#he gets manicures on the regular since his hands are often grimy for

[blue-hamble]

A Bunch of Headcanons Part 3: It Is 1 AM Edition and This Probably Sucks

“Cleanliness” of surroundings means different things to different flights.

Earth: “Neat” on special occasions with surfaces buffed clean, junk and litter stowed away, with every rock it its proper place. A light dusting is usually observed since most Earth homes are naturally dusty and really it’s probably going to take an eternity to keep things dust free. Dirt and mud are welcome, so long as they don’t get into what they shouldn’t.

Wind: “Fresh” for the most part due to not staying still enough to accumulate a mess. Mobile lairs are aired out, and washed things always left to dry outside as weather (or weather magic) permits, with a quick wipe usually enough for most things. The flight of 5 minute showers probably. Any permanent hideaway used as a pit stop is usually full of junk though.

Water: “Clear”, especially in lairs with structures built above water. Things are washed and polished until water runs clear. Keeping reflective surfaces shiny and scry-friendly is a must. Things meant to last such as marble and stone are well-maintained, while wood is almost always just for the rotting beachy bohemian look unless it’s sealed with a magic varnish. The rotting beachy bohemian look includes seashells welded together with calcium, big seaweedy rocks, and barnacles on everything.

Fire: “Pure”, especially pertaining to metals and crafts. Fire lairs are cleansed of soot and smoke, while metal wares and crafts and polished to their brightest. Paws are washed and claws clipped of grime on the regular because that stuff gets all in your nails. The best lair hearths are those that produce the least smoke and projects the clearest light. Sometimes they throw in fragrant herbs and flowers and everyone has a real good time.

Ice: “Pristine” in that structures made of ice ought to be made flawless on the get go since it ain’t easy repairing on account of the whole “brittle and meltable and gross when slushy” nature. The key is maintaining the clean and stable by magic or careful addition of water left to freeze at certain points of a structure. Furs and leathers are carefully treated but otherwise are left to wear and tear in the naturally cold environment.

Lightning: “Stainless”: please keep your workstations clean at all times! Trash receptacles are found everywhere for easy disposal of litter. Workbenches are all neat with tools arranged and oiled in leather wraps and cases. Paperwork must be filed away at the proper desk trays! But honestly your bed can look like a featherback boar’s behind and no one would give a fuck so long as you keep your crumbs to yourself.

Light: “Bright” means everything jewel-encrusted and metallic and pale gets a scrub and polish and dry. Marble floors are so polished they are viable murder weapons on slippage alone. All the windows open to maximize the natural light, but curtains elegantly at the ready in their own little holders. Everyone’s teeth are brushed and sharpened, all the better to smile with. The third best flight at cleaning blood stains off of things.

Shadow: “Slick” means clean enough but so long as you don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. Hence the second best flight at cleaning blood stains. Waxes and varnishes often used on surfaces. Every Shadow laundry dragon knows the secret to preserving dark fabrics in the wash and thus makes good coin from clans that regularly shop at Dragon Hot Topic.

Plague: “Wasteless” means immaculate on account of every possible scrap is squirreled away for eating later or consumed by someone else. Both cooking and hunting/working implements are regularly cleaned and maintained. A deep understanding and respect for disease paved the way for remarkably effective aseptic techniques in both experimentation and everyday life. The best flight at cleaning blood stains–either an industrial grade cleaner or a sufficiently thirsty clan member’s tongue will suffice.

Nature: “Harmonious” in that things aren’t kept clean so much as they are leaft to grow and camouflage itself. Lairs often overrun with all manner of creeping vegetation and subsequent pests (insects, rats, etc); some call it filth, others call it efficient hunting. Most are hoping the outdoorsy jungle portrays a “charming” sort of messiness. Whatever junk and clutter can’t be ignored is often stored in tree trunks.

Arcane: “Organized” in that it doesn’t actually matter if your surroundings are junk-filled or filthy, so long as you know where everything is. Magical storage portals grant a plethora of options in tossing shit out of sight until hammerspace beckons again. It is vital that arcane crystals and energies never be disturbed in case Weird Shit happens.

#im sleepy #the fire one is based on my dad #he gets manicures on the regular since his hands are often grimy for #working with engines and heavy machinery and stuff #I can't beleaf I wrote the nature entry #fr headcanon #flight rising headcanon

[kindofwriter]

Dr Jekyll’s Suicide Note

This is never going in my final draft, I’m sticking to 3rd person, it’s more of a guide of what’s going on in Jekyll’s life. Sorry for the deterioration in quality towards the end, I’m still figuring out how I’m going to execute that part!

-

I suppose all this started the very day I was born. My mother, a lawyer, and my father, a successful owner of an industrial company, always expected so much of me. Academically it was no struggle to exceed these expectations, but on a personal level I always seemed to disappoint. They wanted me to be meek, quiet, distastefully arrogant. I wanted to get tipsy, make out with boys, and be that friendly kind of arrogant that’s actually quite endearing: I hope.

