At some point as Basil admonished what the painting had become, Dorian slid down the wall and came to curl up on the ground. The wood floor was covered in dust, neglected for eighteen years since Dorian stopped allowing his staff inside to clean it. He didn’t realize how much it would hurt to show that painting to Basil, to hear Basil’s horror and disgust over the state of his soul. It was Basil’s fault, Dorian told himself. He painted it, he seduced him with flattery and convinced him that all he had to offer was his youth and beauty.
It was an old deflection, eighteen years his crutch but it grew weak now that the portrait was no longer a secret. His eyes were red, cheeks wet as he wept into his knees. It was no different a cry than the sort he would give over menial things, always swift with dramatics. Only his posture gave away the sincerity of it, how he curled over himself and turned away; his vanity crumbled under the weight of that hideous painting. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it, to view himself through Basil’s eyes.
My God! Don’t you see that accursed thing leering at us? Dorian was pulled from his thoughts, a rush of anger flooding his chest. His head snapped up, anger and hopelessness in his eyes, lips drawn back from his teeth as if in a snarl. “The accursed thing was made by your hand!” He snapped, his voice broken and loud, almost a growl. “You did this to me, Basil. You put all of these silly ideas of beauty and youth into my head, I was nearly a boy!”
An accusation better saved for Henry but from Dorian’s perspective; Henry was the only one that understood. Where Basil would paint the evil portrait and then turn up his nose at his deeds, Henry encouraged him, he saw the genius and originality in his life. Henry never so much as touched the portrait.
“You’re disgusted by what you yourself have made me, Basil. I won’t continue to be insulted by you.” He stood, remembering his pride in an instant, though still sniffling. His portrait hung behind Basil and a knife on the table beside it. Dorian was vaguely aware of both but he focused on Basil, shaking with a rage thus far unknown to him.
