Dorian’s eyes flew open as he felt fire creeping into his lungs. Immediately, he began gasping for breath, yet no relief came to end his torture. He clawed desperately at his throat, choking on the noxious fumes and forcing himself to retch in a futile attempt to expel the bitter taste. He was a marionette with no control over his strings; his arms were forced to jerk stiffly, stabbing a knife into the air, stabbing into his friend, stabbing again and again.
And suddenly, with one final thrust, Dorian could feel the burning subside, quickly replaced with the blissful sensation of cool oxygen re-entering his raw lungs. The overwhelming stench of the nitric acid seemed to have fled the room as quickly as it came.
Dorian suddenly became aware of just how clammy he was, his still-convulsing hands struggling to light a cigarette—the last in the pack Lord Henry had given him the week prior; he would have to ask him for more when he saw him at Lady Gwendolyn’s next ball—and laughed with a tinge of hysteria. It was the fourth time he had awoken that night, and the only thing that seemed to be able to calm him was the blue ethereal wisps of smoke swirling through the air.
“I must be going mad,” he muttered to himself. “I am invulnerable. That dastardly thing is gone, good riddance, for he was too weak. And success is given to the strong, failure is thrust upon the weak’. I must be invulnerable.”
Even so, he found himself still double-checking the attic, in order to assuage his fears.
Yes, that horrible corpse was gone, yet Dorian still could not shake off a feeling of uneasiness. As if in a trance, he seemed to drag himself over to his painting and flung off its ornate covering.
The man in the portrait was even more grotesque than when Dorian saw him last, if possible. His cheeks were more sunken, his skin became a sickly green, and his bloodshot eyes were staring back at him, emptily. But the most haunting aspect was the crimson blood, dripping ever-so-slowly from the back of his ear, where he was stabbed there…
Dorian cried out in sheer terror, as the painted face morphed into the face of Basil Hallward, uttering the words, “Smite us for our iniquities.”
“No! You are the cause for my sins, of this portrait that has ruined me! I refuse to be punishment; I can still be saved!” He began to shake his head feverishly. “All I have to do is forget… Our very own dear friend Henry once told me, ‘Nothing can cure the soul but the senses…' Yes, of course, he can offer me salvation!”
The face began to twist its cracked lips into a wide mocking smile. “Why, Dorian… don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful’.”
But Dorian was too busy murmuring “Harry” over and over to listen, as he quickly threw the sheet over the portrait and took a cab to Lord Henry’s estate.
---
“Dorian?” Lord Henry rubbed his eyes. “Why, it’s 3 in the morning! Not even an American would be up so late…”
“Oh, I am so terribly sorry to interrupt you, Harry, but I simply must know what sorts of pleasures you now indulge in,” Dorian said, smiling innocuously. “You see, I’ve been just so down and lethargic recently, and I would love a little thrill, no matter how temporary it is.”
“Ah, well, I suppose cannot blame you for wanting to relieve your ennui—it is a sin, after all! Very well, I possess something special that you must only use in… private areas, such as this address for a cozy, little den. Who knows, perhaps this could buy you oblivion. Feel free to come in and experiment with it, as long as you don’t disturb my wife. I, for one, am going to bed.” With a huff, the lord left a small opened black box.
Hesitantly, Dorian gingerly dabbed his slender fingers into the waxy green paste, the floral scent immediately calming him down. Yes, he could say for certainty that it was a better sensation than the nitric acid. As the world began to slur around him, he heard a voice.
“My love, my Prince Charming, thou art safe h’re. I will kiss thy lips.”
“Sibyl?” Dorian’s voice came out slurred, giggling with pure bliss—the feeling felt unfamiliar to him. He couldn’t say why. His body was tingling, perhaps he was radiating golden rays of sunshine? He could feel a warm embrace, bringing a genuine smile on his face. The birds that are singing… are telling the flowers about you.
---
When Dorian woke up the next morning, the first thing he felt was a headache. Then, amidst the dull pain, he remembered the bloody, wrinkled, malicious him in the painting. In fervor, he reached for the little Chinese box once again, but found a note in its place:
“I apologize, Dorian, but I cannot have you constantly giggling in the middle of the night and ruining my sleep! I did not expect such a strong reaction; you must stop using this. Also, dear Gwendolyn will be hosting another ball in two days, and she hopes to see you there!   - Harry”
Dorian’s arms began to twitch, forcing him to drop the note. As his throat began throbbing and his breathing became more labored, he was suddenly reminded of the torturous previous nights, and the hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him.