The Journey From 20,000 to 0

Link to article: The Journey From 20,000 to 0.

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|text="Dorian Gray's journey from eternity to nothingness."]]

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= **20,000**
Dorian paced back and forth, the harsh stomp of his footsteps softened by the Persian rug that covered every inch of the floor in Henry's library. His jaw tightened as he waited, second after second, for the old servant to put down the tea tray and slowly shamble out of the room. Finally, after an agonising eternity of anticipation, the servant exited, and the door clicked shut behind them.

He slammed his hands down on the table that stood between him and his best friend. 'We can't let them do this, Henry! It's blasphemy! Heresy!'

Henry looked at Dorian, his expression neutral as he dunked a lemon macaroon into his tea. 'Dorian, you are being dramatic. Come, sit down and have some tea with me. Then when we are finished, we will go to the club in Whitechapel. I have promised three young gentlemen that I would introduce you to them tonight.'

Dorian's body stiffened. 'You insist we go to the club when my very soul has been cut up and stolen from me by faceless men? My future is at stake, Harry.'

The older man dismissed his companion's concerns with a wave of the now half-eaten macaroon. 'On the contrary, your future is more secure than the Queen's. You will live forever, Dorian, remain young and beautiful while the rest of us rot and die. You should be elated.'

'Forgive me for not trusting the men who plan to sell my soul for profit,' Dorian snapped.

'I would sell my wife for what you have, Dorian,' Henry replied nonchalantly. 'In comparison, the price you paid is more than worth it. Ahh! Your face says you still do not believe me. No matter, you will realise I am right, as I always am. Now come, this tea is too sweet for my liking. We will go for a walk and then to the club.'

Henry rose, grabbed his cane and walked out of the room, leaving Dorian behind. He had only a few moments on his own, enough to let out a heavy sigh, before Henry shouted from a few rooms away, telling him to hurry up. Dorian let out a final huff as he turned to follow.

By the next day, as had been predicted the afternoon before, Dorian realised Henry was right. He now had what every man should want, and the only thing he had paid was his soul.
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##FFFFFF|You were my most beautiful creation, Dorian.##
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= **19,986**
Dorian hopped down from the cab, a dazzling smile on his unblemished face. The music and chatter from the club greeted him, beckoning him to enter. Eager to heed its call, Dorian hurriedly paid the driver. As he waited for his change, he watched two gentlemen catch sight of him as they walked toward the club's doors. They wrinkled their noises and gave him a wide berth, a reaction he was used to these days.

He was counting his change when a small voice squeaked from behind him. 'Dorian, there you are at last,' it said softly. He turned and saw a thin woman dressed in ripped, dirty rags. In her arms was a blanket, cleaner than anything she wore. Wrapped inside it was a baby, perhaps a month or two old. It stared at him with unfocused blue eyes covered by small tufts of blonde hair. These features, prominent and divine, match this own in everyway.

'Look, Dorian, this is your son. Our son. Isn't he wonderful?' She lifted the baby, bringing it closer to him. He backed off, putting up his arms between himself and the two creatures before him.

'Miss, I believe you are mistaken. This child is no son of mine,' he replied bluntly. 'Now begone from here, I have no business with you.'

Her chin trembled, but she clenched it shut and closed the distance Dorian had made between them. 'Please, Dorian, you must take care of us. I can hardly keep him fed and clothed on my own. I do not ask for much, only a small allowance, enough for us to get by.'

Dorian wanted to slap her for her insolence, but he knew eyes were watching. Nothing this dramatic would have escaped the notice of the men in the club behind him. 'Your lies do not fool me, woman. This child is not mine, and you cannot trick me into believing otherwise. Now take this and leave me be.' He threw the change he still held in his hand at her feet. The coins clattered on the pavement, spreading out in all directions.

