Picture of the dead.

The Victorian world has descended into madness, I assure you. ‘But when was it ever sane?’ one might ask with wry amusement. A most peculiar phenomenon hath arisen in tandem with the advent of Paris Green.

Behold this exquisite youth, prematurely ripped from our midst by Hades himself. Observe how serenely he sits, his countenance somber and still – a marble statue of beauty frozen in eternal repose.

This angelic visage shall never know the ravages of time, nor witness loved ones fade away – for he is deceased, frozen in eternal youth at merely 17 winters.

How cruel and bitter Nature proves herself, snuffing out such radiant life like a candle extinguished by an unseen hand!

I, however, shall never grow old nor perish – a fate sealed by my mysterious pact, forged years ago in whispers of darkness and desire. ‘I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die.’

A bargain struck with unknown forces, halting my aging, preserving my beauty and vitality – a Faustian trade for eternal youth. Unlike this youth, I have borne witness to countless deaths – young and old alike – while remaining untouched by time's cruel hand.

This photograph, an attempt by modern Victorians to capture eternal youth via spirit photography and spiritualism, has failed... whereas my own bargain has succeeded magnificently. I have sat for numerous portraits, alone and with others – my likeness preserved forever, while theirs fade like autumn leaves. Time is a harsh mistress, yet fascinating when one gazes upon an old photograph and wonders... where has youth gone.

..and why?

I am spared such melancholy musing. My fate was sealed that fateful day when aging mysteriously halted – a miracle or curse, depending on perspective.

All of society has noticed my timeless visage, and I delight in being the talk of town.

Lord Henry Wotton, my acquaintance, often bestows backhanded compliments upon me – veiled jealousy, I suspect, for his own mortality haunts him.

If he only knew my secret... I would whisper: 'Now that you know, you must die.'

How I envy this youthful dead – forever frozen in beauty, like the crimson rose in full bloom.

Their slumber is undisturbed by gossip and scorn, unlike mine, tormented by wagging tongues.

I escape to London's East End, where I reign supreme over humble subjects – a monarch unencumbered by mortal constraints.

Yet, Londoners obsess over Spiritualism and capturing youth via photography.

Do they not grasp that eternal youth require a darker bargain than mere camera tricks?

Fortune smiled upon me, or so it seems – an unknown entity chose me for this gift.

They understand the secret: cameras capture not just likeness, but essence – youth preserved on paper...

Ha! My bargain surpasses theirs – eternal beauty without the need for darkroom magic.

My obsession with youth and beauty is palpable.

Let me delve deeper.

I spend hours gazing at my reflection, mesmerized by unlined skin and vibrant eyes.

My wardrobe is filled with lavish fabrics and daring styles to showcase my timeless figure.

I host extravagant parties, inviting London's elite to worship your eternal beauty.

As I lean in closer into the mirror low mysterious voices enter my mind. My obsession stems from fear... not of death itself, but of being forgotten. Eternal youth ensure my legacy, my beauty, and my name – forever etched in London's memory. Vanity is my delight. I adore being admired, worshipped even – my beauty is my religion and London society my congregation.

To maintain this captivating image, I'll stop at nothing. I'll discard friends who cease to admire me, like Alan Campbell. Alas, he died at his own hand. Weak Imbecile!

I'll manipulate situations to always be the center of attention. Lord Henry taught me well. And I'll even make a pact with darkness itself – as I already have.

To maintain my legacy, I've devised a threefold plan:

1. My portrait gallery – Basil Hallward's paintings and photographs scattered throughout London, reminding all my timeless beauty.

2. Whispered tales – strategically shared secrets about my eternal youth, fueling curiosity and fascination.

3. Philanthropy – grand charitable deeds in my name, cementing my status as London's beloved, ageless patroness.

As I ascend over gathered London, I shall say in jest "Let us delve into the terms of my dark pact.”

In exchange for eternal youth and beauty, I surrendered my portrait's soul to darkness. My heart to eternal loneliness, And my future to unpredictable shadows. Do I regret any of it? You make me laugh. ‘Nay’, I say.

When Joseph Nicéphore Daguerre unveiled his revolutionary daguerreotype in 1826, opinions diverged like twilight shadows. Some hailed it as proof of man's divine ingenuity, while others – like the Amish – condemned it as sacrilegious. I entered this world amidst this controversy, finding photography's swift capture far more thrilling than tedious portrait sittings. Yet, no camera lens rivals my enchantment with Basil's painted masterpiece of myself. By the time André Disdéri introduced carte de visite photography in 1854, multiple prints from single negatives became coveted keepsakes – even postmortem photography gained popularity among elites and commoners alike. This eerie practice preserved memories of loved ones lost.

A morbid curiosity strikes me: what memento will survive my own passing, when death erases all recollection of me? My desire for a legacy beyond death consumes me. I envisioned grand monuments, eternal artworks, and whispered tales of my beauty and mystery centuries hence. Basil's portrait would be the cornerstone

– but I desire more:

A novel written about my life, a play performed in my honor, and songs sung with my name. Dear reader, take note!

These deliciously dark choices of mine make me smile enigmatically. To ensure eternal fame, I would surrender my soul's peace to eternal restlessness. My heart's capacity for love to cold calculation, and my mortality – already bound by dark pact – to absolute oblivion. I shall snare at them when they say ‘How utterly... predictable, Dorian. Your vanity will be your epitaph. Eternally beautiful, eternally selfish – a monument to narcissism.’ Fool! They know nothing. Old age and death will be their last words.

Jealousy? No... I think it's fascination with the devil you see in me – your own mortality staring back through my ageless eyes.

A haunting question still lures me. I ponder aloud; Perhaps they will recall my beauty, frozen in time like a rose in eternal bloom. Or whisper tales of my mysterious pact, sparking curiosity beyond my grave. Do you think, dear one, that I would want them to remember my heart as well?

As eerie as it may seem to you, postmortem photography served as a keepsake to remember the deceased. What shall I remember as when I too pass away? My friends and foe may never know, for that the dead aren’t privileged to remember at all.