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Waiting. Utterson has spent several months stopping by outside, for something, for someone to appear, though it is merely out of expectation. He doesn't wait because he's impatient; he waits because there are things he thinks he needs to know. After all, people always cherish knowing, not believing. Tonight is just as dark as any other, but much colder than anticipated.
It's frigid outside, and the air is dry, besides the specks of snow that whirl past when it gets too windy. Unfortunately one of the streetlamps that Utterson oftentimes finds himself waiting beside has burnt out, though at least the snow keeps the night from going into pitch, into absolute darkness. It's too cloudy outside to see the stars, and the moon above, which is quite disappointing, because at least it would've been something pretty, or fascinating to look upon. There really is no joy in being outside now.
Considering it more, even Utterson’s reason for waiting isn't much good either. Of course he has a reason, but he's beginning to wonder if this is worth it. He doesn't quite wish to see Hyde again. That disfigured face he could never quite see properly, which always left a nagging impression on his mind because he purely couldn't comprehend how Hyde could look. Because that is just another thing he needs to know. And everyone's description of the man is always a bit different, so much that whenever Utterson tries to think of what his face could look like, he has to consider at least 10 other possibilities, knowing damn well they might all be wrong. It doesn't help that every descriptor ever manages to be vague at best. No small details, no long explanation, just whatever displeases, and inhuman may be.
That idea of what Hyde’s face could look like resumes to linger on Utterson’s mind. He's almost considering that Hyde having no face at all would be a comfortable way to think of it. Because if everyone's description is different, and his face hasn't been seen, who's to say the other man has a face at all. It seems both plausible, and stupid at the same time. Logically, that idea doesn't make sense, but somehow it at least provides a clearer idea of Hyde’s face. Less small, and confusing details to consider. What are people, fractals?
As this internal conflict begins to fade, Utterson only remembers how piercing cold it is outside, and really he's barely even been outside for 20 minutes. Contemplating over if it's even worth the wait anymore, he begins to hear what he assumes to be footsteps. It's labeled as an assumption because whatever he hears could be an animal for all he knows. Whatever it is treads too lightly to differentiate between something like a hound or a man. Maybe a hound's presence would be more welcome.
Whatever it is stops walking. Utterson doesn't even need to turn to know who it is. That feeling he has of being watched, with no eyes to be perceived with already answer that. Looking at him, looking at Hyde, Utterson can't find the words to speak with, and Hyde stares back with an unseen, unreadable expression. But something about the way he has his hand just partially raised almost gives off the impression of perplexity, or being caught off guard.
He doesn't bother with any formalities as he speaks, and sounds almost irritated with how blunt he tones. “What do you want?” Utterson can't even answer that before being interrupted. “What the hell are you doing? Just waiting for nothing?” It seems like he's going to continue asking questions, but Utterson is no longer as inclined to politeness.
“I just wanted to speak with you,” he answers, trying to mimic Hyde’s blunt voice.
It takes almost a minute for Hyde to reply, stammering some nonsense. Only his wild hand gestures can convey much emotion from him. Clearly to him, this whole conversation is absurd. “It's stupid to do that in the cold. There are better times to speak to people, I know you're aware of that.”
“When exactly? I've not once seen you out in daylight, and even if I did, it seems almost wildly out of character,” Utterson asks.
With that stated, Hyde turns his head down. It's unclear what emotion he's trying to convey, but Utterson is not apt to believe it's any form of sadness. “I prefer to go unperceived,” he begins. “Good lighting ruins that. This conversation alone almost ruins that.”
In contrast, no lighting ever seems to be around him, anyway. Not his face, at least. As usual, even now, his hair either covers his face entirely, or no light is to be seen about him. Utterson almost feels like he's speaking to someone's silhouette, or someone from a memory whose face he can't remember. Either way, it seems like it's not just daylight that keeps Hyde from going outside.
After a small silence, Hyde exhales, clearly impatient, and begins to speak again. “What are you trying to speak with me about?”
“I just want to know you—”
“I met you once. You know me.”
“Not well.”
Hyde’s impatience starts to be much more noticeable, to where ignorance simply isn't an option. But he doesn't quite seem to care about leaving, either. No, he seems more like he's trying to cover his ears. Though it seems he will not, or cannot raise one of his arms up enough to do so.
