The Picture of Dorian Gray - Rewritten

I could feel the heat of the fire on my cheeks, the tears I had been crying long forgotten as they evaporated on my skin. The flames licked their way up the photograph, the paper keeling over as it burned away, flakes of what it had depicted falling to the ground in ash, creating tiny hills of what had once been adoration. I had no sudden inclination to sweep any of it away, I just stared at the blues that blackened what had been beneath them in their wake. That was my last tether to him. I no longer felt any emotion at the thought of his eyes, especially after they burnt away and caught the evening breeze.

~

I’d met Ciaran Murphy on a random venture I had taken to the beach one afternoon, though in hindsight I honestly wish I hadn’t. He was what I had always envisioned a man to look like, tall stature, lean figure, strong jawline, and eyes bluer than the ocean after a storm. He had grown his hair out significantly, the curly black locks brushing against his shoulders, thick with the drying salt-water. He mounted the sand dunes after coming in from the surf, I watched those alluring eyes scan the sand, taking in the other people that littered it. His eyes landed on me, though mine seemed to be drawn to every single movement he made, they looked me up and down, perhaps trying to gather a general vibe that I exuded. He finally, after deciding to leave his friends, made his way over to me.

We spoke for hours, about anything and everything. From my university coursework to his growing mastery of surfing. I had offered him a deal, in the heat of the moment, I asked him to be my muse for my photography major in exchange for as much money as he would like. In the beginning, he declined my offer, more so for the money than the photograph, but I had been insistent. So we struck a deal for about thirty dollars, though that had taken a lot of convincing.

“It’s just to make me feel better about using you,” I had told him sternly, hoping that my furrowed brow and insistent look would sway him.

It did. “Only if you insist,” he jested, rolling those eyes and clicking his tongue in thought. He did that a lot.

I had invited him to the campus, where the studio was held, and the looks he received as we ascended the hallway were nothing short of violating. He was an incredibly attractive man, I couldn’t say anything opposing, but people just seemed to look and not care that they were. I had never received those looks from women in my lifetime, and although I was slightly jealous and emasculated, Ciaran had a smirk tugging at his lips. At those open-mouthed stares or my utter disdain, I would never know. He sat down on one of the stools. I had made sure that he dressed as though he were on his way out to the surf; a tattered white polo, his hair an utter mess, but those eyes and lips alive with a stunning smile.

We parted ways, me; thirty dollars poorer but with an incredible final piece; and him with a few women falling over him in the cafeteria. My professor was in utter awe at the photo I had managed to take, his eyes raking over the image, every detail scrutinized under his gaze. He, “couldn’t find a flaw in Ciaran’s face,” he had said, taken aback by himself. “An incredibly attractive man had made for an even more attractive piece.”

I had to admit, I was a little heartbroken at the idea that he had not actually looked into the finer details I had put into the piece, like; the sunlight coming through the curtain in streaks as though he were out at sea during a storm, the tattered clothing that was still wet with seawater, and his hair thick and untamed just like the waves would have been. He had only seen Ciaran’s looks and had based my final grade just on the water’s surface, but not what lay beneath. I had called Ciaran later that month after the grades had been made public, as we had spoken every night prior, I expected another extensive conversation but he had been flippant about my success but had talked of the business student that he had met only a few days post.

That had shattered my heart, perhaps it was my own fantasy that he would actually be as interested in me as I was in him. But the smugness that he spoke with as I told him that the piece was now on the university’s art page was demeaning. I was disgusted at the narcissism that had seemed to overcome him the more it had been provoked. I was angry. Livid. Disgusted. I had hung up in a flurry, tears welling up in my eyes. A few of the other students had begun talking about him as well, those that had heard my professor in talks with him about a steady modelling job. Apparently, he had agreed, most likely seeing the financial benefit of selling his face and snatching it up.

In a heartbroken rage, I took a match and burnt the last tether that I had to superficiality.