On Narcissism
He was beautiful. The definition of a handsome white male. Chiseled body, wide frame, tousled red bed hair.
Harry Stylès was perfect, or so he thought. As he gazed lustfully into the dingy mirror of his single bedroom apartment, his beer glass forgotten on the kitchen table, Harry thought to himself, “All the girls will want a piece of this.”
Harry Stylès couldn’t be more wrong. Everyone he knew and didn’t know thought he was repulsive. A culmination of all that was rotten in the world.
His dingy red hair was the color of a bad rust. His skin the sickly pallor of a drunk man. It was burnt and covered in warts and pimples with puss oozing out of them. His stomach was comparable to the blubber rolls of a walrus.
If they saw his insides any doctor worth their salt would say he was rotten to the core. His lungs were blackened by years of smoking, his liver ready to fall apart from the heavy drinking, his heart covered in sheets of filth from decades of unhealthy eating.
If it’s even possible to say, his soul and personality, his very humanity was even more disgusting. He was an awful person who saw himself as an angel. The devil incarnate, but thought he was a prophet of God.
He hated everyone and everything, he was rude, nasty, spiteful, disgusting, foul, and so many words that don’t come close to scraping the surface of the horror that was Harry Stylès.
Now, once upon a time, he wasn’t so hateful, rotten, and ugly. He was a small sweet child like any other. He’d had rosy cheeks, a tanned complexion, fiery red hair, and a heart of gold. He’d smiled and laughed and made his parents with pride.
But then, those mean big kids, those awful older children, they ripped young Harry Stylès apart. They tore at his confidence, shredded his self image, until there was no way but up.
From the ashes of the sweet young boy came a grotesque new creature. His poor self esteem wove itself into him, mixing with his kind mother’s confidence boosters, until he was proud and haughty. He became the conceited and cruel man he now is, because when he fell into darkness, he crawled back out with a shard of that darkness piercing his heart.
Disclaimer:
I sincerely apologize to anyone who took this seriously. This short story is a commentary on narcissism and is in no way a reflection of my opinion on Harry Styles.
This is however a criticism on some of his fans. If you react extremely to this story, I’m talking about you. Harry Styles is a person, not an object, and he deserves the respect that should be afforded to any other human. This goes for all celebrities by the way, stop treating them like objects to be sexualized and disrespected.
Now that that’s over with, thank you for reading my story, if you would like to read more about Harry Stylès, please comment!
