Dorian Gray. John Garavaglia

to an honorable and excellent life,

      as love awakens them.

      Plato.

      17 YEARS AGO…

      Wrapped in the womb, the baby listened to his mother’s heart beating. It didn’t sound like anything he’d heard before. The rhythm was off, fast but somehow excited. And it was racing.

      Her screams still echoed in the amniotic fluid. Those sounds had scared him more than anything. He’d never felt an emotion so sharp, so jangling from his mother. The vibrations trapped inside her womb were less now, but still coasting through the liquid medium.

      He felt distance grow between himself and his mother, something he’d never experienced in the nine months of gestation. Pressure constricted around him. His space had grown smaller in the past few weeks, but he’d accepted that. This was different.

      He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. He didn’t like lying like this. His mother already knew that because he

      DORIAN GRAY

      • 26 •

      had let her know. Instead of being able to move, however, he felt he was pinned.

      Then he felt a constriction so tight it hurt.

      There had been some warning signs of that during the last few days, but he hadn’t worried about it. Everything that had happened to him seemed normal.

      He moved again, wishing she would sing to him. But his mother seemed to pull away from even more as he emerged into the light. A light so bright it blinded him. It hurt so much he let out a howl.

      “Congratulations, Olivia,” he heard a voice say, “it’s a boy!”

      Then the child recognized the next voice. “Oh, my God…he’s so beautiful!”

      It was a tearful proclamation of joy and love.

      It belonged to his mother.

      The doctor handed the newborn baby gently over to its mother, who welcomed the child in warm open arms.

      “Have you decided on a name, Olivia?” The doctor asked her.

      “Dorian,” the child’s mother said, smiling. “His name shall be Dorian Gray.”

      Dorian Gray IV’s only memories were of shifting back and forth in the soft, protective confines of his mother’s womb, dreaming of the gentle sounds she made. They were encouraging songs and tender coos that let him knew how much he was already loved. As she sang, he

      JOHN GRAVAGLIA

      • 27 •

      knew her hand would gently brush against her swollen abdomen then come to rest on his small, bulging stomach. Very soon he would look into her eyes and let her know he loved her, too.

      He was six hours old when he opened his eyes to see her standing over him. A sweet proud smile was on her lips.

      “You are so beautiful,” she said, playing with the fringes of his already thick, brown hair. “You look so much like your father.”

      He recognized his mother’s voice—it had comforted him for as long as he could remember—and he returned her a small smile in response. Her fingers danced across his tummy again, tickling him. He giggled, the chubby flesh around his eyes wrinkled as he reached to touch her long dark hair. She was beautiful but her bright blue eyes were welling up with tears. He didn’t understand what was wrong with her, but in the nine months he grew inside her he had learned to deal with her shifting moods.

      A second figure entered the room. When he spoke Dorian knew it was his father, a handsome raven-haired man with piercing blue eyes. He heard his soft voice, muffled and distant, many times before, but now there was anger in it Dorian had never known, and the words, which of course meant nothing to him, were spat out quickly, as if rushing through them would let his father get past the annoyance, whatever it was, and onto something more pleasurable.

      DORIAN GRAY

      • 28 •

      “They won’t listen no matter what I say and in spite of the proof I’ve shown them.” The man said. His face was red and his knuckles turned white.

      Dorian watched his mother circled her arms around his father, comforting him.

      “That never stopped you before. You’ll make them see. You know you will.”

      “I hope you’re right, Liv, but you know how stubborn they can be. You should have heard them. They called me crazy.”

      He paced the room angrily, slamming his fist against a bright white wall.

      “Sometimes I don’t know why I bother,” he unclenched his fist and dropped his arm to his side. “What’s the whole point of talking if nobody listens?”

      Olivia gingerly rocked her child. She knew with his work there came baggage. Most of it he carried it deep within himself, in the form of regrets, unanswered questions, and memories. He had gone to many places, done many things, a lot of them ugly, one or two perhaps unforgivable. But he’d succeeded in what he wanted to accomplish; he’d learned, and equipped himself.

      “You know when you began to pursue this lifestyle you were going to meet some skeptics.”

      Her husband’s anger faded. He turned to look at the baby, barely a day old. He had a lot of things to do today, and this was his first opportunity to study the boy closely. Olivia was right; Dorian looked exactly like his father.

      JOHN GRAVAGLIA

      • 29 •

      “Dorian,” he heard his mother say. But she wasn’t addressing him, but the person who entered the room. “Come see our wonderful son. I was finally able to get the nurses away from him.”

      This should have been the elder Gray’s happiest day. This should have been a time for celebration.

      Dorian, Sr. came forward, wiping his brow. “They ran more tests, Olivia?”

      “No,” she replied, holding back a laugh, “all the nurses in the maternity ward crowded all around him and said he was most beautiful baby they have ever seen.”

      A smile suddenly appeared on the man’s face. “Only a few hours old and he’s already a lady killer. Way to go, Dorian!”

      The baby giggled and stared into his father’s eyes. The elder Gray was quite captivated by him and he thought the newborn was ready to say his first few words. But it turned out to be a burp.

      Olivia knew as much as she prayed to God that one day she would cradle Dorian’s own baby in her arms, tweaking its little nose, and gently pinching its soft, pillow cheeks, at some point in the next ten hours.

      “Looks like he doesn’t have any of your manners.” Joked Olivia.

      “Hey, in some cultures that is a form of respect.”

      “Would you like to hold him, dear?” She asked, gently holding Baby Dorian out to him.

      Her husband faltered for a moment. “Oh…well, I don’t…”

      “It’s easy.” She smiled. “Just hold him like this and support his head.”

      DORIAN GRAY

      • 30 •

      Dorian, Sr. held his arms out and took the child from Olivia. He was very careful and brought him closer to his chest.

      “That’s right,” Olivia guided him. “Think of him like a football. Don’t cause a fumble.”

      “Ha-ha, very funny.”

      He looked down on his son with delightful eyes. It was the most incredible feeling in the world. There was little Dorian—a little hand to hold, and a little mind to mold. Most successful upper-class socialites only have children because they wanted to have heirs to their business