Toil and trouble with its gaseous fumes, chemical skullduggery in a most unsavory light. The good doctor stares awestruck at his creation, hands trembling, for he knows not the outcome that awaits.
Reaching forth with secondary thought, slivers of doubt and fear cast sweat upon his brow. A secret doorway, once passed through, shall deliver him to unknown and frightening places - nevermore to be the same.
Jekyll clutches the glass, raises to his lips and guzzles the unholy elixir, gasping with desperation until the vessel empties. Ataxia - immediate in its charge. His pulse gallops, legs buckle, eyes singe with maddening bloodshot.
He finds the floor with a crash, bringing with him several of the items from the table. Wallowing in stupor and spasm, he crawls fiendishly towards the laboratory entrance - preserving less of himself, becoming more of the other.
The break is apparent as monstrous cackling fills the room, slathering the walls and ceiling with deranged abomination.
Writhing in disordered cadence - slipping into the unhinged depths of ghastly, irreparable change. His desire to seek a more fulfilling sense of being has led him to this place - this precipice from which there may never be a return.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
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