Fiction: Narcissus

By Thomas J. Misuraca
arttimesjournal October 27, 3020

It was the best selfie he’d ever taken. Everything about it was perfection. Not one strand of his blond hair was out of place. His eyebrows were perfectly formed. And the blue of his eyes sparkled like water on a tropical beach.

But it was his smile that was most attractive. It didn’t look forced or toothy. His lips curved like a crescent moon. It was a smile of confidence and caring.

His skin had never been clearer. Not a blemish, and no oily shine. The tone was nicely balanced, not too tanned or pale or flushed. The outdoor lighting made all the colors vivid. No filters needed.

The purple shirt he wore was a warm, pleasing color. He kept the top few buttons open, teasing his chest and a few wisps of his soft, dark chest hair.

How beautiful he was.

He posted it on all his sites: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snap Chat and TikTok. It got more likes and comments than any image he ever posted. But he didn’t need validation for this one.

It inspired him to finally change his profile pic on Linked-In. Everybody would want to hire this face to help plan their retirement.

He made the selfie the cover photo for all his electronic devices.

He was tempted to revisit those dating apps. This picture would attract women that weren’t beneath him.

But no images of women would spark joy in him as this likeness had. He burned with love for his own selfie.

He realized he could not have the beautiful creature in that image. But he could not pull himself away. He ceased leaving his house, bathing or eating. All he did was lean over the pool of pixels and pine away at himself. His eyes fixed in an endless gaze.

Only death could set him free. And so it would be.

He kissed his index and middle fingers and placed them on the mouth of his selfie. His dying words to his image were, “Peace out.”

His family printed the image and framed it. It sat on a mantel near his coffin. Strewn around it were the loveliest of daffodils.