-1The Picture of Dorian Gray - Shattered
Herein lies the tale of Sybil Vane's death.
Having read Oscar Wilde's masterpiece for the first time a few days ago, I felt compelled to pen Sybil's demise and the thoughts running through her mind at the time. It is tragic and morbid, yet beautiful and haunting. Oscar Wilde remains nothing less than a genius. This stand-alone story is meant only to praise the original work, and encourage others to read it, as I have done.
Trembling fingertips clutched anxiously at the immaculate cuff of his pantleg, attempting, however futilely, to win him back. But the elegant sneer spreading across his face, the cold, empirical stare, and ultimately the expression riddled with contempt, shattered all her hopes.
Prince Charming despised her.
All her pleas fell on deliberately deaf ears.
"I am going," he stated coldly and succinctly. "I don't wish to be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me."
Such a simple statement, spoken as if he were remarking upon the weather. But, it ripped through Sybil Vane's heart, wrenching every sane thought from its moorings and scattering her wits to the wind.
One last glance from his cobalt blue eyes, one final exhalation passed between those fair, beautiful lips, and he vanished from her sight forever. The door silently opened and shut, leaving her alone with the terror of her thoughts.
She had yielded to one simple mistake. And that mistake was believing Dorian, her Prince Charming an honorable and understanding man. One highly strung of romance like herself. A man who might comprehend her passions and why should could no longer pretend love on the stage when she felt it so wild and unrestrained in her own heart. No lover's role could ever convince her of its realism since loving Dorian.
And yet, he walked away, so coolly as if she were a crippled bird lying by his feet, rejected when it should have been treated with compassion. Sobs ripped through Sybil's slender frame, but they were silent sobs, evoking no sound to disturb her mother or yield any clues as to her distress.
The moments passed slowly, each second lasting an eon before Sybil finally gathered herself together. On trembling legs she stood, one hand clenching itself tightly to her abdomen in an effort to restrain the vomit while the other stretched helplessly for the back of her dressing room chair.
"Sybil," called her mother's melodramatic voice, demanding her presence so they might start home from the theater.
Sybil gasped, inhaling several life-giving breaths, before responding in a startlingly normal tone, "I shall be only a few minutes, mother. My beloved Prince Charming distracted me from disrobing at the usual time."
"Certainly, dear heart, but it is growing late. Hurry along, precious."
The voice faded down the hallway, along with her mother's heavy footsteps.
Sybil Vane gazed into her mirrored reflection, haunted by the suddenly pasty skin and delicate darkness encircling the once bright eyes. How hideous. An image of her future life spread out before her, despairing and miserable, as her mother's life had become over time. The bloom had faded from her mother's cheeks, as had the passion once employed for her chosen vocation. Now, she simply passed through the motions of living, thriving on the absurd and dramatic moments. Uncertain in how to deal with the moments in which realism interfered.
This was her certain fate, the same as her mother's.
She knew not how she changed from Juliet's garments into her own; the clothing which made her Sybil Vane. But a mere few minutes after the exchange with her mother, Sybil straightened her plain skirt and situated a hat upon her suddenly limp hair.
Once fleet footsteps now fell lethargically upon the stairwell, leading Sybil into the hallway to meet her mother. The woman linked elbows with her and proceeded to prattle about Prince Charming; his delightful youth and his unceasing charm. A solitary tear slid down Sybil's pale cheek, splashing unnoticed onto the fabric of her skirt.
Nothing mattered in life. Every passion, every desire, every waking moment of joy or triumph was gone.
"Forgive me, mother. I have mislaid something." Sybil Vane murmured, easily disengaging herself from her mother's clinging hand. "I shall return in only a moment."
Only a moment passed before Sybil retraced her steps, entering her quarters once more and standing before the mirror of her dressing room table. Haunted eyes gazed back, hungry for death.
Oh yes, she would make her Prince Charming love her again. If she could not be with him in life, then she would forevermore stalk him in death. His beautiful eyes seemed to gaze at her from a corner, his hand stretching out to meet her.
Hand trembling, Sybil Vane grasped a bottle of stage makeup from her dressing table. A little had once accidentally dropped onto her tongue, immediately causing a spell of dizziness until she nearly swooned.
How he reached for her, his perfect lips spread in a pleased smile, blonde hair immaculate and soft. Even now Sybil Vane vividly recalled the feel of his lips pressing into hers. It was upon that precise moment that her passion for acting died and her passion for her prince, for Dorian, burst into flames.
Eyes closing, Sybil clung to that moment, raising the bottle at the precise second that her memory flung Dorian's kiss before her eyelids. The bitter concoction passed smoothly down her throat, hardly noticeable beyond the wild sweetness of Dorian's kiss. Dorian and Prince Charming, the only names she knew.
The cold floor rose up to meet her, but Sybil barely felt the impact. Eyes fluttering open, she watched, fascinated as ghostly arms seemed to enclose themselves about her frame, the arms of her lover, snuffing out all life.
Sybil Vane died.