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Synopsis
retelling of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray that esteemed horror
magazine Fangoria called “…a book that is brutally honest with its reader and
doesn’t flinch in the areas where Wilde had to look away…. A rarity: a really
well-done update that’s as good as its source material.”
away to remain young and handsome forever, while his holographic portrait
mirrors his aging and decay and reflects every sin and each nightmarish step
deeper into depravity… even cold-blooded murder. Prepare yourself for a
compelling tour of the darkest sides of greed, lust, addiction, and violence.
Excerpt
at a body, a body that’s become a thing—monstrous, ugly, inanimate. It could be
a sculpture, a figure formed from wax or porcelain. The soul inside is gone,
leaving a shell. I wipe a line of sweat from my forehead with a trembling hand,
trying to tell myself these things, trying to believe that what lies at my feet
is nothing more than an object, something to be reviled, something not worthy
of further consideration.
corpse does not have a twinkle in its eye or the simple rise and fall of a
chest, it’s hard to remove myself from the plain fact that the body possessed
those movements, those simple signs of life, just minutes ago. Distance, for
now, seems more a matter of location than of feeling. The body at my feet wears
the badges of its untimely demise—a dented face, a split-open skull, blood and
grayish-pink matter seeping out. The bruises have already begun to rise, ugly
yellow-pink things all over the body.
deepest hole, the one on the belly, to feel the warmth and the entrails. Amazed
that the breathing has stopped. Amazed that I have such power.
run it over my lips, the blackish liquid warm and viscous, metallic to the
taste. I recall the vampire films I loved as a youth, never really believing
such a thing could exist.
might continue. There is something vampiric in that, isn’t there? Because
without this theft of a beating heart and an expanding and contracting pair of
lungs, I would be unable to live.
vampire?
basement of a high-rise. A dull clanging is my only accompaniment, pipes
bringing warmth and water to tenants above, whose lives continue, ignorant,
untouched by my murderous hand. And that’s the amazing thing, the thing that
causes my breath, when drawn inward, to quiver.
monumental act, just a quick, surprised scream and a heartbeat away.
Jackson Pollock-style. Who can say what is art and what is murder?
final repose on a cold concrete floor, staring vacantly at nothing or perhaps
at the hell that will one day consume me, can no longer chastise me, can no
longer beg me to drop to my knees with him and pray, pray for forgiveness,
imploring Jesus to lead me down the path of the righteous.
brought the mallet down on his skull, cracking it open like a walnut, slamming
it into his windpipe, his gut, an eye socket, his shoulders as he fell, anywhere
the mallet would ruin, destroying, sucking life.
existence, I suppose, is that he thought he had the power to do anything, to
change another person, whom, I must admit, he cared very deeply about.
death-dealing claw that changed him. And people whine about how change never
really lasts when it comes to others, how they always unfortunately revert to
their old ways, the ways you don’t want them to be. Anyone who has ever tried to
change another knows this to be true. Oh certainly, the change may last a week,
a month, even a year. But soon the real person comes back, the one who has been
waiting in the wings for just the right cue, the one that will allow him to say
“Ah fuck it, I’ve had enough.”
can never be undone. He is dead and always will be. I have a power of which
psychiatrists and psychologists can only dream. And I accomplished my
transformation in a matter of seconds, behind a red-tinged curtain of rage.
most of his life doing nothing but looking after his own selfish needs and
pursuing his own pleasures, it’s a pretty accomplished thing. Decisive. For
once, a man of action.
at the heaviness my friend has taken on in death. His body doesn’t want to
give, to roll; it has become a body at rest…forever.
matters to attend to…clothes to be burned, an alibi to be concocted. People
will want answers. And conveniently, I will have none. Knowledge is a dangerous
thing. What was it my other friend once told me? “The only people worth knowing
are the ones who know everything and the ones who know nothing.”
must go back into the realm of the living to ensure my ignorance remains
secure.
of the few luxuries I can no longer afford. Alone, I have only the luxury of
time to contemplate how it all began.
Purchase
NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Kobo
Meet the Author
Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” Find him at www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix, Kodi.
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