So I committed myself to a life of duplicity.

At home I would be the uppity golden child my parents had always coveted, and the second I escaped their clutches I would be rowdy and curious; like a regular person. This would’ve been a fine arrangement, had I not so frequently got myself into trouble. The second time I was delivered home by the police was the last straw for my parents. I was nothing short of incarcerated until my university days.

But what they didn’t realise was that this repression only fuelled my desire to wreck havoc. My thoughts turned from underage jaunts to the pub to theft, brutality, even murder on occasion, but only that of my parents. I wanted to suffocate them like they had suffocated me. Those were the daydreams of an angry child, however. I would never follow through in reality.

Those lonely years spent locked in my room made me yearn to be another person, and it was then that I began my life’s work: actually becoming someone else.

At first I conceptualised a way to transfer my consciousness to another body, but all that was far too complicated. And anyway, I’m no Victor Frankenstein. So then my thoughts progressed to how I could alter my appearance.

I threw myself into the study of chemistry so devoutly I now find myself with a PhD in it. For a while I found that lab work and shallow friendships could distract me from the rage that burned inside my chest, but alas it was no long term solution. If anything, my mastery inflamed the issues, thrusting me into the public eye. I now had my reputation to consider when I wanted to get blackout drunk and throw beer cans in the Thames.

And what of my sexuality? I felt no shame in it, but I knew there were many doctors who would refuse to consider my research on this basis. Must I remain chaste my entire life lest I wish to peruse my passion?

No. I quit my job and dove back into my research.

It was gruelling. Lots of experiments gone wrong, many leaving me bed-ridden for days. I was manic in my desires.

But finally, years into my research, I had done it. One shot of this serum and my cherubic features would melt away, leaving me with hollow eyes and sharp cheeks and a diminutive frame. But my mind was still in tact. Or so I thought.

For a month or so I encountered no errors with my serum. It allowed me to masquerade as a fine young gentleman as I drank myself into oblivion and engaged in public displays of affection. Finally I could continue my contributions to the world of chemistry without feeling the need to repress my humanity.

And then something began to go wrong.

I began to transform without the use of the serum.

At first it was nothing to worry about. The only occurrences were when I allowed my mind to wander to the darker pleasures of life, and once transformed it was easy for me to control my behaviours.

Really I should have seen this as a red flag, but I was desperately in denial. For the first time since childhood I was experiencing freedom; the light, tingling ecstasy of being human. I’d made a deal with the devil to get it, but God be damned for all He’d ever done for me!

So I ignored the slight glitch in my system, instead electing to inform Poole that my new friend Mr Hyde would be frequenting the house, often in my absence but always with my permission.

Then of course, as I’m sure you know if you’re reading this, things worsened.

Edward Hyde was just a pseudonym I had constructed, a way of ensuring I would never slip up and reveal my true nature. But several months into my use of the serum he was beginning to develop thoughts and ambitions of his own.

It started off as overtly rude behaviour I would never have wilfully engaged in, but could easily pass off as me getting swept up in my new persona. But soon I was watching myself throw vicious punches, abuse my body with vile substances, and even purchase a house in Hyde’s name!

I had no control over this man! I had surpassed the ability to alter my appearance; I had created an entirely new person.

Hyde was born out of hatred, jealousy, and shame, and he acted like he knew it. If I was short-tempered, he was explosively violent. If I was selfish, he was narcissistic. If I was gluttonous, he was all-consuming, hedonistic greed.

I no longer had any control over when I transformed, and what I did after the matter. I was at the mercy of Mr Hyde, and he was not a kind master.

My one confort was that when Hyde collapsed into bed at the first tendrils of dawn, I would usually awaken in my own body, fully in control, if exhausted. Instead of relishing in the freedom Hyde had given me I began to feel trapped again, suffocated, desperately awaiting the hour when I would be free of Hyde.

Panic rolled in like a storm when, one morning, that hour never came.

I awoke in the home Hyde had purchased for himself in Soho, warm and dozy and grateful to have been returned to my former self. Things felt a certain degree of uncanny from the moment I became conscious, but I hadn’t been feeling myself for a while now, even in my own body.

Hyde’s various drug habits and vicious scraps had no impact on my physical body, but always inflicted a hazy sickness on my mind. The turmoil lost me a great deal of sleep and significantly reduced my appetite. All my life I assumed losing weight would be a pleasant sensation, but it only made me feel alienated from my own form.

But that morning I found I was experiencing more than the usual dysmorphia.

As I reached my hand up to draw back the duvet I saw not my own pale knuckles and perfectly manicured nails, but Hyde’s grimy fingers and bloodied hand.

Heart palpating with anxiety, I dressed in a rush and hurried home. Once in my lab I realised I actually had no conceivable plan.

The serum, which I had had no need for in months, was kept in a fridge under the worktop. It was the only project I had worked on in years, so was really the only substance in my lab.

In a fit of blind panic, I stabbed myself with a needle full of it.

