#decaying in reverse

It was a sleepy autumn morning in London when it occurred. Birds flitted about from place to place, their twittering songs serving as the chorus for the steady building symphony of the city below. As the sun's rays began to warm the brick and cobblestone of the buildings, and those who could spent a few extra hours in their beds, a far less sensible man was finishing the last of a stack of paperwork.

Henry Jekyll was known to many as many things; a perfect gentleman, an accomplished doctor, but most importantly, a workaholic. The Scotsman had spent the entire night slaving away at his desk, as evidenced by the horrible ache in his spine and wrist, and the bone-deep exhaustion weighing his too-thin body down. He failed to stifle a yawn as he added his signature to the final piece of paper, blinking tiredly at it. He squinted, bringing the sheet closer to his face, then nodded, satisfied with the level of neatness the writing possessed. He set the paper to the side, glancing about his office while he tidied up his workspace. Upon noticing the time on the clock he frowned. Had he really worked until five in the morning?

As if to answer him, his stomach growled, breaking the silence of the office in a way that coloured the doctor's cheeks a rosy pink. Right, then. If he wanted to get anymore work done today, he needed to grab something to eat. He could work running on no sleep, and he could work without food in his stomach, but not at the same time as he'd found out the hard way. Decision made, he finally stood from his chair, wincing as his back let out a series of cracks and pops more befitting a man at least twenty years his senior. He swayed slightly afterwards, causing him to grip the desk. Yes, he definitely needed some food, his blood sugar must be a bit low.

The trek to the kitchens was surprisingly peaceful. He'd forgotten how quiet the Society could be when no one was shouting or running around or blowing something up. He found himself smiling, tired and bittersweet, as he reminicsed on the memories of those exact instances. The first time Luckett had blown something up, Robert had nearly had a heart attack. The Lodgers had had a good laugh about that afterwards, and Henry had tried his hardest not to laugh at their dramatized impressions of his friend's reaction. His smile faded as he thought about how those moments quickly faded, the Lodgers absorbed in each other and Henry absorbed in his taxes and debts and legal fees. By the time he'd opened the kitchen doors, he was in a rather melancholy mood, which only heightened his surprise at what was inside.

A little pastry sat on a plate, coated with a pink icing, red writing on top spelling the words 'We're Sorry Jekyll!' He found his eyes stinging as the cornera of his mouth tugged up. Maybe all hope wasn't lost. Maybe their was still time to bond with the Lodgers, to rebuild those friendships, to be the leader they could rely on. Heart thrumming with timid happiness, he raised the treat to his lips and bit into it.

To an untrained tongue, the sweet flavour of the pastry might be mistaken for wild carrot, leading to the assumption they were eating a carrot cake of some sort. As a rather experienced alchemist, Henry immediately identified the taste for what it was.

His eyes widened with terror as he hastily spat the bite out, but it was too late. He tried to suck in a breath to call out for help, but already the poison of the plant was constricting his airways. The founder clawed at his throat until his nails were caked with blood, trying in vain to alleviate the pressure cutting off his oxygen intake. He began searching the countertops wildly; if he could get his hands on a small blade, he could puncture a hole in his esophagus, and while it was a last resort, it would allow him the chance to breathe. That thought had bately registered in his brain before his body seized, and he collapsed to the floor, jerking and twisting as the poison flooded his brain.

Aggravated Hemlock, a plant bred as a more fast-acting and lethal version of the common hemlock plant, could kill a grown in five minutes, which would be filled with the worst pain the victin had ever felt.

Henry Jekyll died after ten.

The clock read five o'clock, on the dot.

Henry sgared at it's glassy surface, his entire body trembling. His muscles still ached from seizing for ten full minutes, and the skin on his throat was an irritated shade of red with thin scabs reaching from beneath his jaw to the collar of his shirt, as if a faded remnant of the bloodied mess it had been after eating the poisoned pastry.

Heart racing in his chest, Henry clutched his head in his hands, trying to come to terms with suddenly being a good thirty minutes in the past after having been murdered by someone presumably living in his building.