Dorian darted a nervous glance upwards, to the tall austere face of Big Ben, sending out twelve chimes into the frosty night.

Midnight.

It was the time they had agreed. He had even heard her say it- a darkly beautiful smile with blood-red lips and a wink with one golden eye. Her glossy ebony curls had been falling around her pale perfect face, silvery words of seduction flowing from her treacherous lips.

His heart whispered the name of the woman that so enraptured him.

She had ensnared his heart; it was not uncommon knowledge. A young master of twenty years is bound to love.

It might perhaps have been better if she had sharply rebuked him, turning away with icicles for eyes and soft scarlet lips in a cruel scowl. It might perhaps have been better if she hadn’t given him sweet sugared lies, speaking of love and fidelity and devotion to her.

Dorian glanced up to the clock tower again nervously, and read its hands with a sinking heart.

Five minutes past twelve.

Dorian had always been punctual; it could be guaranteed he would arrive on the dot, every time. But… Celia was not so dependable.

Silently, his mind whispered fervent prayers, begging whatever God there might be that she would come. Dorian was not sure if there was such a thing as a God. Modern times- things moving on- who could say? But now, he desperately prayed to whatever deity there might be that she would come.

She will come… she must come… please, God, let her come.

But his unspoken prayers fell on deaf ears, and Dorian’s heart wilted a little more in his chest.

His family and parents were of the opinion that he had fallen for a certain Miss Lavender Mayfield. Dorian could barely disguise his smile at the thought.

Lavender was indeed, very beautiful, and Dorian did enjoy her company. But she was oh-so innocent.

She perhaps thought herself deceitful, thought that a moment of surprise in a corridor and a lustful passionate kiss was dark, and forbidden. But she was nothing compared to Celia.

Celia was darkness- beauty, seduction. Celia was a wildcat roaming through the dark jungle, so beautiful to watch, but so deadly to be near.

The sweetest of all poisons is desire.

It is what pulls away the hands of a married man of forty to a sweet young nymphet; it is what makes the drug addict reach for the syringe that one last time, and what ensnares the mind and burns away all senses. And it tears people to shreds.

The wife, sitting at home, and sobbing, as she hears of her husband’s infidelity. The glassy eyed addict, lying still forevermore with the needle lying by them. And the wrecked mind of the blinded, destroyed young man, whose story you read.

Another pained glance to the cold clock tower ahead.

Ten minutes past twelve.

The most painful of all poisons is despair.

Despair is ever waiting, ever in the back of our minds, ever ready to pounce. Despair is the gentle, pushing element in the back of a young girl’s mind- a young girl who just couldn’t stand the pressure anymore. Despair is what makes her lie under the water- weighting herself down if necessary- so that she will never have to rise again. Despair is what makes the heartbroken lover put the gun to his temple and fire, determined that if nothing exists for him in life, he will see his love again in death. Despair comes to us all at some point, and for some, it is the first and last time.

But despair is easier- kinder, in some respects. The young girl who couldn’t take the pressure snaps, and no longer has to take anything. She is welcomed into death, and no longer has to be pressured. The broken lover is reunited with his sweetheart, and knows he shall never lose her again. Perhaps desire burns away the senses, but despair numbs them.

Dorian hopelessly looks to the clock tower for the final time.

Twenty minutes past twelve.

He had told himself that was how long he would wait- twenty minutes to find out if it was death by despair, or death by desire.

It seemed despair had won.

She would not come. He was a toy to her- something to be played with, and then thrown down in a childish tantrum when he was broken. Perhaps he had never been anything more to her.

Silently, Dorian turns himself away from the clock tower and feels the cool metal of the gun resting in his pale hand.

He feels the trigger yield against his hand, and does not hear the soft footsteps coming behind him.

Bang.

Scream of horror.

Silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Celia starts to laugh at the sight of his mangled body- hysteria growing in her voice as she realizes the truth.

He was gone- gone, gone. Dorian had always been on the dot, and he had trusted everyone else to come on the dot as well. In the end, it had been his one flaw.

The hysterical note in her laughter builds and builds as Celia kneels by his silent, cold body, feeling the gun slip into her hand.

For a moment, she stares at it with maddened golden eyes, the object that has taken him from her.

And she whispers, insanity shadowing her voice.

“As you have parted us, so will you join us.”

As scarlet trickled into the street, Celia joins her love.

---end---

I don’t know if people will notice or not, but if they do, yes, this has some inspiration from another source. The little section on desire and despair was inspired by a comic series called The Sandman. In the comics, there are two characters who are literally anthropomorphic personifications of despair and desire called (quite aptly) Despair and Desire. If you can get your hands on it, it’s a worthwhile comic to read. I don’t normally like comics but I read the first issue and it quite intrigued me. (Disgruntled mutter) Now I just need to read the other seventy-four issues…

Ahem. So, after that rant, on the matter of the story. I’m quite fond of this little piece, though I don’t think it’s among the best. My tribute to those over the top Victorian dramas I suppose. And don’t bother telling me it’s stupid for him to kill himself over that. T’was the whole point dahlings.

(glares at computer furiously when it puts a red line under ‘dahlings.’)

Toodles.

(tap dances away into the sunset)

--- Isilthrar