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As soon as Henry had closed the door to his new house, he loosened the black tie that had nearly suffocated him during the funeral. He had sent all guests home as soon as the ceremony had ended. He could not tolerate the company of those who thought themselves his peers for long. His dismissal of the cermony and cancellation of the reception had caused an immediate scandal to match the one of his birth, but Henry scoffed at their gasps and whispers. Let them talk. There was nothing they could do to him anymore. He was Lord Hyde now. He owned the name, the power, the estate. All were his to do with as he pleased
He strolled through the corridors and rooms, throwing off pieces of his finely tailored funeral suit as he walked. He surveyed the rooms he entered and exited. There was no one else inside. He had dismissed all the servants, and all the lights had gone out. Henry could only see by the faint light from the outside streetlights shining through the spotless windows. He kept carelessly undressing himself till he was wearing only the trousers and his undershirt, the same one he had worn in the asylum. It still had one large brown stain on the sleeve. He had forgotten whether it was dried blood, or some other foul substance spilled on it while he was still in the employ of Bedlam.
After mindlessly wandering through the many Elizabethan style rooms, he found himself back in the main hall, in front of the old wooden staircase. He laid his hand on the smooth railing, and placed one foot on the bottom step. The creak his weight caused split the silence in two. He flinched, but then composed himself. He slowly made his way up the stairs. It was even darker on the second floor. Henry could barely see in front of him, but he knew the way. He soon found the master bedroom. The wood of this door was somewhat newer than that of the stairs. It was one of the few things in the house that had been renovated recently. Henry took a moment to feel the curves of the decorative shapes carved into the frame. They were masterfully done. He could appreciate such craftsmanship. His hand moved downwards to a brass door knob. It was shaped no less elegantly than the door frame, with curls and swirls yet fitting nicely into a user's hand, and polished to perfection. A handle fit for the prestigious Lord of the household, and yet his hand drew back from it. His hesitation was short lived however, and he forced himself to grab the metal thing. He pushed the heavy door open, and stepped into the greatest darkness of them all. There were no windows in the master bedroom. It was built boarded up into the house with fine wooden walls. At least, that was what they had been, when the house was first constructed. Now these walls just looked old and bent, and beneath their shiny surface lurked wood rot. The bed was newer. A lavish, eighteenth century, four poster bed, brought in by an earlier Lord Hyde, to imitate the royal fashion. That was the bed Henry's father had died in, though a maid had erased all traces of the event. The rest of the large room had also been cleaned, and made ready for his use. The strong smell of death had not entirely dissipated, however, and Henry Hyde sniffed strongly, letting the smell of the death of his father seep into his nostrils. So very different from the disinfected rooms of Bedlam, where the smell of death was masked by the many cleaning products used, and yet so similar as he recognised the persistent putridity that always managed to slip through the cracks.
He sat down on the bed and rolled up his sleeve to the elbow. He stared at the lighter skin of his lower arm. Then he lifted his other hand and, starting at the base of his hand, slowly traced his finger along the blue vein's course up to right below the elbow. There his fingers rested on the three healing needle holes where he had used himself as a test subject. A grin crept over his face. Perhaps he should tell Victor. What would the old boy say, if he found out? Henry thought it would be rather hypocritical for Victor to disapprove, after all he had done for his own experiments. Better not to tell him. Then again, if a scientific method turned out to have unexpected side effects... He pressed the small scars with his thumb, hissing against the pain the pressure caused. A small drop of blood appeared and trickled down his arm.
"Well, old man?" he yelled into the darkness. The words had no echo. They thudded against the old wooden walls and disappeared as soon as they were spoken.
"Well, father?" he whispered then. A silent challenge. A soft defiance. A useless threat, for there was no one to hear it.
Suddenly the air of the dark room suffocated him. Even more so than the black tie had. He scrambled up and fled from it. He ran down the stairs. He tripped. He fell. And he landed with his shoulder against the floor. He was able to protect his head against the impact. But there was no damage. His fall was caught by an antique, Indian rug. Henry laid his head down on the fabric, and closed his eyes. For a moment he might fall asleep, but then a sharp pain shot through his arm, and up his veins through his neck and finally it pierced his head. He writhed and rolled on the floor. Screaming in anguish. He grabbed his arm, then his head. His face contorted. The pain grew worse, and worse still, until he could do nothing but lie numb on the floor, with his back against the carpet.
It took an eternity, but finally the pain faded. Henry panted heavily for a few moments. Then rolled on his stomach and pushed himself upwards. Not three feet in front of him lay his coat. He grabbed it, and quickly threw it on, before pulling open the door and leaving his father's estate. He slammed the door behind him, and strode away with long, determined, hasty strides.
He did not know when he would be back. He did not care. He needed an escape, a place without judgement. He made his way past he houses of the wealthy, all swept clean of the filth from before. It was not too far a walk, though the house he sought was newer than his father's, no HIS house. Through a public park he strode, past the pond and finely trimmed lawns, where the rabbits fled from him. When he stepped through the gate on the other side, he was standing across the large, white residence, with neo-classical pillars in front.
He knocked. After five minutes, which was too long to wait, the door was opened by the young man with the slender face. He was wearing a silk and velvet dress robe and his hair was dishevelled, as if he had been woken up, but his face showed no signs of sleep or fatigue.
"Good evening, Henry," said Dorian Gray, paying no head to Henry's proper title. Henry did not care.
"I killed my father," he said. Dorian seemed unsurprised by this confession. He made a gesture, welcoming Henry inside.
"Drink?" he offered. Henry nodded.
"The strongest you have," he said and stepped inside.