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"Alan wished he'd never seen Dorian Gray smile."
Alan Campbell stared at the pistol on the side table. He sat in his small sitting room, in his favourite chair. He could think of many choices that had led to this, the final choice, but one pricked at him like a needle. The damned room, the man in the chair, and Dorian Gray. Dorian Gray, the phantom in his dreams, and the cause for his ruin.
The thought that stung the most was that Dorian would never understand what he had done to Alan. The pain of others was a byproduct of Dorian’s life and not one he dwelt on. He had passed through Alan’s life like a shooting star, burning brightly and fading fast, leaving nothing but emptiness.
Alan sorely wished he could forget how he had loved him, and the music that had brought them together, and it had been love, of that he was certain. Therein lay the problem, if Alan had never cared then he never would have been hurt, no one had more ammunition to hurt you than those you cared for.
One moment ran through his mind. Dorian had taken Alan to an opium den the night before his exams. Alan had refused to partake, and he could never forget the look on Dorian’s face when he had done so. His beautiful face had twisted into something cruel and sharp.
“Just leave then, if it disturbs you so much, I have no need of friends who would sit there and judge me for taking my pleasure,” he had said. Alan could have moved on from the parties, drugs, lies, and abuse but what happened later had marked him forever.
It had been several years since he had severed his friendship with Dorian when he received a knock at his door. He opened it to reveal Lord Henry Wotton. Alan detested the man and always had. Dorian though, loved him, and thus Alan had been subjected to his company. He had expected the last time he’d seen Wotton to be exactly that, the last time.
“Good lord, it’s too late an hour to hear your prattle,” Alan said as he attempted to slam the door in his face. Wotton pushed it back forcefully, backing Alan into his home, “What are you doing? Get out!”
“Enough of that, we only have a few hours to sort this, get your equipment,” Wotton said impatiently, “It’s a matter of life and death.”
While Henry Wotton certainly had a flair for the dramatics he wasn’t one to chase up old acquaintances in this manner, and it was this that convinced Alan something was afoot.
“Whose life and death?” he asked, refusing to make this easy on the oaf.
“A friend, they’re in quite a bother and we’re in need of your particular scientific expertise. Now do come along, we haven’t much time,” Wotton said this with air of someone used to being obeyed immediately.
Alan acquiesced, in no short part due to not wanting to listen to the man ramble on at him should he refuse. It wasn’t until he was at the door of a familiar house that he realised who the friend he was to help was.
“You want me to help Dorian Gray? To hell with him! I wouldn’t throw water at him if he burned.”
“Oh, do cease with the dramatics, I’m quite afraid you have no choice,” Wotton grasped him firmly by the arm and marched him through the front door. Wotton kept a firm grip of him as they moved so swiftly Alan only barely glimpsed Dorian himself. He was draped dramatically over a sofa and looking sorry for himself. Typical. Wotton shoved him bodily through a door upstairs and Alan was done.
“I say, Wotton, that’s enough!” Alan snapped while straightening his jacket. Wotton said nothing and closed the door behind them. Alan looked around the room, which seemed to be a school room, and time seemed to slow down around him. He had seen many cadavers in his studies, but nothing could have prepared him for this horror. Seated at a table, with his head bowed onto it, was a man. He could have almost been asleep if it wasn’t for the gaping red chasm that had once been his neck. Alan pressed a hand over his mouth, breathing heavily.
“Do you grieve for him?” Wotton said from behind him, “You shouldn’t. He has achieved what most on this earth could only dream of. A memorable and beautiful death. Oh, you don’t think this is beautiful? He will burn far more brightly in death than he ever had in life and that is the beauty of it. And all that besides, this is not the end of him.”
Alan drew himself up to his full height and looked Wotton in the eye, “I will have nothing to do with this, I know you didn’t bring me here to discuss the beauty of murder, for this was surely murder. Dorian Gray can hang, and this man will be his noose, I will not lift a finger to stop it, his business is his own.”
An ugly smile came upon Wotton’s face, one that didn’t reach his cold eyes, “I considered not bringing this collateral but I thought it’s always best to be prepared,” he pulled a letter out of his pocket, “I had Dorian write this some time ago, you can see the address, I will send this promptly and without hesitation should I feel the need. You can burn this copy, if it pleases you, it’s not the only one.”
Alan took the letter and upon reading it he felt, for the second time that night, his world fall around him, “This is blackmail, when did he write this? Why would he write this?”
“I asked for this several years past, I knew there might be a day when someone of your scientific prowess would be useful to me,” his face turned into one of mock sympathy, “As for why, he wrote this because I asked him to. It’s quite unfortunate that you now must learn how little your friendship meant to him. Nonetheless, that’s neither here nor there. Perk up, Alan, you’re about to make history.”
The hours that followed still haunted Alan’s nightmares. If such a thing as a soul existed, then Alan had most assuredly left his behind in that room. Once the room was clean of any trace of the crime he left as swiftly as he was able. Plagued by what he had just participated in and haunted by the man in the chair, he lost the contents of his stomach in the street. He made sure to aim for Dorian’s brickwork out of spite. He looked up at the house, one last time, and glimpsed a smiling Dorian passing by an upstairs window.
He never saw Dorian Gray again, the smallest of mercies from that cursed night. He had never been much of a religious man, but he prayed God would allow him one last sin. He hoped the man in the chair would someday find peace and deliverance from what Alan had helped Wotton do to him.
Alan picked up the pistol and pressed it firmly against his temple, “God, forgive me.”
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"Forgive Us Our Sins" by boardcertifiedgoblin, from theSCP Wiki. Source:https://scpwiki.com/forgive-us-our-sins. Licensed underCC-BY-SA.
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