Seven Deadly Sins: Envy...
Mar. 27th, 2020 10:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zarathrustra_inkIn my mind, I would like to start this with "It was a dark and stormy night", but to do that would mean I would like to dance around what brought us to this place. It would mean I'm pissing on our history and that is not the case at all. Quite the contrary, actually.
Our history began almost a hundred years ago on the dead end of a long, narrow dirt road. Our house is two stories high with seven rooms. As this story unfolds, you'll come to find how fitting this was. The first owner was how I came to be. Johnathan something or nother. As time has gone on, his name has grown shorter and shorter. Soon, Johnathan Whoever He Is will be nothing more than a letter. Probably not even a J, but that's not the point. He was the first owner. He built this house for his lover, Simon Trask. I still remember Simon's last name because was my vessel. Without Simon, there would be no me. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. You can be the judge of that.
The day Johnathan nailed down the final nail, he sent for Simon. What Johnathan didn't count on was Simon had already settled down with someone else. Not only was Simon tucked away in the real world, his world came with a wife and kids and no room for Johnathan.
"I built this for you... And for what?!"
Next thing I knew, Simon was on the floor and I existed. I stood over Simon for the longest of times, wondering what it meant to be brought into a strange new world. Johnathan buried Simon in front of a tall, Oak tree. I wish he had not done that. Him doing that trapped me here and here is not where I wanted to be. As for Johnathan, the forty seven times he stabbed Simon had to be washed away quickly. He scrubbed day in and day out for six days and on the seventh day, he rested. You know... Like God. Only darker.
As time went on, Johnathan became depressed over what he had done to Simon. Each day, he would sit under the tree and sob over a pint of vodka. He would beat the ground screaming "Why?!" as if the answer wasn't as simple as him keeping his hands to himself. I'm not sure how but somehow these late night sessions inspired him to bring home Jerry. Jerry, with his perfect cheekbones and smoldering good looks. Jerry, whose relationship with his reflection meant more to him than his fling with Johnathan. It didn't take long for him to join Simon under the oak tree.
What I didn't count on was a tall, statuesque beauty to appear after the twenty-second jab through Jerry's stomache. She had these legs that seemingly went on forever. For what felt like an eternity, she stood still, watching Johnathan continue to stab an already deceased shell. Long, flowing purple hair swept across her back as she turned, finally noticing me.
"Who are you?"
My immediate reaction was to claim I had no idea as I shook her hand but "Envy" was what popped out instead. Envy. Was that who I was?
"Vanity."
And that's how it happened. One by one, they appeared as Johnathan turned the loving foundation he built for he and Simon into a house of horrors. Days turned to weeks and on they went until years had faded into decades. In that time, Vanity and I were joined by Avarice, Gluttony and Sloth.
Then came Marisol. She wasn't like any woman who had stepped into the home either. This woman didn't walk. She floated from one part of the house to the next, leaving a trail of sensuality in her wake. None of us understood why she was there because Johnathan was pushing eighty-eight and all he ever brought home were men. She would talk to him like he was a baby in a carriage somewhere. And then there was the word that was vibrating through the walls: “Bride.”
"I wonder how she's going to go out." Sloth said lazily. He was sitting on the floor, bundled up in a heavy coat; his shield from the rest us. He didn't so much as glance in their direction and as I had come to learn, that wasn't about to change. Sloth was just a piece of decoration in our little piece of purgatory. He didn't do more than he was asked, if he did what he was asked for that matter.
"He's too old for all that stabbing." Vanity pointed out. This was our lives. We lived to observe whatever vessel Johnathan lured into his home only to welcome a new... Whatever we were.
Again, time passed with us observing this woman. Watching. Waiting. Wondering why she was there.
"I figured it out!" Avarice proclaimed one day. He wore a business suit and black trimmed glasses that he was constantly pushing up the bridge of his nose. On the day he arrived, when asked why he wore such uncomfortable clothing, he just shrugged and replied: "Why are you wearing a... what are you wearing anyway?"
