The Warning

What would it take him? Poor Dorian had been struggling for years—not financially of course; he lived comfortably—but teetered on the brink of a more ominous oblivion. It tore him apart, left him feeling helpless. No matter the money he threw at this problem, no matter the accolades his shows received, his psychosis ate away at him like a cancer—slow and incurable.

        Dorian sat at his typewriter in his dimly lit circular guest room. He furiously typed, hitting each key with intention and passion. Rhythmically, his fingers moved fluidly across the keyboard, in time with an unheard symphony. Dorian wasn’t simply typing; he was creating art, like Mozart. The keyboard became a piano.

        “Dorian, congratulations, you set the upper curve in the class again.” , said Mr. Stephens, returning his English paper. Dorian beamed, thanking his mentor and taking the paper. Positive, due to his teacher’s commendation, that he had no reason carry reservations about his mark, Dorian anxiously flipped the paper. 99. Dorian’s head sank. His smile faded. A knife buried into his chest. His heart burst and set his chest aflame. Then something warm trickled down Dorian’s cheek. It was salty—failure.

        Dorian tore the paper from the feeder. “Damn it all!” he exclaimed. Irate and impatient, Dorian cursed himself and his work and turned to a pile of meticulously written notes. “Character isn’t a destination it’s a journey!” he said, reminding himself of the newest addendum to his novella.  He continued typing. Hours passed as Dorian continued his exercises—the one, two, three of his fingers hitting the keys; the precision of his movements. Dorian reread his final chapter, stopping right before his last page. A voice came over his radio, as “Moonlight Serenade” faded out and cut to a commercial. “This is your weekend update. Opening this weekend is the long awaited, highly anticipated drama In the Court of the King, Dorian Nabokov’s forth full-length show.  Sure to garner both financial success and critical acclaim, the premiere is sold out and scheduled to play at the West End Theatre, Saturday.”

        “Mr. Nabokov, for the last time: I’m not giving you quinine for your insomnia. You need natural sleep.” Dorian gazed in astonishment at Dr. Horáček. The deep black bags under his eyes contrasted so starkly with his insipid sickly skin. Hidden in the pale recesses of his face, two green orbs burned into his practitioner. His greasy black hair and wrinkled, soiled clothes made his desperation apparent. His gaze broke and his lips formed a crooked smile.

“If you insist, doctor.” , replied Dorian. Like a shell-shocked soldier, Dorian walked to his car. His head hit the steering wheel, and he broke forth in emotion.

       

        Dorian’s grimace turned to smile as he heard the radio. The announcer continued his adoration and then trailed off as his voice slipped behind the opening notes of “We’ll Meet Again”. Encouraged by a new sense of purpose, Dorian continued to write.

        As Dorian sat on the subway on his way back to his flat, whistling “Camp Town Races” , his eyes met the gaze of another man sitting across from him. “Still, haven’t got it, Dorian?” inquired the man, with a certain amount of confidence. Noticing Dorian’s bewildered visage and silence he continued, “Your final work. You still don’t think it will be enough. You still don’t know. I hate to tell you, but you never will.” 

        “Excuse me…” , Dorian replied.

        “Well, old sport, you never are satisfied with your work. Even when you get five stars and awards, you scour the paper for the one bloke who writes it was mediocre. You take the show off the stage and destroy the script. (the latter of which was a private ritual for Dorian, so I hope you may appreciate why he was so dumbfounded when the man—who’s name you’ll learn shortly—said this).  I do pity you though. I will grant you this.”, said the enigmatic figure as he handed a radio to Dorian. “That radio is mine. Because it would likely confuse you and anyone reading this account, we’ll just say it’s “special”. It allows you to play any broadcast from the future. These dials adjust the date, and these one’s the station. You won’t be able to travel or live in the time that you listen to, but you can hear it. The train came to a halt and the man rose to leave. Remembering his manners, he turned to Dorian and pulled something from his pocket: a watch. “You tend to lose yourself thinking about the future; you forget the present, Dorian. Keep this on you.”



        Dorian sat in his study, as he had for weeks. His skin had grown pale. His clean-shaven skin was replaced by scraggly beard. Dorian had slept a mere six hours the last week. His frail, pitiful frame sank into his lounge chair even further. He swirled his glass of brandy and turned the radio up further. “Dorian Nabokov’s final show, In the Court of the King has received universal acclaim. Critics call the work the greatest masterpiece ever written.” Dorian smiled a sickly smile. He drowned himself in the sycophantic praise from the faceless future. He let their words fill his empty study and empty heart.

        Dorian stood on the empty stage, gazing at the directors. He opened his mouth and began: “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, so creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out out, brief candle. Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by and idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying: nothing. “

        The auditor looked him in the eyes, talked with his fellow directors, then turned back to Dorian. Mr. Nabokov, we suggest you try something else…writing perhaps. 

“We take you live to the final performance of the West End’s longest running show In the Court of the King.” Scene after scene passed and Dorian realized he was hearing his own thoughts now. Fragments of the play on the radio lay on his desk. Dorian then had a thought as the final scene came on: he would never experience this show, or rather would he ever.  His fingers with the precision of a ballet dancer tip-toeing across stage glided across his mahogany end table. He grasped his letter opener. As the final lines were spoken Dorian sank his head. A knife buried into his chest. While the applause of the crowd on the radio roared, Dorian smiled. He then thought of the gift he had received and reached into his coat pocket. His strength began failing and he looked at the pocket watch. He opened it. The face of the dial was a mirror, the interior of the locket a mirror as well. He looked at his face and smiled. He had done it. He closed the locket and taking his final breath noticed an inscription. “All time is all time. DN” The radio blared: “If he never achieved it while he was alive, the late Dorian Nabokov has created true perfection here tonight.”