Dr. Jekyll And Mr. - Hyde 1908

Not a physical death. Worse. A death of the permissible.

And then there was silence.

The face looking back was younger. Thirty, perhaps. But not young in any way that invited kindness. The skin was sallow, almost greenish under the gas mantle. The mouth was a wound that smiled. And the eyes—his own eyes, yes, but without the weary furniture of conscience. They were the eyes of a man watching a house burn down, purely to enjoy the light. Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde 1908

He changed back. He went home. He sat in his study for three hours, looking at the silver razor he used for shaving. Then he wrote a letter to the police, anonymously, giving Hyde’s address. Not a physical death

First, a cold rush, as if his blood had been replaced with Thames water. Then a compression—his spine shortened, his knuckles thickened, his jaw ground forward like a drawer closing. His tailor-made trousers pulled tight across a new, brutish haunch. His collar tore. And then there was silence