Indulge in temptation's sweet allure yet resist its fatal enticement.

When I wander into London's disreputable East End, I find myself powerless against temptation's allure. ‘I can resist everything except temptation.’ The masses delight in gossiping about mysteries beyond their comprehension. My own nature remains obscure to me; I merely embrace life's indulgences. Do people speak truth about my character, or merely echo hearsay and misconceptions? Rumor disperses like goose down on the wind, or vapor from a sudden sneeze. ‘The truth is rarely pure and never simple.’

Basil finds my indifference to Sybil's demise perplexing. Why I haunt London's shadowy East End instead of mourning her loss. Her fate was sealed by her own hand; she must reap what she sowed. Her theatrical performance lately was woefully inept - a truth that underscores my belief: ‘Women are made to be loved, not understood.’ Indeed, I crafted her with adoration, not comprehension. Yes, once I adored her - when shy innocence still lingered in her eyes. My ardor for her ignited when she wielded power on stage, a spell almost equal to the portrait's haunting grasp on my soul. Her innocence was captivating - untainted by life beyond Turtle's Lane Theater. What darkness consumed her? Did she deliberately sacrifice everything in one reckless night? She feels no love for me...  Selfish, vile creature! You've destroyed me!

No... my mind reels in confusion. I do not understand.

Sybil once ensnared my heart with exquisite portrayals of Shakespeare's heroines - Juliet's ardor, Ophelia's madness, Desdemona's innocence, Cordelia's devotion. Her passion ignited mine; I thought myself her Prince Charming, she my true love. But her recent performance was a catastrophic failure, humiliating me before friends. A transgression unforgivable, inexplicable. My mind recoils in bewilderment.

Yes... my mind reels in confusion. I do not understand.

An inexplicable cruelty seized me, and my words sliced her like daggers. I was wounded; she had pierced my soul. Our love lay in ruins, destroyed by her own hand - literally, as she played Juliet's fatal role to perfection…. her final act: suicide, leaving me breathless, wordless, alone. Bravo! Bravo! Bravo Sybil. My Juliet. I will not be thy Romeo.

She must have known that her death would destroy me.  Sybil's last act was revenge against me, a tragic escape from the painful words that I expressed to her that fateful night. Sybil's final act was a desperate fusion of both, revenge against the perceived abandonment, and escape from the agony of loving me still. A suicide note, if she would have written one, hidden in her stage dress, would reveal: "You killed my heart long before I killed myself."

Lord Henry would be fascinated by my depravity... if I confessed the cruel words I said to Sybil that fatal night. Society would crucify me in print, yet they know nothing. The East End witnessed my darkest indulgences. Silent observers drowning in misery, lust, and opium dreams. They saw my corruption, yet remain mute, while society screams judgments, blind to truth. I shall outlive them all, then whispers will spread: 'I made a pact with darkness itself.'

Fools. I resist revealing my secret... My hatred for them will be my immortality.

Immortality shall be mine!

Why should their opinions bind me? Did they stand vigil when terror haunted me - fear of my attic secret being unveiled by loyal servants? Were they present when fate's dark whisper revealed my doom? Did they comfort me when Sybil's selfish death stole my last chance at love - only to condemn me still? No. They would have blamed me for her tragic fall. My mind reels with the possibility that the portrait in my attic, altered by dark magic, reflects not only my corruption, but also Sybil's final act. Did she know her death would seal my doom, binding my soul to that cursed canvas forever? Every brushstroke seems to mock me now, each glance from the painted eyes piercing my guilt. Sybil's lips, once curved in tender smiles for me, now appear twisted in a haunting accusation. Was her suicide a desperate attempt to free herself from the toxic love we shared that fateful night, or a deliberate strike against my very existence? My heart races with the chilling thought...That Sybil's last breath was a curse upon me, transforming the portrait into a vessel for her vengeance. Do I dare uncover the truth, or forever hide from the darkness that binds us – Sybil, the portrait, and I?

I guard secrets of society's elites, including my own dark indulgences and those of friends:

Lord Henry's decadent pursuits. Dr. Alan Campbell's hidden vices. Rumors swirl - truths and lies entwined like London fog. Yes, I confess: East End brothels and opium dens claim me as familiar territory, where outcasts and I form twisted bonds, thieves, adulterers, tramps, beggars, and fallen women...Their lives, though sordid, seem almost honest compared to society's gilded hypocrisy.

Pray, tell me, dear hypocrites, who among you does NOT sin in private?

Do not the judges' wives flirt with younger men? Do not the bishops gamble away their charity funds? Do not your own husbands keep mistresses in Mayfair? Are your sons not caught in bed with one another? I think the only difference between us is that I embrace my darkness…

Let me for once, give in to my temptations and reveal your secrets!

Outrage would soak the streets like blood dumps a maiden’s cloth. The whispers would turn into screams... Scandalized, Society would declare:

LADY ASHWOOD'S SALON ERUPTS IN OUTRAGE:

Duchess Worthington faints upon hearing me words.

Lord Worthington thunders: 'Your decadence is matched only by your depravity!'

Lady Victoria Wembly screams: 'How dare you parade our husbands' secrets!'

Bishop Blackwood denounces: 'This man is possessed by the devil himself!'

Even Lord Henry Wotton – your closest friend – looks aghast, whispering:

'Dorian, have you gone utterly mad... or merely reckless?'

The Times newspaper headline tomorrow will read:

‘DECADENT DORIAN: Society's Golden Boy Exposed as Moral Monster'             

How... predictable. Your shock merely entertains me. Shall I invite the press to witness your hypocrisy in private salons? Lady Worthington's fluttering fan, Lord Worthington's reddening face...do tell, which of your secrets shall I unveil first?

I shall not be silent. My truths exposed yours. Now let us see who London society ostracizes: the honest decadent or the corrupt hypocrites?

Bishop Blackwood's gambling debts, Lady Victoria's secret lover. My candor merely scratches the surface of your deceit. This scandal will only increase my allure.  Shall I throw a masquerade ball to celebrate my newfound notoriety? Masks will hide your face, but not your fascination with the devil who dares to speak truth to London's elite.

Finally, the world shall pen a tale of my life, The headline reads “Shadows, Fashion and Silk: The Immoral Memoirs of a Fallen Idol", only to condemn its contents as Depraved and Lewd. ‘The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.’