Oscar Wilde burst the doors of his en-suite bedroom wide open, his eyes red and watered, legs tired and shaking from a day of slogging around courts in persuasion of his innocence. He collapsed onto his four-poster bed, lost in thought, as he began to rip the fine embroidered linen he wore from his pale body until it was bare. He buried himself in the safety of his white sheets, the glimmering light from the window rippling through like mayonnaise on a chicken salad.
Oscar clasped his eyes shut as his body receded into a small husk; his arms wrapped around his legs, his red face buried, rocking back and forth as his mind wandered into the deep crevices of his utmost desires. Tears crawled down his cheeks, as his arms became flippers, his legs webbed feet, his bedroom the icy oceans of the Antarctic Ocean. Gasping for air, he ruffled his sheets, emerging from his delusion. “Noot-noot!” he cried to the ceiling. He gazed at his hands in agony. He was once again what he most loathed being. A Human. Puny. Small, insignificant, and now liable for a crime devastating for a man of his stature. Sodomy.
Only a few weeks ago, he was an acclaimed playwright, a budding novelist, and a ruling vogueish figure in his own little circle of aristocratic aesthetes. Now, his reputation had been tarnished by the family of his own lover. His little world was now well aware of what he truly was. A homosexual. A purveyor of Greek love, and a degenerate. The public could no longer be swayed towards him in face of this scandal. I mean, with sodomy in question, what other unholy desires could he have? He rolled out of bed and stood up, realizing how much of a mess his appearance was probably in.
Hastily, he slipped on his silk nightshirt and dragged himself to his bathroom, his focus devoted to the mirror in front of him, whose edges were decorated in precious jewels and rarities. He gripped onto the sinks edge, the reflection in front of him beginning to morph into a Claymation penguin, with a big red beak smiling and waving back at him, waiting for him to reach in and join him inside of his picturesque universe. Narrowly obscured in the looking glasses landscape, appeared to be a small igloo, and a family of winsome penguins laughing and chattering merrily.
A bang on the door awoke him from his wallowing. “OSCAR!” a voice yelled, the banging grower louder. Oscar huffed before stomping out of the bathroom to the main foyer, he swung the front door wide open in an irritated haste. His lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, known only to Oscar as “Bosie” stood in the doorway, holding a jar of open mayonnaise in his right hand pompously. Bosie’s face dropped the second he saw the state his lover was in. “Oscar…” The two men rushed over to sit on the four-poster together, as Oscar began to bawl. Bosie squeezed his darling close, comforting his lover in the way he knew best. “Use your words, Oscar. Use your words.” He repeated solemnly into Oscar's ear.
“I am a simple man, Bosie. I wish for two things and two things only.” Oscar sobbed. “To be Pingu the penguin, waddling across the Antarctic ice in search of adventure, love, and fulfillment. And...” Oscar choked on his tears, causing the two men to embrace closer. “To be with you!” Oscar spluttered out. “I’d throw my whole world out for you, and for you only Bosie. Your antics bring me life. You heal me. Every minute I spend in your presence is a blessing from the gods above. I love you, and I need you like a penguin needs his daily ration of fish.”
Bosie stared at Oscar as they embraced, completely lost for words. “Oscar…” he cleared his throat. “I might not entirely understand your desires. You are a playwright. An artist. An aesthete, and an aristocrat. I believe these delusions of yours have been fueled out of a need to escape from our current situation.” He gulped. “Although, adventuring to the southern peaks of the icy Antarctic may yield us inspiration for our writing, the logistics of the quest seems completely out of our expertise, not to mention the current chains around us due to our legal situation.” Bosie took a deep breath as Oscar whimpered.
“But I know how it feels to not pertain within your own body, to have issues with your own mind. To have quandary over your own soul can drain a man of his livelihood.” Oscar stared at the floor blankly. Bosie continued. “Together, in another life hopefully, I also wish to swim with you in the great blue expanse of Antarctica freely. Yet in this life alone, let us take pleasure in the fact that we have met, and are in the presence of each other’s company concurrently.” Oscar looked up and into his beloved’s eyes, his lips turning into a trifling smile.
“Look at this!” Bosie remarked, holding the jar of open mayonnaise to the two men’s eye levels, stirring the off-white concoction with a silver spoon ritualistically. “Can’t you see how the oil and the vinegar and the egg white swirl together to create its own little delicious composite? Any man could make this. From a peasant worker, to an upperclassman. It’s a tale told from napkins and charcoal. A dream made of rags and bones. A tundra made of mayonnaise. A world for the two of us to build on our own with only the material that surrounds us. A world for me and you.” He grabbed onto Oscar’s hand, squeezing it tightly. He smiled right back at him. Oscar bit his lip nervously shuffling closer to his partner; “Bosie?” he stated. “Pardon?” replied Bosie, looking up from his jar.“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I love you more.”
“Impossible.” Bosie replied, as the two men collapsed into each other’s bodies, waiting for the night to end.
