True Beauty
Basil loved Dorian when he was pure, but perhaps even more so when he was stained.
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An artist is perhaps the worst being the word 'lover' has ever been associated with. He is the player on a game of love and lust, charming the modest lover with gentle affection, serenading in the fullest tunes and swearing, with the greatest truths, of his whole-hearted love and devotion. He would appreciate every aspect, fault or not and compliment every action. And his tender lover would be so entranced by this seemingly endless dedication that they would soon throw themselves so completely into the relationship to be captured and left, within a tiny frame and remembered, only as a moment in the past. To be forgotten and still totally captivated.
I too am an artist and will proudly admit to being, perhaps one of the worst contestants in this romantic battlefield. Through my youth I have loved, lusted and left so many great subjects, so many wondrous scenes. They have captivated me and I had sworn my love. But I am an artist, I will never stay.
As a boy, I had promised my fidelity to the flowers in my mother's garden that had in turn, promise to bloom so beautifully for me. On a holiday soon after, I had a fling with the elder temples of Greece and Italy before settling with the lovely maids at my favourite castle, whom were always so eager to pose and present. But all were forgotten in the time it took to find something new, something fresh, something better. And my days were found searching and leaving with promiscuity worse than men in a gentleman's club with lovers spread across London. Until I met the perfect subject.
As terrible as it may be loving and leaving, it is perhaps even worse on a personal note, if I were the one loved and left. For I threw myself shamelessly, with all rationality fleeing upon the mere sight of my lover. And having never felt so maddened, so struck with unadulterated affection, my actions presented me as a lunatic, a madman. And this time, I was not the one who fled.
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When one is caught in a web, for instance one for a fish, escape is found and freedom is granted soon after the net is released and the fish itself would perhaps declare that it had never chanced upon a finer day. But when that net is one of love, or more accurately, obsession, freedom is undoubtedly one of the worst possibilities. The captive would tangle himself within the threaded confines, echoing pleas of love merely to be able to stay.
It so happened that when Dorian Gray were to release me, I would soon spin a web of my own mimicking him, attempting to delude myself of his presence. If I had painted him more, perhaps his image would substitute for his absence. If I recreate him, would mine be a better Dorian Gray?
It was ironic, that the longer I should live without him, the more I craved him. Will I never again relish the fresh starts and frivolous freedoms that God has bestowed on me along with my art?
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It is hideous, my form of escape, but with years suffering from such a fixation of a man I can barely see, hear or touch, I wish for nothing more but the end. Seven years have passed without him. Was it seven, or was it ten? But we have changed, as time often twists and distorts us for mere amusement hoping to waste away its eternity. I have changed, an old painter with more talent, more skill than I ever held from my youth. I have seen flowers wilt, temples crumble, maids age and retire, and soon I will see Dorian Gray, whose beauty and youth I have always worshipped and held in the highest esteem.
Soon, I will witness him too, old, weathered and withered with his beauty, charm and everything admirable gone. Along with my love. It is vile and disgusting to wish the death of a lover, even one of a stone-cold demeanour that would never reciprocate my affections, but I need my escape.
And hopefully, I no longer need him.
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It was past ten, rapidly moving towards eleven and well into the night. For hours I had been standing here, waiting patiently perhaps with unjust calmness and terrible eagerness to mourn the loss of my lover, perhaps more than the owner had.
In the grotesque civility of an Englishman, well adjusted to the modern gentleman, I had already planned to approach him under the pretence of a farewell, requesting a final boon and soon to be stealing away into the night with the last remanent of his past, of my obsession. And to Paris I should run. The city of lovers, the sanctuary of passion, the protector of insanity. And with shocking realisation and great anguish, I should settle and mourn, mourn for my loss for six months, dedicate myself so wholly to my lover!
And then joy! For I will have freed myself, buried my heart and recovered a stone, removed myself from his unconscious grasp. And no longer shall I be haunted with his vivid haunting beauty, no longer shall I feel the pains of unwanted affection. Soon, soon! They shall merely be a shadow of my thoughts, hidden deep within the cavern of my mind.
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A/N – I said two chapters, right? Well apparently I lied. A third coming up – rambled too much in this one, needed to cut it off. On the bright side though, my chapters can't get any shorter... I think.
Anyways, again dedicated for my beta blood(.)of(.)a(.)phoenix seeing as I may never finish my other fic for her. Oh and I promise something will happen in the next chapter.
R & R please.