Page 8 of Exquisite Things

“I didn’t... I swear I didn’t... I didn’t do anything wrong.” I try to defend myself. Unconvincingly.

“Let’s go.” An order from my father.

I wait for James’s father to notice the pages on the desk. To realize that it was his own son who stole them from his office.

But all he can see is his own repugnance.

And so...

Before I follow my father out...

I steal those pages. What does James know about the duty one has to one’s own self? He probably interprets those words as

a call to selfishness and greed. Too much of a coward to stand by his own nature. I don’t want to be like him. I want to be

brave enough to be myself. To live a life of truth.

My father doesn’t speak to me as we walk back to our hotel. Doesn’t look at me until we’re in the suite. It’s a cold night.

The staff lit a fire in the suite’s fireplace for us while we were out. I sit in front of it. Close my eyes. Let the flames

warm me. The first thing my father says as he kicks off his shoes is: “You disgust me. I have half a mind to leave you here

to starve like those Irish beggars you see on the street, bringing their famine across the border with them.”

“You’re cruel.” I say it plainly. My eyes on the flames. I was once told that staring at fire could blind you. I don’t care.

I need fire. I breathe it in. Welcome it.

“What did you say to me?”

“You heard me. Repetition is a bore. So are you.” I pull out the pages I stole. Read aloud. “ Conscience and cowardice are really the same things . Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all. ”

“What is that?”

“None of your business.”

“Have you no shame?”

“Perhaps I don’t anymore. Isn’t that a wonderful thing? To have no shame. Tell me one good thing about shame. I dare you.”

“It keeps people in their place!” He believes this. What a sad man.

“I’ve found my place. And it’s not with you.” I wish this were true. I haven’t found my true home. Not yet.

“No? Then where is it? Among buggers?”

I read from the pages. I know Wilde’s words hold answers. “ To define is to limit. ”

“You need limits! You want to be in the arms of another man?”

“YES.” I cry this out. As if to the heavens. “And not James. He’s incapable of love. I’ll find someone else. Someone tender

and honest. Someone who will give me the kind of life you never did. A life of love.”

“YOU DISGUST ME!”

“You can repeat it and repeat it, and still, I won’t care. I know I did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong? You tied a boy—”

“He asked to be tied. He wanted it.”

“Stop talking. I can’t hear this.”

“Then leave!”

“Perhaps it’s good you killed your mother in childbirth.” His voice sizzles. He’s been waiting so long to say these words.

He’s always blamed me for her death. He’s just never been bold enough to say it. “At least you spared her this.”

“You’ve never forgiven me for being born.”

Finally.

The real fight.

The one we’ve been waiting seventeen years for.

“You killed her. She was the one good thing I had.”

“Perhaps she died when I was born. But she would never have been pregnant if not for you. So you killed her too, didn’t you?

You set the stage, as you always do.”

“And now you’re killing me.” It’s as if he didn’t hear a word I said. “You’re a murderer.”

“Then save yourself. Leave me to my own devices. I don’t need you. I have these pages to read, and in them is more wisdom

than you’ll ever have.”

My father snatches the pages out of my hands. “Dorian Gray?” A confirmation of his fears. “This is that deviant’s handwriting.

Wilde?”

“Indeed it is.” I stand up to face him. I’m taller than him now. Grateful for that. He’s exactly the kind of person I delight

in looking down on. “And you know what? I’m just like him. A bugger. An invert. A homosexual. Pick your favorite word. It’s

who I am and none of your lessons, commands, or belts will ever change me. I delight in your disgust of me. It means I’m doing

something right.”

A long silence. The crackling wood of the fire. I wait insolently for what he might do next. Hit me. Push me. I think he has

it in him to kill me. But what he does is perhaps even worse.

He flings those handwritten pages into the fireplace. “That’s where filth belongs. That’s where you belong.”

“You belong in hell!”

“I already am in hell.” He turns away from me. “I’m going downstairs for a drink. When I come up, you will either be here and ready to change your ways or you will be gone. Those are your only choices.” He slams the door behind him.

“I wish I were never born!” I yell that to the closed door. But not existing is not what I truly want. Not at all. I whisper

to myself. To God. My true desire. “I wish I were born in another time. I wish I could be alive in a time when my love isn’t

a crime. Please.” Tears fall down my cheeks. Warmed by the flames. I long for those burning pages. Those words. Strokes of

genius on paper. Once-in-a-generation words. Menacing text. Wisdom. Original thought. I won’t let it burn. Can’t bear to see

art scorched like trash.

I throw my hands into the flames. My eyes glued to the fire.

Desperate to save what I can. Words burn.

I am tired of myself tonight. I should like to be somebody else.

Pages warp. Black ink erupts into shades of rust and orange.

To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.

Smoke fills the room. I choke as I pull three pages out.

That’s all I can save. Three of over fifty pages.

I pull my hands out of the fireplace. Realize my own sleeves are aflame. Drop the pages to the floor. Run into the bathtub

fully clothed.

The water washes away my doubts. Makes me feel reborn. That’s the only way I can describe it. Like a different person. With

a new heart. A different soul. A renewed purpose.

I take off my wet clothes. Gaze at my curious reflection in the mirror. My eyes—when I stare at them long enough—glow orange.

Like a cat. Like those burning pages. I don’t know what it means. All I know is that I feel different in my body. I’m not

my father’s son anymore.

I walk right past my father as I leave. There’s a tall glass of whiskey in front of him.

He sits at the bar. Faces rows of bottles.

Wallowing in his own hate. I mouth a goodbye to him.

In my left pocket is what little money I found in the hotel room safe.

The combination lock was set to my mother’s birthday.

He probably doesn’t think I know what day she was born.

Doesn’t think I’m worthy of knowing anything about the only person he truly loved.

I take all the money. Feel no shame about it.

In my right pocket are those three pages I saved from the fire.

I walk out into the city. Toward one more sunrise. That’s all I need. Just a little light to figure out the way forward.