I had no idea why I was wearing an emerald dress comprised of shredded fabric. To be honest, I had no idea why I cared what he wore. Avarice was annoying. More annoying than Sloth and that was saying something.
"She's poisoning him." He clapped his hands excitedly.
"I don't know what you're so excited about. She's doing it through the food!" Gluttony exclaimed in dismay. "Envy, do something!"
I couldn't wait to hear this. "Like what?"
"I don't know." Gluttony was stressful. No matter what we had figured out about our current situation, it was never enough. He wanted more. He was itching to reach out and touch something. Not that I could blame him.
It was a cold, winter day when Johnathan Whoever he Was drew his final breath. He was standing in the kitchen, back gnarled with old age, stirring tea in a slightly dusty China cup. His fingers rippled with arthritis and yet, he was in mid-stir when the poison finally caught up with him. His eyes disappeared to the back of his head and he stumbled backwards. He scrambled to catch hold of the wall, but there was nothing to be done. He crumpled to the floor like a pile of clothes, straining for the right to his last moments. Meanwhile, upstairs, as she did every day, Marisol sat in a chair in front of the mirror, applying blood red lipstick to her lips. She smiled at her reflection before heading to her walk-in closet to select the perfect “I’m mourning my husband who just dropped dead from mysterious circumstances” garment. It was a black shimmery number with a barely legal plunging neckline. The town’s lips would be wagging over her choice, but did she care? Did she care indeed… I looked on, wondering how it would look draped across my shoulders were it in my size.
“Um, what’s that?!” Vanity’s scream shook my attention away from Marisol. I was about to reprimand her for always being so dramatic when I saw the thick, black clouds forming above our heads. The lack of color we inhabited everyday was replaced with blackness. We scattered but, there was nothing to hide behind. We could see through all the furniture. From the clouds, the glowing red tip of a cigarette appeared first. Second, a pair of angry, red eyes. When the rest of him emerged, he sneered down at us in a glare of judgement before acknowledging anyone’s presence.
"Oh, this is rich." He bellowed, laughing. He flicked the cigarette to the floor and ground out the tiny ember with the heel of his shoe.
We scrutinized him, our reactions equally confused and intrigued. Who was this dark cloud?
Vanity motioned for Gluttony to approach him, but he shook his head hard and firm. Which, for him, was a vast improvement. This left me to volunteer as tribute because suddenly Avarice could not see nor hear and Sloth had all but evaporated. I half expected him to throw Vanity in front of him as a shield for how tightly he was huddled behind her skirts.
“W- Who-”
“Shh. Shh. Watch this.” He didn't even look at me.
I turned to where Marisol was now standing over Johnathan Whoever He Was’ body. Her face was dry as a bone. She had not one tear to spare for her husband. Carelessly, she stepped over him. She ran her fingers through her hair as she leaned against the counter, wondering which spot on the grounds would attract the least amount of attention. She was daydreaming about the old oak tree when she reached back to pick up the China cup Johnathan was stirring only moments before. She smiled at the aroma. The tea had not been for him. It was for her. It was her favorite: Butterfly Pea Herbal Tea. He’d already stirred in the lemon, transforming it to a light purple just like she liked. She shrugged coldly and tilted the cup to her red lips. Down to the last drop she swallowed, her eyes narrowed in an annoyed fashion at the body on the floor. She was halfway up the stairs when it caught hold of her.
She gasped desperately as realization twisted through her face. She wasn't the only one dabbling in poison. She couldn't speak but there was no need. With her left hand, she clutched her throat. With the right, she reached helplessly for the handrail, but to no avail. She tumbled step after step until she crashed to the bottom, her head dangling from the last. Blood dripped from her open mouth, staining the snowy white carpet that Johnathan Whoever He Was had chosen specifically for Simon years ago.
Our mysterious guest rubbed his hands together. Again, I struggled at my relationship with basic communication and again, he shushed me before I could gather a syllable or two together.