With his rage now satiated, he made his way towards the club. He heard her body hit the ground and the sobs that erupted from her. The child, perhaps sensing its mother's distress or its father's abandonment, joined in. To Dorian's relief, the wailing was silence once the club doors closed behind him.
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##FFFFFF|You absorbed everything I taught you and more. How could I not adore you for that?##
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= **18,500**
There were more people at Henry's funeral than either of them had expected. It was no secret to London's high society that Henry spoke his mind, no matter the event he was attending or the person he conversed with. But that had earned him fewer friends, and less respect, than a man of his status and station should have.

Henry had only talked once about this phenomenon. It was during the last year of his life, when he and Dorian were on a ship travelling back from Venice. They sat on the ship's deck, discussing what news of London the sailors would part with. It was then, between yawns, that Henry shared his thoughts on friendship.

'Friends don't matter, Dorian. They are like clothes, one wears them until they get a hole or are out of fashion, then they are discarded. I have found this to be true for all but three people. You are one, for you are always interesting, the other two are much the same, but can be dreadful bores when the mood strikes them. So, when I do die, I hope none but you are in attendance at my funeral, or it will be a dull affair indeed.'

The words rang over and over in Dorian's mind as he watched the coffin be lowered into the ground from a nearby hill. A priest stood above the hole, repeating a sermon in a monotone voice that could have put him to sleep if he were tired or drunk enough. The other people in attendance mostly stood in silence, except for a few women who wept and wailed and snorted into their handkerchiefs.

One of them looked his way, and he gave her a nod, which she returned. She put her hand on her head and gasped loudly. The man next to her was barely fast enough to catch her as she twirled and collapsed into his arms. The crowd surrounded the sudden spectacle, clambering to look at the woman and the red-faced man who held her.

Dorian watched for a while, observing the people below as they tried to satiate their curiosity. He would have performed a similar spectacle himself, had his endless youth not forced him into society's shadows. Instead, this would have to be enough to honour his best friend. His mission completed, he left the mourners to their business and made a mental note to tip the woman double.

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##FFFFFF|I have always wondered if you enjoyed watching me that day, Dorian. I know I enjoyed watching you.##
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= **16,482**
The spring air was filled with the perfume of flowering roses and the buzzing of bees that took advantage of the bounty. Dorian always enjoyed his morning walk through the rose garden, which he had spent a decade perfecting. Each plant was precisely placed so he could admire them as he strode along the cobblestone path that stretched from the front of the chateau to the very edge of its back garden.

It was no secret that Dorian admired the red roses the most. They were the largest, most healthy-looking plants on the property and the only ones he showed off during his many parties and dinner dates. There was something about the colour red that made his chest and stomach flutter. He had mused for hours about what had caused that effect on him, but he never came to an answer that he felt was right.

So, he chose not to bother thinking about it and instead indulged in it. The colour decorated his gardens, his homes and his fashion. Wherever Dorian Gray went, the colour red followed him like a shadow or obsessed lover. He adorned his favourites in it, too. Ruby necklaces, crimson silks and the most brilliant shade of red lipsticks were the gifts he preferred, though anything red would do. For Dorian, the act of gifting the colour red was a pleasure and a way to mark his current indulgences as his alone.

A man's voice floated in the air toward him from somewhere closer to the chateau. He had been away from Oscar too long. The man was possessive, and that made him so much fun. Dorian observed the plant before him, judging each flower's hue. When he found the reddest rose, he snipped its stem and took it to his waiting fling. It would be the perfect gift to ring in 1959.
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##FFFFFF|You never knew, but I was always with you, in a way. How could I leave you, Dorian?##
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= **12,666**
He dipped his toe into the water to test it. It was warm, but cool enough to help him escape the hot temperatures that always plagued Singapore. He stepped into the pool and exhaled as he felt the water touch his skin. Dorian swam a few laps, pausing to catch his breath and take in the spectacular views that the infinity pool afforded him.

This hotel was one of his favourites. The food was divine, the rooms clean and filled with every amenity he could ask for, and the security knew to turn away the fans that followed his every movement. There was no better place for him to relax and create content for his latest group of sponsors.

