The Glass Pool: Decay of Narcissus

 

I knelt by the pool, its surface smooth as glass and darker than the night sky. My reflection stared back at me, unblinking, almost too perfect—as though it had been painted, each detail more deliberate than life itself. The light filtered through the trees above, dappling my skin with golden freckles, but it was the reflection that shimmered more brightly, more beautifully.

The air around the clearing was thick, syrupy, pressing into my skin like invisible hands. It wasn’t just warm; it was intimate, like the caress of a lover who knows every inch of you, every secret. I told myself I came here out of curiosity, out of the whispers I’d heard about this cursed water, but I knew better. I was drawn to it—not by the tales but by me.

The reflection smiled.

I hadn’t moved.

I wanted to touch it then, to test the surface with my fingers, but fear rooted me in place. There was something in the eyes of the reflection—something deeper, darker, hungrier. It wasn’t just my face. It was my face, magnified, heightened. Every flaw I knew I carried was absent here. My jaw sharper, my lips fuller, my hair a cascade of molten gold instead of the pale straw I so often dismissed.

This is what they see when they look at you, the water seemed to say. This is what they want.

My hand moved before I could stop it, grazing the surface. It felt warm, almost electric, a pulse shooting up my arm, straight to my chest. My breath hitched, and for a moment, I swore I felt a heartbeat under my skin that wasn’t mine.

“Beautiful,” the reflection said. The sound wasn’t audible, but I heard it, a whisper behind my ears, a voice that didn’t need air or words.

“I know,” I whispered back, my voice trembling. And I did. I always knew. Others had told me, their voices awash with admiration, envy, longing. But now, hearing it from my own lips—or the reflection’s—it felt different. It felt... alive.

The reflection leaned closer, its movement rippling the water slightly, but the image stayed whole. Its lips parted as if to kiss me, and I felt the pool’s warmth spread up my arms, curling around my shoulders, pressing against my neck. It wasn’t water; it was something alive, something that knew me better than I knew myself.

And I wanted it. Gods help me, I wanted it.

The reflection tilted its head, its smile curling wider. “You could have this,” it whispered. “All of this. Forever.”

The words sank into me like hooks, their barbs sweetened with honey. I didn’t understand what it meant, not fully, but the idea of keeping this perfection—this beauty that was mine but also more than mine—was intoxicating. For the first time, I felt my own beauty, truly felt it, not as something others admired but as something alive, something radiant.

I leaned closer, my lips brushing the surface of the water, and felt the reflection move. It didn’t ripple or distort; it pressed back against me, meeting me halfway, and the warmth surged through my body like fire.

But then, for the faintest moment, I saw something else.

The reflection’s lips cracked as they met mine, tiny fissures running through them, black and sharp. The perfect skin shimmered with light, but just beneath it, something dark writhed—a shadow, a decay. My breath caught, and I pulled back sharply, the water snapping back into stillness.

“No,” the reflection whispered, its voice still soft, still sweet. “Don’t leave me.”

I stared at it, my heart pounding, and saw it now—the faintest trace of rot beneath the surface, hidden but growing. It was still beautiful, still perfect, but that perfection felt... wrong. Unnatural.

I stumbled to my feet, my body shaking, but the warmth lingered. It clung to me, seeping into my skin, my bones. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the pool, from the face that stared back at me with longing. It didn’t look afraid; it looked confident, knowing, as though it could sense what was happening to me even before I could.

Because as I stepped back, I felt it: a tightness in my chest, a pulse in my veins that didn’t feel like mine. My skin glowed faintly in the fading sunlight, not with the healthy flush of life but with something sharper, brighter, unnatural.

And though I left the clearing, I couldn’t leave the reflection behind. It followed me, in every shadow, every mirror, every polished surface. It stared back at me, its smile growing wider, its perfection more vivid, its decay more hidden.

And the worst part?

I wanted to go back.

I wanted to see it again, to feel the warmth, to taste the perfection that was both mine and not mine. I wanted to kiss it again, even if it meant drowning in that glass pool.

Because the reflection wasn’t just me.

It was what I could be.

It was everything I ever wanted. And it was everything that would destroy me.