Within seconds, seemingly miles upon miles of sheer red fabric spun through the air between us all. When it settled, a red, glittery, high heeled shoe stepped forward, leading another pair of red eyes but these were different... These were sensual and reflected mischievious intentions into each of our eyes. She towered above us all, worse than the dark cloud who was glaring at her unblinkingly, drinking in how her red hair cascaded across her face though there was no wind. Or maybe that was what I was looking at. Her appearance breathed new life into the area. Sloth slinked from behind Vanity, but he made sure to stay within ducking distance. Gluttony, as always, could not control himself but this time, it was different. He all but knocked Avarice across the room to get to her. I was there everyday and he’d never thrown anyone anywhere to see my face. "Who are you?" I was surprised he didn’t slip and drown in a puddle of his own drool.
She reached out and ran a red nailed finger down one of his ample chins. He blushed and backed away. Avarice, for once, not pausing to fiddle with his glasses, glanced from the dark cloud to the red… Whatever she was before trying the safer looking of the two. "Who the hell are you?" He demanded. Again, she moved towards the speaker and again, she made a seductive motion with her hand. Only Avarice was having none of it. He grabbed her hand mid-air. A silky smile slithered across her lips.
Red eyelashes swept snowy cheeks in a blink. Before her lips could part, the dark cloud tapped Avarice on the arm. Avarice cowered as if he would have given anything to melt into the floor. Instead he did a shaky little bow and back away from the newcomers. They stood toe to toe, staring down one another, neither giving in. Finally, the dark cloud reached out and placed his hand on her bare, milky white shoulder. “She’s Lust.” His voice was barely a whisper but we heard it all the same.
“Then who the hell are you?” I finally choked out.
The others gawked at me then past me; searching desperately for a nonexistent exit strategy. His gaze still planted on the woman he had called Lust, he replied: “I am Wrath.”
No one dared asked why.
As time dragged forward, our identities began to merge with the rooms of the house. This had never happened before. There were no bars and yet, I could not walk past the open door and neither could they. My room, my new prison, was draped in beautiful emerald green from top to bottom. As always, we could see through everything so why couldn't we leave our rooms? I stood in the middle of the floor, waiting for answers to questions I did not know how to ask to find me.
Seven rooms...
The irony.
For once, there was nothing in this world that I could find to be envious of.
Our history began almost a hundred years ago on the dead end of a long, narrow dirt road. Our house is two stories high with seven rooms. As this story unfolds, you'll come to find how fitting this was. The first owner was how I came to be. Johnathan something or nother. As time has gone on, his name has grown shorter and shorter. Soon, Johnathan Whoever He Is will be nothing more than a letter. Probably not even a J, but that's not the point. He was the first owner. He built this house for his lover, Simon Trask. I still remember Simon's last name because was my vessel. Without Simon, there would be no me. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. You can be the judge of that.
The day Johnathan nailed down the final nail, he sent for Simon. What Johnathan didn't count on was Simon had already settled down with someone else. Not only was Simon tucked away in the real world, his world came with a wife and kids and no room for Johnathan.
"I built this for you... And for what?!"
Next thing I knew, Simon was on the floor and I existed. I stood over Simon for the longest of times, wondering what it meant to be brought into a strange new world. Johnathan buried Simon in front of a tall, Oak tree. I wish he had not done that. Him doing that trapped me here and here is not where I wanted to be. As for Johnathan, the forty seven times he stabbed Simon had to be washed away quickly. He scrubbed day in and day out for six days and on the seventh day, he rested. You know... Like God. Only darker.
As time went on, Johnathan became depressed over what he had done to Simon. Each day, he would sit under the tree and sob over a pint of vodka. He would beat the ground screaming "Why?!" as if the answer wasn't as simple as him keeping his hands to himself. I'm not sure how but somehow these late night sessions inspired him to bring home Jerry. Jerry, with his perfect cheekbones and smoldering good looks. Jerry, whose relationship with his reflection meant more to him than his fling with Johnathan. It didn't take long for him to join Simon under the oak tree.