Realising what I’d done, a whole new wave of panic engulfed me. But that was quickly replaced with the agony of cracking bones and melting flesh. I was certain I had killed myself, and the thought brought a strange sort of peace.

But then the pain subsided and I found my body had been returned to me.

I thought I was rid of Hyde then. Tentatively, I began to piece my old life back together; reaching out to friends, working on a simple paper on combustion, eating more than my share of deep fried breakfast foods. I began to engage in new activities, too. Soup kitchens, hospital visits, public gardening.

I had it. What I’d been so desperately trying to achieve with Edward Hyde, I finally had it. Freedom. Happiness. Fulfilment. I spent my days doing activities that made me believe in the literal soul, and my evenings in such a way that made me believe in the metaphorical one.

It couldn’t last, however. Scarcely had my head hit the pillow one night when I found myself awake again: and Hyde was awake, too.

He didn’t even bother to change out of my pyjamas. So long had Hyde been trapped at the back of my mind, he came out like a tornado.

He proceeded towards the Thames, stopping only to purchase LSD and to kick a poor homeless man. He lumbered along after an older gentleman who, God bless his soul, repeatedly glanced behind him in fear. Hyde sneered at him, so he crossed the street to walk along the side of the Thames.

Hyde crossed after him.

The man turned to confront Hyde, edging backwards as he did, but before he could even utter a coherent sentence he had stepped through a gap in the railings and into the water.

I screamed and reached out for him, but of course I was a mere consciousness, and had no voice with which to scream nor hands to reach.

The Thames is a perilous place for the strongest of swimmers; I knew without a flotation aid this old man would never survive.

Surely, I thought, Hyde would not be so cruel as to let this man die.

He strolled towards the railing, but made no attempt to remove the buoyancy aid. Instead he watched, head tilted in morbid curiosity, as the man thrashed beneath the surface of the water.

If I’d had eyes I would have been crying.

If I’d had lungs I would have been screaming.

But Hyde just watched. Watched the tumultuous waters. Watched as they grew still. Watched as the man’s last breath floated to the surface.

Then he shook his shoulders and continued on his way.

The next morning, reunited with my body, I was violently sick.

My initial thought was that I would report the crime myself. Find Ms Enfield and tell her everything. It’s not as though I’m deserving of anything more than a life in prison, what with the knowledge that this vile and careless apathy dwells within my soul.

The only thing holding me back was the thought of transformation. Were one to occur while I was incarcerated, which seemed exponentially likely at this point in time, I would be tortured to death in the name of scientific research. As despicable as I am I could not resign myself to that fate.

Thus, I tried to carry on as before.

My dearest, dearest Gabe, I trust you are reading this letter and know what comes next.

I apologise, but I must say it is true: I am desperately and inconceivably in love with you. I understand that it is not flattering to have a vile creature such as myself confess his undying adoration of you, but as you read this letter I will have parted with my last breaths, and thus will have nothing left to lose.

Please believe me when I say that I so desperately wanted to kiss you that night, but this monster inside me did not. He feels only lust, which cannot compare to the deep, profound love I have harboured for you for so long. Forgive me for pulling away. I could not live with myself if he had hurt you.

I used the rest of my serum to transform that night, but I knew it wouldn’t last. At a loss, and far too ill to operate my own lab, I paid a visit to Hatty. She greeted me, as usual, with slight warmth, masked by overwhelming distain.

As I began my explanation as to why I needed her help I felt myself beginning to lose control. The transformation was never painful, not like it was when I transformed back into myself, but it was as familiar to me as putting on a shirt.

Hatty gawked at Hyde in horror, unable to even utter a sound. She was a perfect still from a horror film.

I fled.

I think at that moment we both realised it was over. It would not be difficult for Hatty, world-renowned chemist, to prove my transformation. Hyde wanted to kill her, I could feel it in his mind, but he had been thrown at Harry’s witness to our transformation so I had, quite literally, taken the body and ran with it.

We entered my lab. I locked the door.

Hyde was stronger than me. I had known this for a while now. He screamed and hammered on the door and wrestled for control. It was like trying to reign in a wild animal.

I took a scalpel and impaled it in my thigh. Hyde roared in pain, but I, merely a numb observer, managed to keep my wits about me.

I think perhaps that’s why I’m not so afraid of what’s to come. I won’t feel it. It’s him who has to endure the rush of agony, and I don’t feel the slightest sympathy for him.

This really has been a long time coming. Hatty’s expression, one of such pure terror, such disgust and fear, but at the same time one that said all her suspicions had been confirmed, that was the last straw.

To Hatty, Hyde was never the monster; it has always been me.

That’s the one thing we have in common, I suppose. We both know that Henry Jekyll is the real monster.

Well, now I lay that monster to rest. I am truly, from the bottom of my empty soul, sorry.

-

Thanks for reading!

#writeblr #writing #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #jekyll and hyde #wip: jekyll and hyde #short story #tw: suidice #tw: depression #tw: body dysmorphia #author’s note