A/N: warning: this is a rather serious, more or less abstract story, following the theme of the "seven sins." please keep the controversy and crap to yourselves; these aren't fully my own opinions, rather they're opinions I've pulled from my imagination that seem to fit the thoughts of certain characters, who I don't own either. this story contains language, sexual content, serious subjects and all in all something I've been sporadically inspired to write.

special thanks to: the dictionary INSTALLED into MW processor. ily mister dic.

paper wings for paper hearts

-seven points of view from seven people.

Pride; feeling of superiority: a haughty attitude shown by somebody who believes, often unjustifiably, that he or she is better than others.

Eve loves the way her pastel-blonde hair runs in smooth rivulets down her back. She loves how the sun bounces off it like a soft illuminated window, the wind flowing through the most gorgeous mane in Flower Bud.

She loves how her tight dress looks on her hourglass figure. The light colours complement her fair skin and bring focus to her bright eyes. She looks like a goddess, and she knows it.

She loves it when men flirt with her, drunk or sober. In a homeless man's eyes; a relative's; a stranger's; a best friend's; any intoxicated or temperate human being could look at her and call her beautiful. And they would all mean it, because it was true, and Eve was beautiful, and she knew it.

What was she on the inside, though? Steaming black coals falling from a crusty discoloured ridge of lava, crumbling and cracked. Dirt-smeared shards of glass, broken and chipped and ruined and ugly. A twisted snarl, an arrogant glare. Blood dripping like see-through slime into a dirty pile of mud and water and death and disease; (my that's disgusting).

So what is she? At first glance, she is a breathtakingly beautiful goddess, sculpted by deity and sworn everlasting divinity; the mirror's lie as to say the fairest one of all.

Because inside is a devil, a beast, a deplorable worthless monster.

Ugly wretched hideous (nasty) foul revolting piece of dirt.

That pride is blind, in more ways than one.

(what a stupid girl.)

Envy; wanting what somebody else has: the resentful or unhappy feeling of wanting somebody else's success, good fortune, qualities, or possessions.

She has every right to hate humans.

Why should they be allowed to roam freely outside, laughing and jumping and singing and dancing and talking? Why should they be allowed to climb trees and cut wood and go fishing and ride horses? What did they do to deserve all those privileges?

What had she done to get hers taken away?

Dia sits up in her hospital bed, alone, like always. She's staring (glaring) outside the window, or at it, it's hard to tell -- hating the trees and the sky and the birds and the humans and the world for all this bullshit she has to sit through everyday.

Day in, day out, sun up, sundown. It's all the same routine: wake up, eat breakfast, read a book, eat dinner, sleep.

She doesn't get to go outside. She doesn't get to run or laugh or sing or dance.

And maybe if she were an entirely different person, maybe if she existed in another human body, things wouldn't fucking piss her off so much. She didn't only want to be able to walk and talk like a normal person -- she wanted to be royalty. Princess Dia -- (doesn't that sound just divine?) she wanted that to be her name. She wanted those blind stupid worthless poor villagers to bow down to her at her command, treat her how she deserved to be treated.

"Dia? Would you like some tea?" There she is again. That frail, pathetic little nurse with glasses too big for her fucking head. She looks like an idiot.

She is an idiot.

As soon as the cup lands on her nightstand, Dia flicks her tiny wrist, and it shatters and spills onto the floor. A mud-brown liquid seeps through the wooden floorboards like blood on a clean sheet.

Wood. What is this? Where is she? She belongs in a castle, surrounded by gems and diamonds and slaves.

She doesn't belong here.

She's royalty.

(stupid girl.)

Gluttony; excessive eating: the act or practice of eating and drinking to excess.

He knows he should stop, but he doesn't. Since when did anyone do what they were supposed to do anymore, anyway?

"Gourmet" knows people have their addictions: cigarettes, drugs, pills. So why couldn't he have his food? Food didn't criticize him or degrade him. Food didn't care if his fly wasn't zipped up or if his armpits were sweating. Food gave its life for his satisfaction; food gave his life satisfaction.

(That's kind of sad), but what can he do? No one, no age of society would accept a fat, smelly, sweaty, useless old man.

"Gourmet", he calls himself. A food "expert" who "enjoys" food.

That doesn't quite fit the bill entirely.

Life doesn't matter. Who needs friends. Who needs life. Who needs anything.

Those are thoughts that go through his mind daily, maybe not always in the same context, but it all adds up. Always.

He doesn't care about society, about life, about anything. He just eats and drinks and eats and drinks and eats (and drinks) and then it's all blank and empty and hazy and just who the fuck cares anymore.

Who cares about life.

(what a stupid old man.)

Lust; sexual desire: the strong physical desire to have sex with somebody, usually without associated feelings of love or affection.

Dan's not a virgin, and he hasn't been since he was fourteen.

Everything about sex drives him wild. It's better than gambling and stealing and getting high at the peak of the mountains, where it's too cold to remember why you're unfeeling in the first place. It's better than cussing out people he hates and getting drunk and jacking off with his own imagination in the bathroom.

Bare skin (grinding) against sweaty bare skin; exposed lips touching (consuming) lips and necks and stomachs and backs and (you can only imagine the rest of the possibilities). It's like fire running tracks up and down his skin, hot and burning and scalding in the best way as he fondles her and uses her and enters and breaks her (you) me.

Sex and love don't go together. At least, that's not what he believes. When you're having sex, your senses switch off: you don't get self-conscious about your arms being too fat, your hair not smooth and straight. Because it's all going down, it's all coming off. You're not you anymore. You're a nobody. You have no conscience anymore, no need to speak, no will to act against anything.