What I didn't count on was a tall, statuesque beauty to appear after the twenty-second jab through Jerry's stomache. She had these legs that seemingly went on forever. For what felt like an eternity, she stood still, watching Johnathan continue to stab an already deceased shell. Long, flowing purple hair swept across her back as she turned, finally noticing me.
"Who are you?"
My immediate reaction was to claim I had no idea as I shook her hand but "Envy" was what popped out instead. Envy. Was that who I was?
"Vanity."
And that's how it happened. One by one, they appeared as Johnathan turned the loving foundation he built for he and Simon into a house of horrors. Days turned to weeks and on they went until years had faded into decades. In that time, Vanity and I were joined by Avarice, Gluttony and Sloth.
Then came Marisol. She wasn't like any woman who had stepped into the home either. This woman didn't walk. She floated from one part of the house to the next, leaving a trail of sensuality in her wake. None of us understood why she was there because Johnathan was pushing eighty-eight and all he ever brought home were men. She would talk to him like he was a baby in a carriage somewhere. And then there was the word that was vibrating through the walls: “Bride.”
"I wonder how she's going to go out." Sloth said lazily. He was sitting on the floor, bundled up in a heavy coat; his shield from the rest us. He didn't so much as glance in their direction and as I had come to learn, that wasn't about to change. Sloth was just a piece of decoration in our little piece of purgatory. He didn't do more than he was asked, if he did what he was asked for that matter.
"He's too old for all that stabbing." Vanity pointed out. This was our lives. We lived to observe whatever vessel Johnathan lured into his home only to welcome a new... Whatever we were.
Again, time passed with us observing this woman. Watching. Waiting. Wondering why she was there.
"I figured it out!" Avarice proclaimed one day. He wore a business suit and black trimmed glasses that he was constantly pushing up the bridge of his nose. On the day he arrived, when asked why he wore such uncomfortable clothing, he just shrugged and replied: "Why are you wearing a... what are you wearing anyway?"
I had no idea why I was wearing an emerald dress comprised of shredded fabric. To be honest, I had no idea why I cared what he wore. Avarice was annoying. More annoying than Sloth and that was saying something.
"She's poisoning him." He clapped his hands excitedly.
"I don't know what you're so excited about. She's doing it through the food!" Gluttony exclaimed in dismay. "Envy, do something!"
I couldn't wait to hear this. "Like what?"
"I don't know." Gluttony was stressful. No matter what we had figured out about our current situation, it was never enough. He wanted more. He was itching to reach out and touch something. Not that I could blame him.
It was a cold, winter day when Johnathan Whoever he Was drew his final breath. He was standing in the kitchen, back gnarled with old age, stirring tea in a slightly dusty China cup. His fingers rippled with arthritis and yet, he was in mid-stir when the poison finally caught up with him. His eyes disappeared to the back of his head and he stumbled backwards. He scrambled to catch hold of the wall, but there was nothing to be done. He crumpled to the floor like a pile of clothes, straining for the right to his last moments. Meanwhile, upstairs, as she did every day, Marisol sat in a chair in front of the mirror, applying blood red lipstick to her lips. She smiled at her reflection before heading to her walk-in closet to select the perfect “I’m mourning my husband who just dropped dead from mysterious circumstances” garment. It was a black shimmery number with a barely legal plunging neckline. The town’s lips would be wagging over her choice, but did she care? Did she care indeed… I looked on, wondering how it would look draped across my shoulders were it in my size.
“Um, what’s that?!” Vanity’s scream shook my attention away from Marisol. I was about to reprimand her for always being so dramatic when I saw the thick, black clouds forming above our heads. The lack of color we inhabited everyday was replaced with blackness. We scattered but, there was nothing to hide behind. We could see through all the furniture. From the clouds, the glowing red tip of a cigarette appeared first. Second, a pair of angry, red eyes. When the rest of him emerged, he sneered down at us in a glare of judgement before acknowledging anyone’s presence.
"Oh, this is rich." He bellowed, laughing. He flicked the cigarette to the floor and ground out the tiny ember with the heel of his shoe.
We scrutinized him, our reactions equally confused and intrigued. Who was this dark cloud?