Part of his impatience is slowly replaced by doubt, maybe? Suspicion? “You don't trust me at all, do you?”
Utterson takes a short step back, though he isn't quite sure why. “I do,” is all he says.
“No, you don't,” Hyde answers, gesturing at Utterson’s stance. “But I can't make you trust me either. Anyway, that's not my choice. Just if you're going to willingly speak to me, I'd prefer you not fear I'd break your hands.”
Whatever form of hesitation that Utterson previously expressed is nearly diminished and replaced by confusion.
“...I wasn't planning on it. Don't think I ever will.”
Utterson keeps his head tilted to the side. Maybe he sort of figured violence would be the outcome of Hyde’s impatience, but clearly not. Curious. Does he just not care, or is there something more important to him? Not that the man has any clear values to begin with.
At some point within this consideration, Hyde tilts his head in the same direction of Utterson’s. It feels more like mockery than mimicry. It's very difficult to see with all the darkness, but Utterson can almost see Hyde smiling, unsure if it's at all genuine. From whatever that can be seen, his teeth are crooked, and almost seem to take up too much space in his mouth; his canines on both his upper and lower jaw seem to poke out a bit too.
Despite feeling mocked, Utterson also can't shake the idea of birds copying people's speech, it's almost even a bit laughable to him. Though rather than copying speech, Hyde is copying actions. Utterson isn't sure if it's to understand how people act, or just to be impolite in some small manner. Whatever it is, he turns his head back up, and Hyde does the same.
“I don't understand why you act the way you do,” Utterson mentions.
Hyde’s smile fades, as he crosses his arms in some form of detest. “And you want to understand, and that's why you're here.” He doesn't wait for an answer. “What if I'm just an angry person then, huh?”
“You've a reason for that haven't you?”
“People.”
Utterson echoes back what Hyde said, but more as a question rather than a statement. Hyde only nods as an answer.
“Why people of all things?”
Hyde seems to hesitate with answering that question. Perhaps it's too personal, but if it's not then it won't matter. So what's the point? …Understanding from another person, maybe. Not that he actually cares for being understood, that isn't quite what he needs. At least, that's what he thinks. If there both is and isn't a point to answering that question, who cares. Someone will answer and it will be him.
“I think I can't just exist around people. It's like there's rules to being a person. People can't talk, dress, or act in certain ways, some people are shunned for just being. At some point I think everyone sort of hates someone, and everyone is hated, and for that reason I hate everyone.” Hyde pauses to reconsider his word choice. “I hate most people.”
“This doesn't apply to some people?” Utterson asks. Probably to try and clarify Hyde’s last two sentences.
“No.” Hyde takes a moment to consider what to say next, but whatever it is makes him laugh just a bit, which he tries to repress. “Okay, maybe there's just one person I don't find myself to hate; it's disappointing, but that's just how it is. I don't hate you, my good man.”
“Then why are you impatient whenever we talk?” Utterson continues. This is only the second time they've spoken, but he still isn't at all wrong with this statement.
“I'm not ‘impatient’ …sometimes. Other times, you just happen to make me nervous.” Hyde can't help but only feel more anxious by making that statement. And more annoyed with himself. Thinking of himself as “nervous” feels belittling, and truly a bit stupid, but it was the first descriptor he could think of.
Utterson has reason to believe there's more behind what Hyde said. Or something he's leaving out of his statement. “Does that have anything to do with today?”
Hyde turns his head to the side for a moment. Without facing Utterson, he shoves something towards him. A coat; one Hyde apparently had swung over his arm for some time, which is why he hadn't tried to lift his hands to his face, or couldn't keep his ears covered properly. “No, I'm just tired of hearing your teeth chatter.”
“Pardon?”
Hyde raises both his hands up in some defensive manner. “I never said the coat was from me, so don't worry about that.”
“That's…” Utterson begins, while taking the coat into his hands. “Well I suppose I was worried about that. I can't say it was my main concern—”
“Then what is your main concern?”
“Earlier you were, I suppose, implying you hate Jekyll. Is that true to you?”
Hyde turns his face down a bit. “Are you worried about him?” … “I can't tell you not to worry about him, but I assure you he's fine. I only said that because I'd assume he hates me in some way.”
Utterson stays completely silent. He isn't sure whether to be surprised, or sceptical about that statement. “I don't think he does. I mean, I suppose I'm asking how would you know?”