Dorian waded over to the edge of the pool and picked up his phone. It was the newest model, gifted to him three months before its official release. He didn't care about all the features like the extra battery life or bigger screen. His only concern was the camera, which was the best on the market. He tapped the camera app and positioned himself. The pose and face were ones he had practised a thousand times, ones he knew would get the most engagement.

He scrolled through the photos and picked the perfect one. It was posted within minutes, alongside an endorsement of a skincare brand he had never used. The first likes and comments appeared in his notifications within seconds. Dorian scrolled through them, each compliment making his heart race and a feeling of rejuvenation rush through his body.
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##FFFFFF|They called me obsessed when I asked them to save your paintings, to make you eternal.##
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= **8,254**
Dorian had often wondered if the conspiracies and rumours of shadow governments and world-spanning, all-powerful organisations were true. He never discounted the idea, but felt it unlikely. After all, given his age, it seemed to him that he should have caught a glimpse of such a group, if only in passing.

Oh how delightfully wrong he had been.

He twiddled his thumbs as he waited for someone to enter the room they had shoved him in. Every muscle in his body was practically vibrating as he stared at the door. This new experience had been sudden, surprising and so, very, very interesting. It was the most interesting thing to happen to him in at least two decades. To think that a shadow organisation not only existed, but housed thousands of magical objects and creatures. The possibilities for excitement and pleasure, for the first time, truly seemed endless.

The door swung open, ripping Dorian from his daydream. He covered the surprise on his face with a smile as he jumped up from his chair. The man before him was unimpressive and unkempt. His lab coat was at least a size too big. The stubble on his chin and dark eyebags made him look like he should have retired long ago, despite the flickers of youth that still broke through on the man's features.

Even in his early years, Dorian had always been able to read people, except Henry, who kept his true self so close to his chest that Dorian often wondered if the man had a personality or simply pretended to have one. But this man, this scientist, he was an open book, one Dorian knew he could have fun with. He licked his lips, the only visible sign of the anticipation overwhelming him and held out his hand.
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##FFFFFF|I refused to admit it then, but it wasn't only obsession that drove me. It was love, too.##
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= **3,819**
He screamed as the pain relentlessly stabbed inside his head. It had gone on for days, weeks, maybe even months. He couldn't remember how long he had suffered like this. It had never been this bad; why was it so bad?

Pieces of whispers from voices he didn't know broke through the pain sometimes. The new warden of Dorian's prison had made it his mission to track down every last painting in the outside world and destroy them. And in this mission, the warden was hugely successful. Why this man hated him so much, Dorian didn't know. Leo had been the one to do all those things, not him. He had only gone along with Leo's requests. Was that so terrible?

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##FFFFFF|In truth, I never loved you enough to save you from them. Even you can't get in the way of our business.##
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= **53**
Where there had once been pain, now there was nothingness. The clock in his cell had been removed about... well, he didn't quite know how long it had been since they had taken it. The only way Dorian told time was by the food they shoved through the slot in his door three times a day. It was currently lunch number 10,984. They had served him a ham and cheese sandwich with a carton of milk and a chocolate pudding for the 73rd day in a row.

The food tray sat by the door as he stared blankly at the book in his lap. His only luxury was a new book every week, but even that had lost its charm. The only small pleasure left to Dorian was remembering his last moments with Leo, how he had told the man the truth of his pathetic existence. It was the one grace in this never-ending hell that he had been placed in, all because of Leo's failures and sins.

It took the grumble of his stomach for Dorian to reach for the tray, but all he felt was the concrete floor. He looked up and was met by a guard and a man in a cheap suit. Their stares were unreadable, and their words foreign. The one in the suit muttered to him about a broken veil and how things were different now. He could leave and get his painting back after he had filled out some paperwork.

There was no time for questions as the guard forced him to stand and pushed him through corridors and doorways. The people that they passed ignored them, except for one with brown hair streaked with silver and white. The daggers in his eyes made Dorian tremble as he was shoved through another door.

He stood outside, the light of the rising sun burning his eyes and blinding him. When was the last time he had seen it? When had a sunrise ever been so beautiful? The guard dragging him didn't stop to give him time to adjust. He was pulled and tugged and shoved until he heard a gate open and close behind him. Then he was left alone, still unable to open his eyes without pain.

