The Seven Deadly Vignettes

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Max Prudhomme

The Seven Deadly Vignettes There’s a room. A room made of mirrors like the one you would find at a circus or fair. You are in this room. Your reflections are striking you at odd angles. You can’t find a way out. Frantically you are looking for an exit, an escape, anything. You are trapped, you don’t know what to do, you keep trying but it’s no use. Then, suddenly you see a light from one of the mirrors at the far end of the room. It’s you and you look amazing. The reflection starts talking, boasting about false accomplishments. You stare at yourself, entranced, thinking of yourself as the greatest man to have ever walked this planet. You overdose on your sense of self-admiration, as you just stare, nothing else. You hear your voice the voice of a person who knows what he wants. A deep voice but also smooth as silk that isn’t afraid to say anything. You laugh, a powerful, deep laugh at how proud you are. Your face looks as if it were carved from stone, chiseled by the great Michelangelo himself. No, you are better, much better. Everyone knows you have done so much with your life. Suddenly the picture starts to gray and pale. Your face becomes wrinkled as crows feet reach towards the edge of your eyes. Your hair turns a ghostly shade of white. Where are you? How long has it been? You don’t know. You realize that it was all fake, that pride was playing a cruel joke on you. You drop to the floor, you’re old and your life was wasted. You sob uncontrollably, there’s nothing for you. You’re trapped. Now you are in a bed. This bed is unlike any other. It’s huge, as far as your eyes can see. In the distance you see a woman, a woman that fits what you’ve always imagined for Lust can take the form of your deepest physical desires. You feel like you’re in a dream, but this is real, very real. Lust glides over to you, toying with you. Taunting is what

Max Prudhomme it knows best, but you don’t care, how could you? Then, putting its hand on your shoulder, kisses you. This gives you a deep desire as if you dropped off the deep end of self-control. You don’t care you just want this person. Then, a gut-bursting sting in your back ends it all. The fluid pain is oozing from a wound in your back. Lust smiles, for it has deceived you like it has deceived the best. You drop to your knees and look up. Lust has stabbed you in the back. With your last breath you have an overwhelming sense of betrayal and it is the worst feeling ever. Stop. Imagine you’re in a house. It would be a fairly nice looking house if it weren’t covered in filth. Decayed matter, trash, dirt and shit cover the area of the house. The smell is overwhelming and you vomit immediately. You see a man sleeping on the couch, and by the looks of him, is the owner. This large mass of a man is covered in his own filth. At first glance you would think he were a giant concentration of debris. You trudge your way through the mounds of garbage. You try eagerly to wake the man, trying to ask him how to get out. He wakes up, enraged, “WHY DO YOU WAKE ME?” he demands in a deep that sounds like it hasn’t been used in a very long time. His breath has putrid odor that gives you chills down your spine. You tell him in a diminutive voice you are very sorry, and ask him how to get out of this stink hole. He doesn’t care because he doesn’t understand why you would wake him from his lazy slumber. He doesn’t listen to you because he doesn’t care and it isn’t his concern then he lazily drifts on back to sleep. You look around the house trying to find a way out but there’s so much stuff you’re afraid you’ll get lost in this house forever. You get light headed from the disgusting smell of the place. You look frantically, but you find yourself getting very woozy. Slowly you start to lose

Max Prudhomme consciousness because you come to the realization that this house has no ventilation, no doors and no windows. Then you drop into a pile of, who knows what. Now imagine you wake up dumbfounded gazing upon one mans every desire. With further inspection you come to find the story that makes this towers intricate design. Every step you take you hear a cry, intrigued with a glance below the scene sets before your eyes, an abyss filled to the brim with mankind, thrashing and convulsing with writhing hope. Their blood, sweat, and tears creating a moat, above the ground as malnourished as they. In the center, ridden and demolished a fountain far forgotten, a youth neglected so that this desire could be granted. Above this decrepit fountain is a plain of bodies aimlessly tossed aside, forever questioning the meaning of worth with other lost souls wandering for eternity hoping to find some reason for their miserable lives. These people only holding on with hope make a layer of unrequited love, forever required to bear the weight of hoards of expendable waste. Atop this tower, is where lies the man of the hour, Greed in the purest form, pretentiously adorned, accompanied by his sly scepter filled with deception his most valuable tool. The latest breed of over indulgence, more fulfilling than ever before, an impulse that you wont dare ignore. Sitting on his throne, towering above you always craving more. His immorality masked by the deity created through your corruption and fear. It’s no secret how he got to his post. Pride, who is his right hand man, guides him the way. His loyal “degenerates” lay below giving him room to boast. He is the one who spawned imperialism and tyranny out of his cesspool of ignorance. His followers wait eagerly to take the blame, forever entrapped in infamy. His breath reeks of money and his face wrinkled as a prune. Greed’s sharp tongue and quick whit has been deceiving man since the