And Dan loves that.

He takes pride in his hickeys, his bruises, everything. Yeah, he's raped a few girls before. Found them walking down the street on late late late nights (their faults) and throwing them into his car and fucking them on the spot. Pants down, member in, girl street scream door close drive fast faster (blank).

It's not about the words, it's the actions. People don't speak when they're having sex unless they're moaning for you to go harder faster more more stop it hurts please keep going; he always chooses to ignore the words. People are selfish: they always want more, no matter what they think they want at the moment. They wouldn't turn down pleasure if it caused everyone else pain. People contradict themselves, and that's why Dan's always hated words and people and consciences and bullshit and everything (because it's all so pointless).

So he sticks with sex, sticks with being a monster, because that's who he is. That's all he cares about. It's simple, senseless, and feels amazing (unless you're a girl, but he's not so who fucking cares).

Dan is thinking this as he lays in bed at noon one day. Wet liquid sticks to his bare skin and there's a warm indent beside him and dammit that stupid bitch left her thong on my pillow.

He wonders if he'll ever find true love, then tells himself that that doesn't even exist, and then laughs because he knows two things.

1) of course he won't; love and sex don't go together and he couldn't handle both


2) he really couldn't care less either way.

He takes a quick shower, the hot water scalding his skin, but it's not the good kind of pain. It's the kind of pain that hurts all over, like a bomb imploding inside of you -- (that would be deep if he actually had feelings).

But Dan doesn't need feelings. He doesn't need a heart. All he needs is sex.

(what a stupid boy.)

Wrath; the vengeance, punishment, or destruction wreaked by somebody in anger.

Jamie is numb when the Goddess sends for him and informs him of what has happened. He is quiet and numb and quiet and (shattered) when she tells him the humans are at fault for sinning, for lying, for cheating, for not loving like they're supposed to.

He is speechless until she disappears, soul sealed into a statue of stone. No more words, no more smiles, no more miracles, no more no more stop it.

Perhaps it's wrong for him to hate the humans for doing all this, he thinks at the (very) back of his mind. Perhaps he shouldn't blame them, but instead try to unite them all so they don't make the same mistake.

But, no, he knows humans can't be trusted. They're cold-hearted and cruel and evil and they only do what society wants them to do. So he works alone, in his own ranch, under his own name, and he doesn't say hi to the neighbours when they wave at him, and he doesn't smile when little May shows up at his front door with a basket of fruits, and he doesn't listen when they say they'll listen (because nobody listens) and he isn't listening and he's screaming and he knows knows knows that no one actually cares.

He hates human and that's final. He hates life, himself, everyone. He can't trust anybody. Nobody can trust him. This is survival.

This is life.

(what a sad boy.)

Greed; strong desire for more: an overwhelming desire to have more of something such as money than is actually needed.

Jill is the most popular person in town, the men love her, the girls all want to be her friend, she's worked off her excess skin and fat and has the skimming body of a runway model and the muscle of an Olympic swimmer, she's an excellent farmer (hell, she's good at everything she does), she owns six major properties and she's still loaded. She won the Horse Racing Festival for the last four years in a row, she has prize-winning livestock, grows the best crops in the region, everyone loves her she's hot she's strong she's rich she's the best she's fuckin' perfect.

Something's wrong.

She wants more.

As the sun rises in the morning, she's not satisfied with it. She wants it to be brighter; she wants it to shine on her. When she looks in her tall vanity every morning and the glossy mirror attached to it, a frown pulls on her perfect lips. Her hair could be a richer colour besides her already (gorgeous) brunette hair, her lips could be fuller and smoother and her curves could do some defining.

Her horse, Radiance, could have a glossier fur coat, and her prized chicken, Waffles, could lay larger eggs. Her two boyfriends and fiancé (but who's checking) could be more handsome and fuck better and be more helpful and reliable and stop spending all her damn money -- but who's checking?

Everything could be better, life could be better. Or maybe it's just that she wants more, more, more. Nothing's enough; after living in the city for twenty years, she knows that. There's no such thing as exceeding life, no such thing as having too much.

For that, she'll never be satisfied.

(what a selfish girl.)

Sloth; laziness: a dislike of work or any kind of physical exertion.

Joe is an 'Average Joe'.

He gets up at around nine-something in the morning, sometimes a bit after ten. He goes out to the river, sometimes the ocean (but that's just too big) and he fishes. He likes fishing because he doesn't have to move; the fish do all the work. He can just sit there and tug on his line this way and that and people call that his job.

But Joe doesn't have a job. He doesn't need one.

Maybe his laziness is an excuse. Maybe he just actually doesn't care what the world thinks of him. He wears his ugly starry bandana because he says it stands for his "freedom" -- he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. He's sick of freedom. Who needs rights when you have nothing to stand for?

What's the point in working, making friends or taking up new hobbies? What then? What was the point of life at all? Falling in love, getting some high-end job in the big city, saving an endangered species? What the fuck was worth looking forward to every morning if he was trapped in this shit hole?

Hook, line, sinker. He doesn't even bother pulling up with his rod -- what's he going to do with the fish? Cook it? Eat it? Then what? Fish got old. They got rotten and smelled bad and died and they were ugly.

That was probably why fish were so stupid and lazy; they weren't scared of death. There wasn't anything so great about being alive anyway. There was nothing and nobody to live for.

The fish gets away with his bait and he stares at himself in the reflection. He could be cute, if he bathed more often and put on a bigger shirt and got a haircut and some new shoes.

But who really cares?

(maybe he isn't so stupid after all.)