(the harem painting by juan gimenez y martin, the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde, the portrait of a lady on fire (2019))
oh my goddd it’s here!!! took me way longer than i expected, but here is my retelling of the picture of dorian gray (aka one of my favourite novels), where dorian is an indian princess, less of an arsehole, wlw, and treats sybil vane the way she deserves. you don’t need to have read the book to read this!
themes: orientalism, exotification, agency.
tw: murder, blood, classism, implied sex.
word count: 5.5k. the title is a medium link.
As Damini kills him, Lord Henry smiles.
The blood washes over his teeth, tingeing them pink, and for the very first time, twisting her knife between his ribs, she finds him ugly. He’d told her, once, that after suicide murder was the greatest gesture of romance, and he dies before she can correct him. The confession of hatred in her throat goes unheard. His heart sputters to halt with a final pump of blood, and he falls, heavy, in her arms. She doesn’t catch him. But that doesn’t matter. Even on the floor, he smiles eternal, still managing to get the last laugh.
She watches the scarlet puddle spread from the sofa, at peace. Gone is the clawing desperation that had forced her to take a cab to his home in the dark hours of the morning, though her situation remains unchanged. No. Worsened. Incalculably worsened. The source of her desperation was a letter, which has now melted to pulp in the gore. News of her debauchery in London had reached her parents in Jaisalmer, who demanded her back. Damini knew what ‘back’ meant. She knew what awaited her at home. The curved edge of a sword, the heat of an anonymous funeral pyre. She had always known, from the very first moment she’d let Henry’s sweet words poison her, from the first strokes of Basil’s brush, the first sounds of worshipful praises. She had known this story ended.
But Damini had been a fool. Too arrogant. She’d thought herself above her female ancestors, all sacrificed at the altar of honour. She had felt safe in London, amongst faces nothing like her own, in a language she hadn’t grown up with. She’d grown careless, thinking it would be alright to fall, with Henry ready to catch her.
She didn’t realise he’d just be a voyeur from the precipice.
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