The crystalline cut opera glass stood next to the faucet, as the water ran continuously in an icy cold rush. The sharp intake of fresh air brushed up against the inside of his throat, causing him to cough suddenly. His face felt almost painfully cold, with some innumerable droplets trailing down with agonising slowness. And with one slight turn of his head, he could see his stiff knuckles white with force.
She was his Duchess, painted on the wall as she were. Painted as though she were alive, behind the curtain only he was permitted to remove, to gaze upon her—but to what end? The rosy flush only her Spot of Joy can produce? The half-flush that paint must never hope to achieve, that dies along her throat? Bah! Her unfaithful tendencies were only a display of her disgustingly too easily pleased heart. What was she, or other man for that matter, to his nine-hundred-year-old name? His gift to her… He needed another drink…
He turned his back to the mirror, grabbing his wine glass in the process. Sudden momentum caused spring in his steps, as he walked a short distance away. The deep cherry liquid swirled around, but he felt nothing towards the dazzling shades of created ruby lights, under the harsh light of the washroom. The smell was reminiscent of blackberries, his favourite fruit, but there was nothing short of disgust. He took a swing, the full-bodied Nero d'Avola tasted dry amongst his tongue, and sent warmth down his throat and core.
He turned once again, this time to face his reflection. Hair dishevelled, pale and clammy skin, black and gold brocade torn… No, nothing was wrong. Why would there be anything wrong? Only… wait… He glanced up and saw his cheeks creep upwards into a smirk. One he didn't feel his own muscles reciprocate. The smirk grew as his visage reflected both his hands he felt his face with. He couldn't feel himself smiling in the least. He took another swing, gulping down the dry liquid and the malice he carried for years unknown.
The Duke slammed his wine glass onto the sink, and it shattered in his hand. The wine mingled with his blood that flowed freely. His hand stung. He clutched at his wrist, while his life's essence ran from his hand to the basin, and drain. "Who are you?" the Duke demanded, glaring at his reflection, who only smirked back.
"I am no body, last of your name, Duke of nothing, slave to a dead woman's painting."
My Last Duchess is a 16th century poem written by Robert Browning. I wrote this as part of my portfolio for university, and I thought I might share it here.