Narcissus
Fell under the spell of a lunatic magician. Its steely gaze was absolutely mesmerizing, like a crystal pendulum swinging back and forth on a white chain of wall. Within its magical gaze, every image imaginable could be reflected, a fantasyland filled with water nymphs hidden just under the surface. I heard the calls of those maidens, beautiful and seductive, whispering my name, beckoning me to come closer to the edge of their pool. No one else could see the lovely spirits but me, invisible women in the prime of their youth, charming me with voluptuous promises and quaint, childlike natures. But everyone knows the typical behavior of children-energetic, with no social boundaries, no stereotypes to fall victim to, no appeals to make to judgmental peers. They live their existence in a shallow pond of bliss, these fair maids I see, dreaming cute little quintessential thoughts about adulthood without interference.
Being enchanted by such a vibrant attitude blinded me to their split personality. Separated my identity. Invoked severe dualism like banshees screaming a wicked chant. A well-known cliché comes to mind, the one that goes, "Appearances can be deceiving." They sure can be. Especially in this case, surrounded by a group of Ladies of the Lake, all smiling warmly at me and striking inviting poses. But I know better. Of course I do. Catching glints of cold steel behind their backs allows me to.
That's the air I inhale from their alluring breaths. A mischievous one. A naughtily playful attitude that corners me, even though my place has so much open space that it resembles a Zen Garden. Can't fight the absolute need to surrender to their voices. They make haunting alter-egos, ghosts from my past that keep stalking me in waking hours. They're here because I never resisted their self-destructive words, phrases laced with sugar and poison, honey and vinegar, soda and cyanide. They're here because I can't rid myself of them, the dark, schizophrenic secrets that we and only we alone know. Most of all, they're here because I allow it. I let them be here, let them take over my life, let them pull me into their watery grave to suffocate like an angel fish choked by salty seaweed. That is what I want, that is what I chose: to sleep forever in a bed of suicide, nestled in the arms of girls that weren't really girls at all, but different parts of myself that had been drowned out by my obsession.
Can't pull away from their grasp. They're just too strong, too strong, too damned hurt and in pain and strong that I have no choice but to listen to what they say. What's that, my vengeful vixens? You wish to play? I suppose I can afford to indulge in my dreams anyways. Their dreams. Our demented dreams. Come; grab my wrists so that I can join you. Join you in your diabolical synchronized dance. Join you in your voyage to oblivion, where image is everything, character is nothing, and happiness is a dream for a healthy me I'll never see. The mirror I was so fond of-worshipped more than any religious deity-has betrayed me. My body is not the Narcissus it once was. It is now just as ugly and vile as the women in the water, starved, undernourished, and stuck in my legend-turned-case file, narrated by a therapist who will twist my story into such bad literature that no one will want to read it.