Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Title: Not Today.

A/N: Was inspired to write this by the movie.

He doesn't know when the darkness began, but only that once it started, it never stopped.

He catches himself, in a mirror or in all honesty, anything shiny enough to reflect his face. It is there that he is surprised just to see how cold his eyes look; just as hard and dark as the screaming eyes trapped in canvas, locked behind doors and locks.

Sometimes, he wakes fitfully roaring into nothingness because it is him trapped in that canvas, rotting and old. It's him that feels every sin, scar and drop of spilled blood. It's on these nights that he ends up curled and weeping for it all; but he does not scream out loud, not a sound passes his lips. Each dreadful sob is stuck in his throat, only that beast can scream for him now.

He wonders if he's strong enough to break this curse. Of course this thought only ever seems to cross his mind when he's so high off some drug that he can't stand, or while he's being positively smothered in the arms of young, lush women. He dances, laughs and beds them with a smile, but inside he's burning with the knowledge. I could stop this. I know how to stop this. - but he never dares.

He swears as another old woman gives him that look. The one that conveys everything at once. It starts out as just quick glances, because he knows, she thinks him a ghost, or just a trick of the light. He also knows, that she'll look again this time harder and longer, and this time she'll be having little flash backs of memories. Of him and her, of dark nights and passion. Then she'll snap back, remember just how long ago that was, and how he can't possibly be the same man. It's here, that she'll give him that look, and realize that he is.

He hates that look.

Dorian knows that he gave his soul away, at a time that he had everything. At a time where he thought his beauty and youth were at stake, at a time when he was so damn stupid and foolish. His beauty may appear as though carved in stone by angels, but he knows his insides are twisted and disgusting, if God or angel ever did look upon his soul they would probably be ill. He has nothing except for his beauty and secrets for all eternity, together he wonders, should they ever wither or only grow stronger and heavier with time.

It happens in Naples, he's drunk enough for four men twice his body weight and height, playfully messing about with a whore not so hidden against a stone building. In fact, they were in plain view in the warm night. He whispered in her ear in reply to her protest, that it would be more fun. It's only when he's got her bent over a cart with his hands on his zipper does an old weather beaten priest comes into view. He can't help but chuckle as the whore squeaks and runs off, leaving him with his pants down laughing at the priest.

" God save your soul dear boy."

" God wants nothing to do with my soul," He pulls his pants up and staggers to the old man, " 'cus you see, I have it locked away. Far, far away behind lock and key." He explains, but knows the priest can't even begin to grasp what he's saying.

" What...what ever do you mean?" The priest hesitantly stammers. Dorian gives the man a look, one that he knows cuts the other man straight to his poorly beating heart.

" It never fades, never scars, and never bleeds for long, my face. Do you know why?" He steps closer, smirking as the old man instantly steps back. " Because of what my vanity declared over twenty years ago, what it wanted was to stay like that forever. At whatever cost. And you know what?" He finds himself hissing out the question, he's close enough to the older man to share his breath.

" What?"

" It's horrible little wish came true." With a quick motion he pulls out his sword, slashes the priest throat. He stays to watch the priest die at his feet, he's killed before, for too many times now, but always he stays and watches as the light from their eyes dim. Always, he feels a deep pitted emotion that makes his guts clench angrily, he's jealous. Jealous that all around him change, and grow, live and die; and he's stuck. Stuck with nothing but a disfigured soul and ghosts of his sins.

He doesn't know when his light brown eyes became so dark, doesn't know when his curse began; with that painting or years before when he first glanced in a mirror, but he does know that one day it will end. One day, when the moment is right, he'll gather up his strength and destroy the rotting portrait.

-But as it were, today was not that day.

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