I have never felt this feeling before.
It happened the second the cloth covering the painting fell. It was as though I'd been clubbed right in the gut- like that time I had played lacrosse with the guys one last time, before I left. Yet after the initial shock, a pleasant sensation lingered. My heart was pounding against my chest, and a lump was forming in the back of my throat. How can I have butterflies in my stomach and want to cry at the same time?
I reached out, but pulled back as though I was stung. I couldn't touch the perfection. I would break it. But…how could I resist this?
My eyes drifted toward the bottom of the picture. The date said April 6th, 1890. Oh my. So the subject was dead…
The artists name was Basil Hallward, as I saw on the back. How talented he must have been! My fingers stroked the canvas. As old as the picture was, the beautiful creature inside looked like a god. It was so lifelike. I could almost see emotion in his eyes, his beautiful pools of brown, almost black. His skin was pale- a perfect shade of pale. Lighter than my skin. God, even his cleft chin was perfect!
He couldn't have been older than twenty. He was standing casually- not slouching, not straight like a military cadet- just standing, unsmiling, as though he had heard a friend calling him and was stopping to look. His perfect mouth was partially open and his dark eyebrows were set, giving him a sense of formality in his stare. And his hair…the brown locks were casually swept to the side. I wanted to reach into the picture and stroke them back. I had already checked the date, but I shouldn't have had to to know that it was late nineteenth century, what with his dress. The background consisted of a falling curtain.
I really could not explain my emotions. The picture wanted to make me cry- was it the man's beauty that made me so emotional? I had never seen anything so perfect in my life. I looked harder…was there sadness in his eyes? Was that why I wanted to take his perfect hand and never let go? I felt like I was floating…his beauty was making my head spin. I realized that I had stopped breathing. What was wrong with me? I sucked in a deep breath and placed my hands on the portrait- one hand on each side of his head. I was shaking. All I could think was oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…
Who was he? What was his name? Someone as beautiful as him must have had a name just a unique, as beautiful…
What the hell am I thinking? Am I really falling in love with a picture of a man who lived before my grandfather? Before his grandfather?
"He's beautiful," my voice somehow began to work without my knowing. I lifted up my hand and stroked his cheek. My God, he was beautiful…
I simply sat there, just waiting for him to step out of the portrait. I wanted him to grab my hands and kiss me 'til my breath was gone. I wanted this man. I wanted him.
The corners of the portrait were burned. Was it left in a fire? Was his angelic face spared of the ashes by the hand of God?
I picked up the portrait. It came up to my shoulders. It was then when I noticed the script on the back. I bent down and squinted, trying to make out the words.
Dorian Gray.