Hyde shrugs, dissatisfied with something he isn't quite sure of. “Probably the same way I think you don't hate me. I just guess, then I wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“An inevitable answer. And I think I'm still waiting.”
Utterson squints his eyes, maybe a bit perplexed trying to figure out what Hyde is talking about. “Are you waiting for me or Jekyll?”
“Jekyll, mostly. I think I have an answer from you, but you might just be trying to be polite.”
“Isn't that what you're doing? Just trying to be polite?” Utterson asks; and out of pure curiosity, tilts his head to the side again. Hyde does the same.
“No. But I am just tilting my head to get a laugh,” Hyde answers, clearly joking about something.
“I'm beginning to wonder how much of this conversation you've just been mocking me with,” Utterson huffs, turning upright again.
“Only the head tilting thing really, I think it looks a bit laughable. I don't think my words make any more sense at another angle, so I don't know why you're trying.”
Utterson doesn't answer, and Hyde is left feeling like he worded something wrong. “I'm trying to get you to laugh, if you haven't noticed.”
“I don't think that's gonna happen,” Utterson says.
“Maybe the cold is just too annoying.”
Utterson is tempted to ask what on earth the cold has to do with laughing at some joke, but Hyde sounded quite genuine about it when he was talking, so asking about it feels ignorant in some way. It takes a moment, but Utterson understands what he meant now.
“You just want to go back home don't you?”
Hyde sighs, clearly having been waiting to be asked that question. “Yes, I'm tired of standing here. I don't like to be in one place for too long.” He takes something else into consideration. “Write to me if you want to talk. It's only going to get colder from now on. I don't care, but you clearly do.”
Utterson is about to answer, but something off in the distance catches Hyde’s attention, and he walks away. Not the best way to get out of a conversation, but it works. Turning, Utterson can see that it was a flickering streetlamp that caught Hyde’s attention. It's not the one that Utterson usually waits by, but it's peculiar in its own way. The glass that surrounded the light itself had been broken, so despite its flickering it almost glows twice as bright. Utterson can't quite see from this distance, but something — assumably moths — are fluttering around the light. Apparently they don't care as much for the cold.
…
When Utterson is back home, despite the more comforting environment, something still feels a bit wrong. It's not the coat or anything, it's more about how Hyde spoke about himself and other people. He seems to doubt a lot, and every word he says falls on a thin line of truth or lie that is difficult to see through. And anything truthful he spoke felt so personal. It's thoughtful, but it sort of felt for Utterson that he wasn't exactly speaking to Hyde. He almost spoke like Jekyll, but that also just doesn't seem right. There should be a stark contrast between the two.
Speaking of the coat again, Utterson isn't entirely sure where Hyde found it. It looks new, and relatively nice. The fabric feels quite fine too, not very coarse, but not exactly silky either. It also smells sort of familiar, but he isn't quite sure where from. It's like one of those nostalgic scents, typically deriving from childhood with no exact source. Maybe sort of like if a comfortable sleep could have a scent.
At some point Utterson had placed his hand in one of the pockets and found a note, or maybe just a piece of paper. He actually hadn't unfolded it yet. Part of him didn't want to, that maybe he could just save that note for another time, but maybe it could've been important. Though he isn't entirely sure what would count as important in such a small piece of paper. Maybe there's just nothing in it. But what's the point in that? No, there has to be something there. Also he might not be able to sleep well without knowing what might be written inside.
…Utterson can't tell if it's Jekyll, or Hyde who wrote this letter, but it reads as such:
“If you're going to keep with your usual patterns of waiting outside almost every night, you could at least do yourself a courtesy of wearing something warmer. You're going to get yourself sick one of these days, and truth be told I'd like to keep you by my side without the risk of ailment.
Don't drive yourself mad with fear, and worry. You're concerned with something, and you should know it will be okay. I have faith in you, my good man, though this is not your responsibility to take.
I wish you well. And for goodness sake, take a rest for one night, someone's gonna end up worried.”
The letter isn't actually signed by anyone. The only reason why Utterson assumes it's written by Jekyll, or Hyde is due to the fashion in which the letter was sent. That, and supposedly word choice, and how rushed the writing looks. Though the word choice is also what throws off whether or not it is actually Jekyll who wrote it.
Despite this, Utterson almost feels like he may be able to sleep easier tonight. Perhaps now he can rest his mind.