The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man

Chapter 22 - The Picture Part 2

As Dorian sat at his walnut Carlton House writing desk, he pondered the many twists and turns of his life. He gazed at the polished ivory knobs and reminisced on how things used to be. How he wished he could go back to how he was in the past. He knew he had corrupted himself with perverse desires and vile fancies. He had done so much evil and been such a terrible influence on others around him. And the awful joy that he took in doing so! He was so ashamed now. Was there no hope for him?

He considered the reflection starring back at him from the golden, carved mirror on the desk. He picked up the hand mirror. It was an antique, inlaid with expensive diamonds and garnets. He studied the face reflected on the polished surface. The bright eyes grew tearful and dimmed despite their beauty. How he loathed his beautiful face. He flung the mirror to the floor and it shattered, with silver splinters flying everywhere. Would that he had been born ugly. Then his life might have been spared the mockery it had become. Youth had spoiled him.

Nothing could change the past. That much was true. It was better not to think of it. He was perfectly safe. No one knew his secret and yet lived. The death of Sage was a perpetual burden that weighed constantly on his mind. More than that though, was his worry over the peril of his soul. Was it trapped in that vile beast that wandered the dark places of the city, senselessly killing animal and human alike? How many times had his childish rivalries, petty revenges, or selfish emotions resulted in the death of an innocent? How many times had someone's death been caused by some unspoken commend of his, to be carried out by that vicious monster? He was responsible for all of it.

Yet, it had been Sage who had painted the portrait and not he. He could never forgive her for that. Everything else had been forced upon him or caused by some temporary madness. All those suicides were their own acts, not forced by his hand. It was nothing to him.

He would start again fresh! He had already begun. Never again would he be tempted to his evil ways. He would be good and kind. If his life became pure, maybe the portrait would change back. Maybe the beast would return to a simple wolf and the killings would stop. Perhaps the portrait had already changed. He would go and look.

Dorian ran and took the winding stairs two-at-a-time. He quickly unlocked the door and went inside. He approached the tattered screen concealing the portrait with trepidation. Would it have changed already? He stared down at his hands and exhaled slowly. Cautiously, he lifted his hand towards the screen. As he revealed the image behind it, he screamed in outrage. There was no change to the image at all. If anything, it was more loathsome than before. The beast's claws and teeth were covered in a brighter, fresh-looking red blood. The eyes were as malignant as before, but they now seemed to be sadistically mocking him.

He turned away. Should he confess and turn himself in? He laughed at the thought. That was a loathsome idea. Who would even believe his story? There wasn't a single piece of evidence against him to be found. No, he could never confess the truth. There were only two things that could incriminate Dorian Gray—the picture itself and the monster. Why had he allowed either to remain for so long? Perhaps it had been a bizarre curiosity to see how the picture would change and what the wolf would do next. Now the very idea of the creature roaming the streets of London caused him to wake in the middle of the night with chills running down his spine and sweat staining his silk clothes. The painting and the beast were a constant reminder of his guilt. They had served as his conscience. Now they must be destroyed.

Dorian went to the window and opened the large glass pane that overlooked the garden. He flung wide the silk curtains and looked out into the night. With all his mind and concentration he willed the beast to come to his Master—like the pack leader summoning his followers. He spoke one word aloud. "Come."

Turning back to the portrait on the wall, he removed the canvas and set it down on the table. Looking around, he saw a silver Garland knife with an engraved handle that he sometimes used for opening letters. That would have to do. He would slice this work of art that had caused him so much suffering into a hundred pieces. The artist had already been destroyed, so surely destroying the picture would end his torment. Once these reminders of his past was eradicated, then—he would be at peace.

Before he could act, a heavy thud sounded behind him.