Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Page B

waited so long to tell you something.”
    Rosemary’s heart leapt in fear. “Father,” she stood to face him closely. “Father, what is it? Your stomach? The bloat?!” she cried, bringing a hand to his sizable belly. “Have your symptoms returned? That look on your face! Father, you must tell me these things at once. No more secrets!”
    Defeat shadowed his face, followed by a sad smile.
    â€œNo, Rosemary, no more secrets. Please sit down again.”
    Rosemary hesitated but obeyed and waited. Her frenzy was now past the point of thoughts. She was hanging onto sanity now, clawing at it with her soul, about to slip. . . .
    â€œTell me,” she said.
    Her father turned away and began to pace around her. Rosemary clutched her hands, ready for prayer.
    â€œYour mother didn’t die when you were a child,” he said.
    â€œWhat?” asked Rosemary. The sanity she was digging into for support quaked with earthly disregard.
    â€œWell,” he debated with himself. “Technically, she did die when you were a child. But not in that house. Not in that so-called deathbed you sleep in so that you may feel closer to her spirit. In truth, she quite detested that bed— at least she did in the nighttime, given that I was always in it then.”
    â€œFather, what are you saying?!”
    â€œI’m saying your mother left me—she left you, Rosemary—she ran off with a destitute degenerate, an American! She paid his way with her Shelby property. Your Uncle Kelso turned the other cheek.” He shook his bald, shining head. “Rosemary, your mother abandoned us.”
    Rosemary was too stunned to respond immediately. Rage, hurt, resentment, and shame seared through her. And the questions—so many questions—one sprouting off the other, all piling up in her heart like dead leaves, for what was the use in answering them now? The damage was done.
    â€œYou lied to me,” she said, her voice strange and otherworldly, as though she was her own ghost.
    â€œRosemary, I only wanted to protect you.”
    â€œYou lied to me!” Rosemary repeated. She stood up and shouted in her father’s face. “You lied to me, lied to me! Every-thing I’ve ever known was a lie!”
    â€œPlease,” he begged, beginning to weep. “I love you. Your mother loved you. For a while. I mean, I’m sure she never stopped loving you, she just found someone that she loved more than me. They had a son, Rosemary. You have a half-brother.”
    â€œAh!” Rosemary cried, her hands were balled up in fists at her side. She needed something to hit. Her father would be an ideal target, but she couldn’t stand being in the same room with him any longer. She had to get out.
    The painting. The painting and Dorian. That was all she had left in this world, and by God, they must save her. She ran to the painting and sloppily wrapped it back up, then started for an exit. As she was turning the latch, she turned back to look at her father. He had dropped into the chair she’d been seated in, head in his hands. He was weeping softly and muttering incoherently to himself.
    Would this be the last time she ever saw him? Right now, she thought—if she had any control over it—yes.
    â€œTake care of yourself, father,” she said.
    He lifted his head from his hands. His face was red and bulbous, wet with tears and the runny nose that always comes so crudely with the territory.
    â€œI only told you because—that painting, it’s so remarkable, Rosemary!” he cried. “You’re truly an adult with that work. It’s foolish of me to continue covering your eyes from the truth. I respect you too much.”
    The words she’d so long waited to hear from him went straight through her. Years of yearning for him to believe in her—not just because he was inclined to as her father, but because, as a man of intelligence, he was genuinely