Yay! New fic idea!

I've always loved the Seven Deadly Sins: Pride, Envy, Lust, Avarice, Sloth, Gluttony, and Wrath. They're fabulous. And so of course, I had to make a fic out of them. And here we are, at the first chapter of a seven-part fic! Yay!

I have to warn you. These will be dark. Maybe a little weird. You will probably think I'm insane or on drugs or something when you read them. I'm totally not, but…whatever…

I really hope I don't lose you in the complexity of this. And I also really hope you like it!

Also, I'm going to try to keep my Author's Notes to only the beginning of the fic, so that they don't interrupt the flow of the story too much. Because these are so incredibly dark—and I have to keep a positive outlook or I'm going to get depressed. :D So I just won't say anything about how sucky I think these are.

Anyway, this first chapter took me approximately an hour to write. I had no idea what I was going to write in the first place, and no clear idea of what would happen, so hopefully this isn't too scattered.

Anyway! Here is the first chapter. Pride. Starring Blackfire.

Enjoy it, darlings! :) Don't get too depressed, because this probably the darkest one and they will hopefully get happier as they go on.

EDIT: Veronica kindly pointed out that there is actually no deadly sin called 'vanity', and that it is actually 'pride'. Well...thanks! My mistake. :) I changed this chapter a little to fit that, as well as changing the title/summary ect.

--

When I look in the mirror now, I feel like laughing.

Sometimes I feel like crying, too, or screaming, or smashing my fists against the glass and letting the shards rip into my skin—because sometimes I just want to bleed away my pain. Sometimes I even feel like admiring myself, so I pose in front of the mirror, letting my eyes run over the hard-won curves and the lies that make up my entire appearance, and then I smile. Sometimes I just stand there blankly. Numbly. And I feel like dying.

But most of the time I want to laugh.

It isn't a pleasant laughter. It's laughter that boils in my stomach, claws its way out of my throat and somehow spews out of my mouth. It's hysterical. It's desperate. It's chest-ripping, breath-stealing, this-isn't-funny laughter.

And whenever I laugh like that, I wish I was crying instead.

My reflection always looks back at me haughtily. I see high cheekbones, and full lips, and big, dark eyes. I see a tight, taut stomach and long legs. I see a luscious wave of black hair and the metal armor that hugs my every curve. I see a thousand things that people admire, appreciate, desire.

I see a thousand lies.

The cheekbones and lips were a gift from my mother, a beauty who passed her good looks down to her daughters. I enhanced them with illegal drugs. My face melted like putty. I molded it like wax.

The huge violet eyes are a result from surgery on a distant planet. Violet, because it is the color of royalty. I barely remember the long-lost green. Green, because it is the color of humility, and I care nothing for being humble.

The sleek body is nothing more than a result of low prison rations and constant fights for my life. At least, that's what I tell people. I used to starve myself. I still do, sometimes. And after starving myself for a while, I eat and eat and eat, anything and everything that torments me when I'm hungry, until I throw it all up: until I've purged myself of everything that makes me weak.

And my long, strikingly black hair? I use dye. It's expensive, and dangerous, and rare—it comes from the essence of darkness and the heartstrings of malevolence. It takes years to make. It takes lives to create. I don't care. It barely manages to conquer the red underneath.

The armor hides the scars of a thousand beatings, of a thousand days in prison, of a thousand crimes and robberies. A thousand ways to rebel, to fight against my predetermined destiny, to become someone I hate.

A thousand lies—a thousand secrets—make up my enticing exterior.

It's sick, isn't it? I spent my entire life creating this—this thing. This person that I am supposed to be. I changed myself. I hid my Tamaranian roots.

I created Blackfire.

Blackfire, the warrior. Blackfire, the beauty. Blackfire, the rebel, the defiant one, the empress and criminal and seductress, all in one.

Since the day I created her, I have been constantly analyzed, constantly labeled, constantly broken down into methodical pieces that are dissected, evaluated, and reconstructed. I have been constantly branded as all of these different people, all of these different things.

I am none of them.

And yet my false exterior, my charade of rebellion, my façade of perfection…shows me to be all of them.

Blackfire seduces men and leaves them for others. Blackfire breaks laws, not because she needs to, but because she wants to. Blackfire manipulates everyone who tries to care about her. Blackfire is strong. Blackfire is brave. Blackfire is gorgeous, stunning, dazzling in her beauty. Blackfire is wild, free, untamed, feral.

Blackfire is not real.

It's sick. But it's not the sickest part.

I hate this…Blackfire. I hate everything she stands for, everything she's done, everything she's destroyed. Everything she is.

And yet I want to be her. So, so much.

I see how people look at me—look at Blackfire. They see dark purple eyes and smoky black hair. They see long, sleek legs and slender muscles. They see power, and beauty, and allure, and glamour. They see everything I want them to, everything I've worked so hard to create.

They want me.

And I want their attention.

I love how they look at Blackfire. I see the dark flash of envy in their eyes, or the fevered gleam of lust. They want this girl, this girl who can do what she wants. They want this girl, who is fantastic and enchanting and free. They want what she has, want what she is, want what she stands for. They. Want. Her.

I take it all in, and I love it. Because while they want Blackfire, they really want me.

Blackfire is not me, and I know in the place where my heart used to be that I will never be anything like her. Blackfire is her own person. She doesn't need anyone or anything to complete her, because in her mind, she is complete. She doesn't need people's attention to survive. She doesn't watch them carefully for that tell-tale glimmer of desire; she doesn't do everything in her power to fight for the attention of others.

Blackfire has committed every crime underneath the sun, broken every law possible, sinned every way she could...except for one, single way.

Blackfire may be everything, but Blackfire is not proud.

I am proud.

It goes beyond just pride, though. It is beyond a simple vanity. It fuels my existence. Without the longing stares and awed rapture, I am nothing.

I am not Blackfire, because I am not complete. I will never be Blackfire, because I will never be satisfied.

Blackfire belongs to no one but herself. And no matter how hard I try to be her, no matter how hard I try to suppress my pride, I belong to her. And without her, there is nothing but pride left in me.

So I stand in front of the mirror. I look at Blackfire, the person everyone knows and envies. It is not who I am. But it is who I have to be.

Because without this curse, without this yearning to be bigger and better and badder than everyone else…I am truly nothing. And it is better to be someone than no one at all.

Now I'm looking in the mirror, and I can't help it: the sick laughter bubbles up in me, and it tears its way from my throat. I laugh and laugh and laugh at the twisted wreckage of my life. I can't help it. I laugh even as I run out of breath and shake from pure, starvation-ridden exhaustion.

I keep laughing as desperation squeezes my heart and I shudder in my bitter tears.

Even though it isn't funny. At all.

--

Next: Lust