Work Text:
Dorian was shaking. He had enough of the damned picture ruining his life. What point was eternal youth if one could not enjoy it after all? Dorian felt hollow. All he ever wanted, all he ever needed, was forever dangling out of reach, barely, barely.
First, his father died. His mother abandoned him. His grandfather never wanted him. Lord Henry was correct on the assumption that Basil would no longer care for Dorian if he was less than perfect. Lord Henry was an advisor but he never truly cared for Dorian. Sibyl killed herself, was it because of him? Was it because of him that everyone that was remotely kind to him never stayed? Was he doomed to be alone in a world filled with camaraderie and pleasure? Why was the happiness of his daily games with others never fulfilling? Dorian was aware of his limitations but even he knew that his self-indulgence was just an attempt to fill a void that would never be sealed.
Dorian understood this and only this as gospel; he was doomed to be alone, with his own monstrous soul glaring over his figure. He hoped that he could hide his misery behind kindness then sin. But he always ended up in front of the portrait. That miserable portrait. Its eyes still held the same doe-eyed look of true youth. But the portrait’s eyes after all these years were still clairvoyant. Dorian’s eyes were filled with the misery of obtained knowledge.
He was not wanted nor loved. There was nothing holding him back. No family, no friends, nor any foes. No one in this world truly cared for him. He was simply another pretty face, a spoiled child, a pitiful insect. If he would die nobody would care. Dorian had nothing useful to contribute to those who would either way. He was no scholar, nor was he a saint. When he would die he would be freeing the world from his sinful tyranny. Dorian choked out a barklike-laugh. Eyebrows together, he began to think.
Dorian stalked around his drawing-room, an uncharacteristic scowl graced his once delicate features. He lost the daintiness that he wore in the face of the disdain from those around him, in the faces of his grandfather, Sibyl, and Basil as he died, they all wore faces that made him know that he was the biggest disappointment in their lives. He was the son who killed two daughters, a mother, and an actress, and he killed the only one he ever called a friend. And Dorian could no longer cope.
A repulsive wave of shock went through him. He was becoming everything he once despised and feared. He brought nothing to those around him-not that there were people. What good was staying on in this purgatory of an existence?
For once Dorian knew what to do. An option he had long since pushed out of his mind. The portrait was the root of his soul and all the evil resided in it. It would be destroyed if it was the last thing he did.
Dorian raced to the attic in a passion. He flung past the door and the dusty tapestries once depicting fabulous victories and brutal death. He dashed at the painting, ripping off the covering. Dorian was face to face with himself, his real self. Dorian took a dagger but stopped. Dorian took whiskey and poured it over the attic floor. He wanted this accursed place to cease existence alongside himself. The place of his nightmares would be destroyed. By his own hand no less.
He took a candle he used to light the way. As the candle flourished off its holder flowing down on the soaked floor, Dorian heard a voice. But it was more than one person. They comforted him, they loved him, they were waiting to see him, and most crucially-they forgave him. It was them! Sibyl, Basil, his mother, and father. All were ready to embrace him.
For the first time in his life, Dorian sobbed. He was wanted, he was welcomed. He smiled a genuine smile, the first one in decades as he accepted his fate. Dorian threw his hands and accepted the inferno raging around him. Behind him, the portrait stood restored to its former glory but it was not the same. Wisdom and happiness gleamed in his eyes.
The Gray manor went down. All the proceeds owned by the scandalous Mr. Gray were distributed to noble causes. No one was injured in the fire that day. Miraculously the only place that burnt was the manor. In the rubble, they only found a beautiful portrait and several rings. This is all that remained of young Mr. Dorian Gray.