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Dorian had been getting more and more distant since I introduced him to Henry, he became such that I had not seen him for what seemed to be many years. He was no longer the innocent boy I… I…longed for. He was reclusive, obsessed with the idea of the fleetingness of youth, the ‘horror’ of aging and losing his beauty, despite his age leaving no mark on him whatsoever. He was still as perfect as the day I met him, no line or frown marred his features, the soul portrays itself in ones face, and I could never believe a face of such gloriousness could hide the atrocities people claimed he had committed. I thought about this all. I thought about,him, often. I thought of the pureness I saw in his soul once upon a time, a delicate canvas in which I painted all the aching emotions of my cold heart. Basil Hallward, an artist desperately infatuated with his muse. And I was, though I feel infatuation may be too small and insignificant a word to encompass the raw passion I felt for him, the yearning to be there to watch each breath he takes, to be the only one to see his smile, to touch him. I would never, I knew this. What I felt, was, wrong? I knew this, knew I should not feel this way for another of man, and yet, yet the intensity of his sapphire gaze drowned me, the allure of his golden glow captivated me entirely, his entire being was a siren song, luring me to a point from which I would never recover. But, if Dorian was leading me, I would be the ever willing lamb, content to burn if only he was there to watch me.
These thoughts consumed me daily, sitting in the seat in which he once posed for me, listening to the owls howl like wolves through the darkness of the eveningtide. The fog was heavy that night, the night the owl’s cry pierced my hollow heart for the last time. England. I had to leave England. Every road, every stone in every path, every blade of grass choked me with the remembrance of him. Dorian. My Dorian. But he wasn’t, he wasn’t mine, I had to remind myself of that, I had to leave. I could not stay in a place where every waking hour was plagued by the thought of running into him yet knowing I would not. Knowing he avoided me purposefully. So I bought tickets for a train to Paris, where I would start a new life, find peace for myself. I had a cousin, living there, with a spare room to let, a room looking over the river, with large windows so I could sit in the sun, and let the rays wash over me and age my face, each crinkle it made in my skin, a reminder of all I had seen and done. Age is not and will never be, as Dorian and Henry so foolishly believed, an ugly, disagreeable thing which strips us of our beauty, it simply changes us, reflects the true essence of our soul, each line, a memory, and I personally thought that was the true beauty, the evidence of living. For how the dead must mock all our feeble attempts at looking as if we never truly lived.
But before I could go, before I could start a new chapter, I had to talk to Dorian one final time, I had to dispel all the scandalous rumours which society flung about so carelessly without considering how they affected those whom they discussed with such vigor. I needed to put these rumours that even instilled doubt in me, to rest, I needed to talk to Dorian, one last time. It was late when I left the warmth of my old home for the last time, the fog was so thick I could barely see my own hand before me and the wind was cold, biting my wearied features and forcing itself into my very bones until I was frozen all over. The cab dropped me off at the end of his street, so, with my suitcase and my train tickets in hand, I made my way through the blistering cold and eerie fog, to Dorian’s door, and…and…and I just stood there. Like a fool I stood frozen in the doorway. I was a coward. I knew that. A coward who could not face the man I, I loved.
Love.
I loved Dorian. I did. I could see it for the first time, the innermost secret of my soul had been brought to the light, and I was finally willing to accept it. Truly and deeply and more ardently than anything, I loved Dorian. The chill beat further into the very marrow of my bones as I exhaled the breath I had been holding for so long, under the cold glow of the waning streetlight, on the broken cobblestones, I realised why my heart had been held in such anguish. I was in love with Dorian. And it was killing me. But now that I had identified the cause of the infection, I could slowly, ever so slowly begin to heal. Relieved, I allowed myself a small smile as I touched my gloved fingertips to his front door in a final farewell, leaving a fragment of my heart on the doorstep as I backed away into the clouded evening with a conscience cleared for the first time in so many years.
Goodbye,
Goodbye, Dorian Gray.