livelihood, for my birth was than the
sickest man I'd known. He was a plague. I grimaced at the very thought of him,
and his puppetry. But than my mind wandered to what father could do to my
mother. My poor, sickly mother. My eyes began to tear at this point,
"I-I...swear that....if h-he ever hurts her....I-I'll kill him." I
blacked out.
A weak, brittle, and fragile form of myself woke up. I
was almost a glass rose, so frail. My face was contorted with fear, and with
hatred towards my father. I struggled to get up, and finally had accomplished
what was temporarily impossible, to stand up. My world swirled around me, as I
stepped. It was as if I was lost in a Wonderland, or was dreaming a nightmare,
a sick and twisted nightmare. "I...I want my father DEAD! I WANT HIM
DEAD!" I grabbed a vase, and tossed it into a wall. A small piece
ricocheted, like a bullet, off the wall and cut my left cheek. "THAT
BASTARD DESERVES TO DIE!" I screamed, growling lowly, groaning, moaning,
crying. I grabbed a book and chucked it away, than grabbed several more and
tore the pages out and about, shredding everything, tearing everything that I
could. It felt good to be in power, to know that I could be a god-like figure,
one that could take something that lived, and just completely destroy it! But
as the room became more of a toy box I felt a pain inside of me, but that pain
grew and grew till I was laying on the floor twitching, and clenching my heart.
"GOD! It burns! MAKE IT STOP!" With that said my father burst into
the room, and looked at me, "GET UP! Get up, Sabin! Your disgracing
yourself!" My pupils turned into diamonds on a crested ring,
"Don't....tell....me.....what...to...do!" I lunged at him. Thoughts,
images raced through my mind. Images that told me, showed, how to kill him. It
was gruesome but it felt so good to feel like a god. I dug my hands into his stomach,
but my fingers wouldn't do through, so instead I plunged with sharpened
fingernails, into his stomach. He lurched forward and punched him in the back.
This feeling, it was as if I was immortal! It titillated me. This was
pleasurable. He pushed me away, and I was fascinated by the hole I had made,
and that he was still alive. His eye was purple, and he became almost
sick-like, like the disease that he was, the parasite that fed off of the
misery of others. "DIE!" I cried hoarsely and struck his back again
breaking his back and spine with the most gory spray of blood, and shattered
bone, and the most musical crack that I'd ever heard.
I dug into him further, pulling out his lungs, his
stomach, his liver, his kidneys, and finally the blackest, literally, darkest
thing in him. . .his heart. And as I peered over to the pool of blood that I
had lied in I blink and saw what I had feared the most. A shadow, and dark
six-eyed being with a wild tongue. His face was covered in blood, and his teeth
were stained with flesh, and veins, and arteries, while sheets of fat, and skin
lay on his tongue. The eyes of the creature buried into my soul, and nearly
tore me apart. I cried out, but no one heard me. As I sat there the creature,
the monster, no the abomination, that buried itself inside of me, no it hadn't
buried it had nailed itself into me! For nights, tis why I never slept. He
called me out, sought me out, told me to fear him, to fear everyone and, though
I tried hard not to let it win, it had won. This would destroy me, and yet I
somewhat embraced the feeling of power, the feeling of being god, the feeling
of the destruction I had done with only my bare hands. "Is this what it is
like to kill," I said grinning, "or am I being used to do the killing,
making me a tool of what I fear, yet love the most." I grimaced, than
grinned, than grimaced, than grinned again. I couldn't help my twitching,
contorting self. This. . .was heaven, but yet it was hell. I collapsed into the
pool, and felt the cold, soft, liquid make a shadow me, of the creature I
feared, yet desired. My ears had become pointed and my teeth sharper, and
before I realized I was chewing, eating, consuming, my father's charcoal heart.
This was what I had become, the thing I feared, the feeling I desired. It was
thrilling, it was chilling. I listened, and dully I could hear the click,
click, click, than the stop of the metronome. I stood up, wobbling, like my
knees were made of feathers, than walked over to the piano, and as I sat down I
opened the lid to the keys. There with bloodied hands, fingers, and a weakened
body began to play the most sadistic symphony of my life. The symphony of the
dead, of the blood, and of the soul I had just consumed. It was a twisted song,
but when I was done I went back to the pool of blood and sat there, just sat
there. Now bathed in the blood of my father I was contempt, and with that I
fell asleep.
* * * * *
This is what I remember. What I vaguely remember. This
demon, this satanic being that lives inside of me, feeds off of my misery
though he has become this one part of me that I could no longer live without,
and thus this will be the story I tell when people ask, when people wonder too
much. Forever I will play the good man till I can no longer hold the demonic
angel inside of myself, till than I feel lust for women, I feel bloodlust for
beings, and I will feel no pity towards what I am no longer. And when I dream
it will be that last dream that I've held to for the past century and so on and
so forth.