Inspired by a fanart drawn by Thaliathetiger - an amazing artist and writer, and fellow obsessive J&H fan :D
My face burns. The fire must be too close. That or the exertion has been more than usual. I never can tell when I come out… it's a small tiredness, like the ache in your feet that you feel while you're still walking. You don't notice the rest 'til you're resting. And I can't rest. Not anymore. The flask, once cool in my hand, sweated, emanating steaming heat, and then I knew it was once again wrong. The liquid burned orange, a sickly swirl. Not red… never again that diamond-honed red, shining like blood-drops, that glistening mine to find glory and stone. This shimmered palely iridescent, mocking hues of vomited wine. I tried it, as always. No effect… though Edward had a ghastly headache when he burst again into consciousness. But that only made him angrier. I'm not sure how many he killed, this time… I slipped to the back, as I always did, caught in some nerve of the brain, rambling wordlessly from the shadows. They say things are so loud in this city, one can't hear himself think. But I never noticed it, 'til he took over. They can't tell anything. One can always, always hear himself think, even in the loudest of conditions, as long as one is himself. When there's another possessing you… that's when you can't hear yourself. You can't even sense yourself, or even know there's a self to sense, except in the hollows of the brain, like a dream you know you had but can't place. Sometimes I wonder if I am here, is Edward the only one true? When I am rational, I know he is not… but there's not much left for knowing now. And I need to save all my thought for the formula… yet how interesting reason has become! That there is a volume of thought, something to be conserved, measured and weighed… that one can recede from the space of existence… compress to a fraction so miniscule none can perceive it. Conservation… that must be how, though I'll never know why… if part of one shrinks, the other part must expand to fill the space. The good has wilted… so the weeds spring into ragged bloom. But who can define the world in good and evil anymore? It is far above me, at least, now. I can no longer grasp it.
When I emerged this last time, I smashed my study. Hyde had left it intact. I puzzle this, then remember I cannot spare time. The lines have blurred deeper now, the ink runs. This last attempt has shown me my last conscious thought.
Creation, when failed, begets destruction.