I found and killed two more immortals this morning. Burned in the fireplace.
Basil Hallward, my predecessor, was a painter who treated his subjects using oils and canvas. But he always contended every painting captured far more of the painter than the subject.
Some American Indians believed cameras captured the subject’s soul.
But given the right artist and subject; the souls of each are equally bound forever in the process.
In my lifetime I have taken hundreds of such portraits, beginning in the late 19th century.
To recover whatever remains of my soul, I must find and destroy every image.
I think this particular story has a flaw–I think it assumes too much familiarity with The Picture of Dorian Gray. I tried to relieve that dependence, but–only partially successful? I dunno.
Photo/Prompt from 100WordStory.org: