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Dorian Gray was very much in the habit of visiting his portrait as it grew more and more grotesque. He drew a sort of perverse pleasure from it, much like you might draw from picking at a scab that you never allow to heal. Recently, though, it had begun to frighten him.
"Kill Basil", it seemed to say.
“What?” He stared into its sunken, discolored eyes, searching for any indication that it might have spoken.
"Wouldn’t it be so terribly refreshing, to be free of everyone you’ve ever known? You could finish Harry off too- he trusts you more than enough for you to poison him."
Dorian rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t been getting nearly enough sleep lately. He could continue this examination of every sin he had ever committed another day.
***
"Remember that book that Henry gave you?"
“Of course I do. It’s the basis for my entire sense of morality.”
"Burn it."
“It’s out of print. It would be absolute Hell trying to find a new copy.”
"So? It’s a beautiful day to rebuild your entire ideology from nothing."
Dorian shuddered, draped a sheet over the painting, and left the room. “Good night.”
Even through the sheet, the painting’s eyes seemed to bore holes through the back of his skull. "Good night."
***
"Stick your hand in the fire."
“No.”
"Why not? Do you really think that it would burn you?"
“No, but-”
"Then you should, if only so you can say that you have."
Dorian did not respond. There was a knife somewhere in this room, and he needed to find it.
"Coward."
The candle Dorian had brought to the attic flared for a moment, and the knife shone dimly in the momentary light. “Am I?”
"Yes."
Dorian grabbed the knife and struck it against the painting. It fell harmlessly to the floor. "Did you actually think it would be that easy?"
***
"Hey."
“Stop it.”
"You could burn this place to the ground right now and nobody could stop you."
“Leave me alone or I’ll put a match to you.”
"You wouldn’t."
“I absolutely would.”
There was a cruel gleam in the painting’s eyes. "Do it, then."
“Maybe I will.”
"Fine."
“Fine.” Dorian fumbled a book of matches out of his pocket and struck one. He dropped the lit match onto the painting. It quickly sputtered and died.
"How naive, Dorian. Now, about those matches of yours."
***
It was raining the night Dorian decided that he needed help. It was a particularly cold evening, and it was raining, and he did not relish the idea of disturbing Basil on a night like this, but something in him insisted that it was the only thing that could be done. He created the painting, after all, so shouldn’t he know how to destroy it?
"But that would be embarrassing," said the painting as Dorian shoved it into a bag.
“Oh, who’s the coward now?”
"You are. If you were as brave as you think you are, you could handle me on your own."
Dorian put the bag down and adjusted his scarf. “Enough out of you.” He picked up the bag and unlocked the door. “Now, I’ll ask you to stop talking to me until we arrive. I don’t fancy talking to myself on a public street.”
***
“Basil.”
Basil Hallward should rightly have been asleep. He should not be standing in the doorway of his dark home, rapidly shepherding his terrified, soaking-wet former best friend into his sitting room.
“Dorian, are you all right?”
Dorian made a sporting attempt at a laugh, but it died before it reached his lips. “No.”
“I assume that you decided to discuss this with me rather than, say, Henry for a specific reason?”
“You could say that.”
Basil sighed. “Dorian, I can only help you if you tell me what’s wrong.”
At length, Dorian sighed. “Can I tell you this story over drinks?”
“Why not?”
***
Dorian Gray was a lightweight. This became increasingly clear over the course of the evening as his demeanor relaxed and his voice became faintly slurred. There was a part of Basil that wanted to believe that the story that his friend was telling him- a story of fear and hurt and the destruction of art- was also a result of the alcohol in his system, but there was no debating that, even in this state, Dorian was an honest man, nearly to a fault- it was the one virtue that Henry had not yet succeeded in taking away from him. And even then, if there had been any doubt left in Basil’s mind, it would had been utterly destroyed when Dorian slid the painting out of a large bag- Basil recognized his own style, but he knew for certain that he would have never painted something as horrific as the image of decay and debauchery laid out on the table before them.
“What happened?”
Dorian shook his head. “I- I don’t know. I think I may have sold my soul for immortality accidentally.”
Basil ran a hand over the canvas. “Isn’t that just the way.”
Dorian turned to make full eye contact with him. His eyes were wide and earnest, more earnest than Basil had seen him in a long time. “Do you think we can fix this? I don’t really care about the painting anymore- I might have destroyed it myself if I had been able to, but it won’t let me. I-” He sighed. “I thought that you might be slightly more qualified to handle the problem, since you created the thing.”
Basil nodded. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
***
Basil shifted the canvas knife in his hands. “Are you ready?”
There was a moment of silence. Dorian idly skimmed his fingers over the surface of the painting, then nodded. “I think so.”
The knife sailed effortlessly through the canvas, paint crumbling away from the point of the blade. As it sliced through the cruel face, cleaving it neatly down the middle, Dorian inhaled sharply. “Basil, I-” There was a dull thud as his unconscious body hit the floor.
Basil stared at him for a long time. He was pale, deathly pale, but the gentle rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still alive. Basil gathered the inert form of his dearest friend in his arms and carried him to the divan, as one might carry a child. He pressed a soft kiss to Dorian’s fevered brow as he laid him down. “You did the right thing.” He smiled sadly at the prone figure as he shut the door.