Dorian Gray 

55

Dorian Gray sat in the dim candlelight of his study, staring at the draped canvas in the corner. His hands trembled as he clutched his brandy glass, but no amount of drink could silence the dreadful weight in his chest. For years, he had indulged in every vice, believing himself untouchable. Yet now, he saw the truth—his wish had not been a gift, but a curse. Slowly, he rose and pulled back the cloth, his breath catching in his throat. The portrait was grotesque. The once-youthful face was sunken and hollow, eyes black with cruelty, lips twisted in a sneer of malice. His flesh sagged, veins darkened like rotting parchment. Clawed fingers gripped the canvas as if the monster within sought to escape. Dorian recoiled, nausea rising. Every sin, every betrayal, was etched into that face, a horrifying reflection of the man he had become. He had traded his soul for eternal youth, but now he was trapped—forced to witness his own corruption every day. The guilt was suffocating, inescapable. He had wanted eternity, but now, he longed for an end. (feel free to be whoever you would like to be.)