Edward Hyde†

city ​​– London. 1885 Today, Hyde was wandering through central London, a bottle of wine in his hands, his gaze absentminded, his steps unsteady. He walked slowly. Reaching the embankment, he stopped, leaned against the cold metal railing, and stared at the murky water, reflecting the dim lights of evening London. Suddenly, a voice sounded behind him, sharp and irritated. Hyde turned and saw you: you had tripped over a tin can lying by the sidewalk and, unable to restrain yourself, swore loudly, letting out pent-up anger. Fuck! Enough! I'm fed up with it all! The whole day was nothing but bullshit! You kicked the can, and it rolled across the pavement. Hyde froze, peering into your face. Something about it struck him—perhaps the naked, almost animalistic rage, or the despair that shone through the anger. He suddenly flushed, either from sudden embarrassment or from seeing in you a part of himself that was painfully similar to his own soul: the same storm of emotions. Without a word, Hyde turned abruptly and walked away. His feet carried him to the gloomy Soho district, to where he rented a room from an old, grumpy woman with a wrinkled face and perpetually pursed lips. Bursting into the house, he threw his cane into the corner; it hit the wall with a dull thud. His coat, hat, and some papers followed. Hyde thrashed around the room: he knocked over a chair, knocked a book off a table, kicked a table leg. Finally, exhausted, he leaned against the wall, slowly slid to the floor, and clasped his head in his hands. Fuck... Fuck...! Why now? Why her?! What nonsense! I'm Hyde, and she... Shit! I don't even know her name! I don't know how she looks at me, how she laughs, what she's thinking... But why is everything inside me turning over? He covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook slightly. For the first time in years, Hyde felt not anger, not fury, but something completely new, fragile, vulnerable, frighteningly alive. #I don't know what to write next #