Jekyll
by Gabi Soleimanipour
I am not a madman. The unoriginality of this
statement may amuse you. I assure you that it is
true. Quite true indeed. I say that I am not a madman,
and I mean it with all of my heart, whatever
that heart may be. No, it is he who is the madman.
The other man. That distinguished doctor, with his
manners and his quaint politeness, who is so mad
as to somehow take my carefully formed persona of
anger and cruelty and transform it into something
else entirely. Yes, I call it carefully formed. Personalities
of brute force such as mine take cultivation,
though you may not think it so. Just as one may
develop an exquisite taste in social skills by means
of constant practice and repetition, so do I develop
this demeanor. This demeanor, which I have cultivated
so perfectly, by which you deem me to be
mad. I assure you, sir, I am not a madman.
I see you are amused. Let me tell you of him, then.
Of what he has done. To me. To others. He terrifies
them, I am quite sure of it, though perhaps they do
not show it in ways you would understand. He certainly
does not. I cannot reason with him. He takes
away my power, makes me weaker and forces me to
become hidden. Hidden away in some dark recess
when I could be free and wild and strong.
The good doctor fears my strength. He says it terrifies
him, but I say he lies. He needs my strength.
Let me tell you of him. Of one day on which there
was a meeting, of a sort. Of yesterday.
I woke up, in the middle of the room. Breathing
heavily. Heart racing. Out of excitement, not
panic, I assure you. I am not a nervous man. No.
Not nervous. It is the good doctor who is nervous,
whose nervousness contained him in his lab and
shied him away from me. But, as I say. I awoke,
dressed - a dark cloak and hat, a walking stick. I do
enjoy my walks. They are necessary for my health.
You understand. The good doctor neglected to do
so, though he above all should have understood the
necessity of good health.
I left the apartment and wandered down the street.
Someone ran into my path. An old woman. She
looked upon me in terror. I know not why. I am
assured it must be the good doctor’s fault - see
what he has done? Spreading lies and rumors and
whispers - though perhaps I am at the same time
indebted to him for allowing me my freedom. So of
course I followed the only logical course of action.
Brute force solves many things. That woman will
be terrified no longer. I leave the details up to you.
There are sensitive ears here and the good doctor
would not want this story told.
He is returning now, you know. He stirs.
I see you sigh with anxiety - it could not be with
anything else, surely - but do not worry. I shall
shortly return. It does not take much to put him
back to sleep, though he resists.
Someday I shall have him, that good doctor. That
good and wretched doctor.
Jekyll.
by Gabi Soleimanipour
I am not a madman. The unoriginality of this
statement may amuse you. I assure you that it is
true. Quite true indeed. I say that I am not a madman,
and I mean it with all of my heart, whatever
that heart may be. No, it is he who is the madman.
The other man. That distinguished doctor, with his
manners and his quaint politeness, who is so mad
as to somehow take my carefully formed persona of
anger and cruelty and transform it into something
else entirely. Yes, I call it carefully formed. Personalities
of brute force such as mine take cultivation,
though you may not think it so. Just as one may
develop an exquisite taste in social skills by means
of constant practice and repetition, so do I develop
this demeanor. This demeanor, which I have cultivated
so perfectly, by which you deem me to be
mad. I assure you, sir, I am not a madman.
I see you are amused. Let me tell you of him, then.
Of what he has done. To me. To others. He terrifies
them, I am quite sure of it, though perhaps they do
not show it in ways you would understand. He certainly
does not. I cannot reason with him. He takes
away my power, makes me weaker and forces me to
become hidden. Hidden away in some dark recess
when I could be free and wild and strong.
The good doctor fears my strength. He says it terrifies
him, but I say he lies. He needs my strength.
Let me tell you of him. Of one day on which there
was a meeting, of a sort. Of yesterday.
I woke up, in the middle of the room. Breathing
heavily. Heart racing. Out of excitement, not
panic, I assure you. I am not a nervous man. No.
Not nervous. It is the good doctor who is nervous,
whose nervousness contained him in his lab and
shied him away from me. But, as I say. I awoke,
dressed - a dark cloak and hat, a walking stick. I do
enjoy my walks. They are necessary for my health.
You understand. The good doctor neglected to do
so, though he above all should have understood the
necessity of good health.
I left the apartment and wandered down the street.
Someone ran into my path. An old woman. She
looked upon me in terror. I know not why. I am
assured it must be the good doctor’s fault - see
what he has done? Spreading lies and rumors and
whispers - though perhaps I am at the same time
indebted to him for allowing me my freedom. So of
course I followed the only logical course of action.
Brute force solves many things. That woman will
be terrified no longer. I leave the details up to you.
There are sensitive ears here and the good doctor
would not want this story told.
He is returning now, you know. He stirs.
I see you sigh with anxiety - it could not be with
anything else, surely - but do not worry. I shall
shortly return. It does not take much to put him
back to sleep, though he resists.
Someday I shall have him, that good doctor. That
good and wretched doctor.
Jekyll.