Vanity motioned for Gluttony to approach him, but he shook his head hard and firm. Which, for him, was a vast improvement. This left me to volunteer as tribute because suddenly Avarice could not see nor hear and Sloth had all but evaporated. I half expected him to throw Vanity in front of him as a shield for how tightly he was huddled behind her skirts.
“W- Who-”
“Shh. Shh. Watch this.” He didn't even look at me.
I turned to where Marisol was now standing over Johnathan Whoever He Was’ body. Her face was dry as a bone. She had not one tear to spare for her husband. Carelessly, she stepped over him. She ran her fingers through her hair as she leaned against the counter, wondering which spot on the grounds would attract the least amount of attention. She was daydreaming about the old oak tree when she reached back to pick up the China cup Johnathan was stirring only moments before. She smiled at the aroma. The tea had not been for him. It was for her. It was her favorite: Butterfly Pea Herbal Tea. He’d already stirred in the lemon, transforming it to a light purple just like she liked. She shrugged coldly and tilted the cup to her red lips. Down to the last drop she swallowed, her eyes narrowed in an annoyed fashion at the body on the floor. She was halfway up the stairs when it caught hold of her.
She gasped desperately as realization twisted through her face. She wasn't the only one dabbling in poison. She couldn't speak but there was no need. With her left hand, she clutched her throat. With the right, she reached helplessly for the handrail, but to no avail. She tumbled step after step until she crashed to the bottom, her head dangling from the last. Blood dripped from her open mouth, staining the snowy white carpet that Johnathan Whoever He Was had chosen specifically for Simon years ago.
Our mysterious guest rubbed his hands together. Again, I struggled at my relationship with basic communication and again, he shushed me before I could gather a syllable or two together.
Within seconds, seemingly miles upon miles of sheer red fabric spun through the air between us all. When it settled, a red, glittery, high heeled shoe stepped forward, leading another pair of red eyes but these were different... These were sensual and reflected mischievious intentions into each of our eyes. She towered above us all, worse than the dark cloud who was glaring at her unblinkingly, drinking in how her red hair cascaded across her face though there was no wind. Or maybe that was what I was looking at. Her appearance breathed new life into the area. Sloth slinked from behind Vanity, but he made sure to stay within ducking distance. Gluttony, as always, could not control himself but this time, it was different. He all but knocked Avarice across the room to get to her. I was there everyday and he’d never thrown anyone anywhere to see my face. "Who are you?" I was surprised he didn’t slip and drown in a puddle of his own drool.
She reached out and ran a red nailed finger down one of his ample chins. He blushed and backed away. Avarice, for once, not pausing to fiddle with his glasses, glanced from the dark cloud to the red… Whatever she was before trying the safer looking of the two. "Who the hell are you?" He demanded. Again, she moved towards the speaker and again, she made a seductive motion with her hand. Only Avarice was having none of it. He grabbed her hand mid-air. A silky smile slithered across her lips.
Red eyelashes swept snowy cheeks in a blink. Before her lips could part, the dark cloud tapped Avarice on the arm. Avarice cowered as if he would have given anything to melt into the floor. Instead he did a shaky little bow and back away from the newcomers. They stood toe to toe, staring down one another, neither giving in. Finally, the dark cloud reached out and placed his hand on her bare, milky white shoulder. “She’s Lust.” His voice was barely a whisper but we heard it all the same.
“Then who the hell are you?” I finally choked out.
The others gawked at me then past me; searching desperately for a nonexistent exit strategy. His gaze still planted on the woman he had called Lust, he replied: “I am Wrath.”
No one dared asked why.
As time dragged forward, our identities began to merge with the rooms of the house. This had never happened before. There were no bars and yet, I could not walk past the open door and neither could they. My room, my new prison, was draped in beautiful emerald green from top to bottom. As always, we could see through everything so why couldn't we leave our rooms? I stood in the middle of the floor, waiting for answers to questions I did not know how to ask to find me.
Seven rooms...
The irony.
For once, there was nothing in this world that I could find to be envious of.
