Hans the Beauty

Hans looked at his face in the mirror. He liked what he saw. He loved what he saw. He felt invigorated by it and prideful. Hans had always been pleased with the reflection of his face, and had a growing interest in it, but he could no longer contain his enthusiasm for it. It was glorious. He turned his face from side to side, slowly surveying his bone structure from each angle.
"Flintrick, come here at once." said Hans to a passing Flintrick.
Flintrick came and stood before the magnificent reflection of Hans.
"Look at it."
"Yes?"
"It is perfection, yes?"
"What?"
Hans, transfixed, touched his finger to the spot on the mirror where his reflection was shown, and zoned out.
"This..." he muttered under his breath.
"The mirror? Pardon?" said Flintrick.
Hans said nothing, hypnotized.
"Well, I've got go." said Flintrick.

"Behold it!" Hans said to the world. He dominated conversations, never allowing discussions to stray far from the topic of his face.
"Thank goodness for my face, for what would the people enjoy, if not it?" he'd say.

Hans also believed himself the perfect gentleman. When he met new upper class patrons and duchesses, rather than kissing their fingers, or shaking their hands, he would bow his head into their hand and allow them to caress. He felt he was being generous.
"You may touch my face." he would say.
"Oh..." many would say, with composed confusion.

He'd no interest in using his hands for general activity, only his face. One would think he'd be more protective of his asset, but the sensitivity one feels in hands, he preferred to experience at the touch of his cheeks and closed eyes. It was sensual.

Hans went everywhere, extending his neck in public places, allowing his face to catch the light, hoping for more adequate appreciation for his glistening beauty. He refused to believe his face wasn't getting the attention that it wasn't getting.
"Everyone loves it." He told himself.

He knew in his heart, his face was a blessing to all, and acted accordingly. Yet, what he could not understand was that, while relatively appreciated in his public circles, he was not pored over and beheld in the manner he saw most fitting. He required constant stares, the stopping of traffic, the holding of breath. He deserved it.

Hans' confused infuriation began to grow. Not yet fully blossomed, it clashed with his beauty.

One day, he gazed in the mirror, the finest mirror money could buy, illuminating his face with moody oil lamps. He examined the sleek curves of his lips and cheeks for the thousandth time, as the flame light tinkled about the room.
"Pleasure. Exquisite pleasure..." he whispered to his face's reflection. His vain ecstasy turned to a frustrated fury boil. Where was his reward?
"Why do they deny us the worship, we are entitled!?" He exploded, as he pounded his fist on the vanity table. The rattle of the fist pound caused a tip of the oil lamp, causing a spill of oil atop the lamp's flame, igniting a larger flame into Hans' beautiful face. His face burned and burned and burned.

He spent months in recovery, covered in bandages. When he awoke he had blocked out what happened. His brain clung to his mental state prior to the accident.
"I'm beauty. I define it." he told his doctors and friends.
"Very true..." They responded.

Hans' brain was in denial that he was a frightful and hideous victim of burn. Therefore, he still believed himself deserving of the most vigilant and immediate recognition. And it came more than ever. Anywhere he went he was met with stares of disbelief. His life was complete.

On his deathbed he finally coped with the accident that had long ago destroyed his face, and that the stares he received were not gazes of enchantment, but fixes of terror. This revelation gave him a heart attack, then he died.