Max Prudhomme dawn of time. You are face to face with this man but can never meet his eyes. These eyes are blind to poverty, suffering and demise, seeing only things he can fantasize. You not only see this man, but his son. Conceived from Lust and Greed, Envy, quite the assertive performer, a fabricated plaster reproduction of his father struggling, sweat pouring out every pore, trying as hard as he can to claim his fathers throne, attempting to recreate his every stone. He climbs over many poor souls and knocks them down to the bottom, never looking back, for one must have a spine for such effect. Piercing through this mask, prominent eyes gleaming with resentment, cracks manifesting in the outline of his scowl. However once at the top, his utmost desire nearly in grasp, his father, with his diamond sharp scepter of deception casts him back to the bottom. This is a neverending process unfolding before you. Envy climbs to the top only to be struck down again and again, never allowing failure to settle in. You struggle not to be drawn by this fruitless toll but you're inclined to want the life of the divine, fixated only to his throne, drawn in by the aroma of wealth and power you slowly begin to lose count of your steps and plunge into his rancid abyss. Wrath, an incurable threshold of intense betrayal and desperation that every man must go through in their existence. You find yourself in a cavern of blood shed, not knowing how you got here or why you are bleeding yourself. Next to you is a dead man and as you look upon this cavern you see another and another and another. A never-ending wave of wasted rage portrayed through the desolate eyes of these mangled bodies. Wrath embodies this domain, his physical form taken long ago. The others have cast this away for even the six deadly sins are intimidated by his horn. You awaken among this cavern, anxiety of this alien place trumped by a newfound animosity. Piles of dead weight, whether

Max Prudhomme it be humans, animals or dreams and aspirations are lying, motionless on a cold, forgotten floor. You become blind with a mirage of anger and sour thoughts, you start stumbling, screaming and thrashing in a brash attempt to release your nerve upon anything that comes in your path. Wrath has gotten the best of you like it has inveigled everyone who has dared to step into his domain. Every minute your exasperated state begins to worsen. You begin to scratch at your eyes and rip out your hair in a frail attempt to stop this hysteria, catering to wrath’s infinite appetite. It feeds off your malice, and demands more and more. Suddenly, you hear a sound. A man drops through a void in the ceiling, must have been tossed aside by Greed also. This man is suffering the same despairing illness you have fallen under since he is in wrath’s domain now. Neither of you can see, only hate. You hear the sounds of his clumsy footsteps, dragging and tripping over the bodies, you make violent promises to find one another. Finally, you are face to face with this person, immediately you start clobbering him, laughing, enjoyed. You cannot stop even if you want to because you are not in control anymore. Suddenly, without warning he clobbers you in the cranium with what seemed to be a rock. You lose hold of your consciousness, reality fading from your grip. The pain is overwhelming as you drop to the floor. You start feeling him punt your stomach repetitively, but the pain from your previous wound is too great to feel any other. Everything is black. Then there’s a light. You burst into a sprint towards it and find yourself in the front yard of a suburban household. Walking inside, you are on guard from previous experiences. You can’t find anything unusual throughout the house so far. It’s just a

Max Prudhomme generic home with a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. But wait, what’s this? You missed a room. You walk inside, and you’re shocked to find...a boy. At least you think he’s a just a boy but you aren’t exactly sure from his large size. He looks to be about the age of ten with a face that is ridden with acne. There is a horrific smell coming from him, but then you aren’t sure because you start to realize the habitat he is living in. A floor is nonexistent only trash and half-eaten food products. There’s what you think is a stained mattress and a box in the corner for god knows what. The boy doesn’t even recognize your presence, he just stares at a tiny TV, drooling. You here the front door slam, shortly followed by footsteps that start advancing up the stairs. Quickly, you camouflage yourself in an assortment of trash. A woman with a very round face and long, mustardy hair walks in. You assume this is the boy’s mother by actions of trying to converse with the boy. Asking him things like, “Do you need anything my baby boy?” or “Would you like something to eat, angel?” You can her eyes gleam with a certain motherly protection. The boy doesn’t say anything, just stares with his face two inches away from the tiny TV. Finally, in a slow, trudgey voice he says, “There’s someone in my room, mom.” The mother is startled at this and demands in an ice-cold voice, “Where is this person, darling.” The boy with his fat hand, points toward the pile of trash you claimed. You start sweating and shaking. She knows where you are, and she will find you. She doesn’t, all she says is, “Okay, you can have him then.” What does that mean? She shuts the door and walks back down stairs. The boy just sits there for another half-hour then, suddenly; he gets up out of the spot he’s been for what seems like an eternity. He lumbers over toward your spot. All he says to you is, “I’m going to eat you, now.” Of course this is the final of the deadly sins,

Max Prudhomme the sloth. Why is he going to eat you? Well, why not you’re here aren’t you? And he’s hungry but too lazy to go his own food. He picks you up and all you can even try and cling on to is a meager feeling of desperation.

About an hour later Sloth’s mother walks in. “How was dinner, sweetie?” Sloth, sitting there, using a sharp piece of bone to clean his teeth says, “It was okay, not as good as yesterday though.” “I’m sorry would you like someone else to eat?” the mother asks in a honey sweet voice. “Maybe later now leave.” he demands.

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