#thisworldourhell

Basil walked quickly down the sidewalk that led to his condo/studio.  It was late… or early depending on how you wanted to look at it.  His gallery show had gone well… very well, and he was just this side of being drunk.  Normally he’d also have someone on his arm… but that urge had been fulfilled at the gallery as well, in a side closet that had smelled (rather nicely) of old oil paint.  Now he was just looking forward to some sleep.  Approaching the locked entrance that led into the building, the artist hesitated as he realized someone was standing in the doorway.  The other man didn’t look like he was homeless… good clothes, trim haircut, not even a shadow on his chin.  Was he waiting for someone… at this hour?  Basil tensed, but kept moving forward.  

“I’m afraid I can’t let you in,” he said as he approached, trying to act casual.  “Building rules.”

“I-I don’t need in,” the man replied, a soft stammer to his tone as an odd twitch occasionally graced one side of his face.  “I need to speak to Basil Hallward.  I was told he lives here.”

Basil froze.  While he was currently going by his first name, he hadn't used ‘Hallward’ in almost a century.  It was one of the first things he’d gotten rid of in order to disappear after his first ‘death,’ and was currently using the last name of Harrison.  Best to play it cool for now - until he knew more.  “It’s Harrison, actually, but you’ve found me.”  The man looked neat… business-like - and Basil wanted to keep this conversation normal, so he continued, “If you’re wanting headshots it’s a little late, but I can give you my card and we…”

“No!” the man cut him off quickly and that twitch was back - stronger now.  “I’m sorry… no.  I need your help.  No - s-sorry… Dorian.  Dorian needs your help.”

Against his will, Basil inhaled sharply.  Dorian.  A man he’d somehow managed to avoid for over a century.  “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person,” he insisted.  “I don’t know anyone…”

The other’s twitch seemed stronger now… and it almost looked as if he were in some sort of pain,  “I-I can’t… I can't fight this much longer…  Please!  Dorian’s in danger.  I think you can help him…  You might be the only one…”  The man suddenly surged forward, thrusting a piece of paper into Basil’s hand - a pamphlet.  “Ask for Charles White.  He’s there… you have to…!” Then the man’s face fell… going blank.

“I have to what?” Basil asked, eyeing him warily.  “What?”

His unexpected visitor blinked, and looked around confused.  “I have to go now,” was all he said, before stepping around Basil and walking away.  The artist considered going after him, but then thought better of it.  Whatever had just happened, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know more.  And yet, as he entered in his PIN and stepped inside, Basil glanced down at the paper in his hands.  It was for… a psychiatric hospital?!  And just like that, he knew he wouldn’t be able to let this go.  Despite what had happened so long ago… Dorian was still… important.  And so, instead of going to bed as planned, the artist went upstairs, turned on his computer, and started doing some research.