Dorian Gray, at long last, had escaped hell.
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##FFFFFF|When you were set free, I was watching. You looked as lovely as ever.##
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= **1**
Bubbles brushed against Dorian's legs and chest, eliciting a chuckle from him. The hot tub was divine and roomy, too, which suited his current aim of bedding the couple that lived next door. They were eager to have him. The woman gave him her complete attention, and the man had been rubbing his thigh since they had entered the water. But he wasn't done having fun with them yet. There was still pleasure to be drawn from them before they move onto the evening's climax.

He left the water, much to the clear frustration of the pair, and walked toward the kitchen. He yelled back that he was fetching some wine and drugs, which ceased their protests. As he walked through his apartment, little robots followed him, sucking up the puddles and droplets he had left behind.

There was something wrong when he entered the living room. It wasn't visible, but Dorian knew it was there. He looked at his painting, which had a place of honour on a nearby wall. It had taken him a year to get it from the Foundation, his former jailers. It took him even longer to get the amnestics that erased the unjust torture they had put him through. But that was behind him now. He was free and more famous than ever, thanks to the publicity he received after he was released.

Dorian clapped his hands, and the lights turned on, revealing a man who had been hidden in the shadows next to the painting. In his right hand was a lighter, and his left held a bottle of lighter fluid.

'My name is Malcolm Vane. Do you remember me?' The stranger asked as he stared directly into Dorian's eyes.

'No, I haven't the faintest idea of who you are. Now leave my apartment before I call security.' Dorian marched over to a button on the wall, watching the unmoving man as he did so. He slammed it down, hoping that fear of being apprehended would get the stranger to flee. But Malcolm stood steady.

'Think about it, Dorian, as much as you can with that empty head of yours. The amnestics they gave you were on the cheap end.'

Dorian hit the button again. 'As I said, I don't know you.' That was a lie, a bad one. He was certain he had never seen Malcolm Vane before, but that silver and white hair with a single streak of brown was something he vaguely recognised.

'Maybe you remember my wife, Courtney Thatcher.'

Dorian shook his head. 'You have the wrong man, Malcolm. Whoever your vendetta is against, it isn't with me.

'She was my wife,' Malcolm said. 'We had been together for 10 years before she died. Do you know what it was like to come home to an empty house? To explain to our children why they would never see their mother again? To lose your soulmate?' The man waited for Dorian's answer, but he said nothing.

'Do you?' Malcolm shouted through gritted teeth. Dorian again shook his head. He listened for the sound of security arriving or the couple coming to see what was taking him so long. But there was only silence and the man in front of him.

Malcolm smiled sadly. 'Of course you don't. I didn't expect you to, but that's fine. It makes you all the more deserving of what's about to happen.'

He flicked the lighter on, and Dorian's eyes went wide. The man was too close to the painting, and Dorian didn't want to risk losing another. He had to play this carefully. Dorian opened his mouth to speak, to try and convince the stranger to stop. But before he uttered a word, Malcolm spoke.

'This is for Courtney, and everyone else you've hurt, you fucking monster.

The man threw the lighter at the painting. It erupted with deep, red flames that quickly spread to cover the entire canvas. Dorian stood still, mouth agape, until he, too, was covered in flames.

When security finally arrived on the scene, they found only three things. The first was a frame, heavily burned and charred. The second was ash that was scattered below the frame and across the living room. The final thing was a corpse, one so putrid, disgusting and vile that none of them dared approach it.

It would be several weeks before they found a coroner brave enough to attempt to identify the corpse. But the search, in the end, was pointless. For when the brave volunteer coroner opened the fridge that held the frightful body, she found nothing except a note. The note thanked the morgue for caring for Dorian and told them not to worry as he was now home.

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##FFFFFF|It's such a shame how it ended. You could've done so much more.##
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= **0**
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##FFFFFF|But at least I still have you and your soul. Let us spend eternity together, my lovely Dorian. ##
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The Journey From 20,000 to 0

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