Note: this isn’t really a horror story, I guess. I was thinking more along the lines of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Still, I enjoyed writing it.
I saw my reflection one day staring back at me and thought that was a horror in itself. Where once I would practise kissing myself in the mirror or wink at myself as I walked passed, I have now begun to avoid my reflection like the plague. For I can see death in my every move and in my every rasping breath even though I am 23. You see, a wise man approached me on the sixth day of the new moon. He said that it was a particularly auspicious time: that I would soon gain what I sought. “But know this, young man: what you seek will come at a price.” Shrugging him off as a foolish man, I went about my day, yet I stumbled on fame, the likes of which I would never have achieved without some divine intervention. Someone offered me the world and who was I to refuse? But it did indeed come at a price, and I realised the wise man was not foolish as I had thought, for I aged a year for every fifteen minutes of fame I received. So I watched as I grew older and decided that this simply would not do; that I wanted to live forever like the Shakespeares and Picassos of this world. So here I am, immortalising myself. I would say goodbye, but I’m only just coming alive.