This was written for my latest creative writing portfolio, it's an updated version of the scene when Henry Jekyll takes the formula. The title is from the musical which I have not seen. I hope you enjoy this.
I do not own the rights to Stevenson's masterpiece though I do own a copy of it. Sadly the song isn't mine either.
This is the Moment
This was it, the moment. Nothing and no one could stop him now, all he had to do was drink it and he would be forever changed, he would be the shy, quiet, eccentric University Professor no longer. Instead he would be… a genius.
He was the only one in the building, everyone else had gone home hours before. Now, all of his so-called colleagues would be tucked up in bed with their wives and their mundane dreams. All the hours that he had been subjected to their taunts had come to an end. This was his moment and no one else's. He had come here, on his own, and soon he would have the proof that at last he had made it, that all his ideas, theories and hypotheses had finally brought him the success that he always knew they would.
He looked at the beaker. The liquid inside was a red colour, translucent, but coloured as if water stained with blood. He lifted it to his lips, and paused. Suddenly he was afraid, afraid of the future, afraid that it wouldn't work, afraid of death, afraid of failure. He mind flashed back to that time in High School when he had gotten a B on his Biology test. Outwardly shrugging, saying that you couldn't get it right all the time, whilst inside he was crying with shame, wanting to run from the commiserations of his classmates. All the hidden sneers and jeers in their words of comfort.
Enough, it would work. He opened his mouth and tipped his head back, down the hatch, he thought. He stood there, waiting for it to begin.
Pain was all that his brain could focus on. The feeling of pins and needles shot through both of his arms and legs. Muscles went into spasm, his limbs flailed everywhere and he could not hold back a high pitched scream. The beaker, which had contained the formula, was flung to the floor, broken glass laying about his feet, digging into his skin when he collapsed. He couldn't stand it, he was going to pass out from the pain. Then it stopped. Slowly he got to his feet, hands bloody from where he had cut himself on the splintered remains of the beaker.
He frowned, his shoes felt too loose, actually everything felt too loose. He was wearing – what the Hell was he wearing? He sneered as he looked down and saw tweed and one of those ridiculous tie things. They would have to go. Yes they most certainly would have to go once he got out of here. Where was he? He looked around the science lab; he saw beakers set up on tripods with Bunsen burners underneath them. Various powdered compounds were in labelled plastic bags and Scientific Journals lay open on a desk, laying next to numerous sheets of A4, covered with frantic scribblings of bits of formulae and extracts from Milton and Blake. He remembered now, Dr Henry Jekyll, the departmental joke. Well he wasn't the joke anymore, oh no. Quite the contrary, the joke was on them. Only one thought ran through his mind at that point – revenge.