The final and most deadliest sin of all seven :)
And the one I have enjoyed writing the most, this leads on directly after Wrath, about an hour after he smashes the mirror
I like to fuck the numerical order up :)
Anyway, that's it from the sins so enjoy :) xxxx

Pride

A desire to be important or attractive to others or excessive love of self

He stares at himself in the broken shards of the mirror, an hour ago he gained seven years of bad luck and didn't care one bit. The broken pieces still hanging on the wall are caked in dried blood.
With a pair of silver tweezers he sits on his bed, his hand trembling badly, he scrunches his bruised hand into a painful fist making the shards of glass stand out and carefully he plucks them from his flesh. He mumbles with pain each time he does, a tear reaches his eye and trickles down his face. Eventually he gives up and heads to the bathroom.

He fills the sink with water.
Hot water.
He dips in his bruised hand.
The pain sizzles up his arm.
Blood swirls into the sink and clouds around his fist.
He brings it out, shakes it gently then cups water into his hands.
He splashes water over his face.
Runs his good hand through his hair wetting the strands.
He towel dries his face and hands.
Careful of the purple bruising.
He pulls a white strip of bandage from the medicine cabinet.
Ties it round his swollen, throbbing fingers and stares at his reflection in the mirror.

His skin is pale and his eyes are sat above dark circles. His pupils looks red and bloodshot from tears and frustration, his hair is damp and in need of mousse, hair spray, a hairdryer, a brush and straightners.

In his bedroom.
With his good hand.
And as best he can with his bad one.
He combs through his wet hair.
Tugs out knots in strands.
Parts clumps of hair.
Rids himself of any traces of sexual desire.

With material on his hand he reaches for the can of hair mousse on his dresser, with murmurs and mumbles of pain he un-caps it and sits down in front of one of the mirrors that isn't broken. A large one that sits silently on top of his dresser surrounded with products, make up and hair care stuff. He tries to smile but can't, he looks and feels broken and ugly, his face his completely naked. He isn't happy with his appearance so he fixes it.

His hair.
He squirts a clump of white mousse into his palm.
It expands and smells of fruits.
He reaches up to his hair.
Using only one hand.
Proving more difficult than it seems.
And spreads the product through his hair.
From root to tip.
Root to tip.
Until he is satisfied.
He combs it through.
Then uses a hair brush and goes through it again.
He reaches for his hairdryer.
Turns on his straightners at the same time.
And applies hot air to his pride and joy.

He blow dries each strand carefully holding the hairdryer with his bandaged hand as best he can and combs it through with his good hand. His face creases into pain every so often but he dismisses it trying to get beautiful again.
His hair becomes fluffy and bouncy; he smiles at its softness and fruity smell. He looks at himself in the mirror, straight in the eye but still feels ugly with black shades under his gorgeous blue pupils.

His face.
He uses face wipes to clean out his pores.
Wipes around his eyes.
Lips.
Nose.
Over his Cheeks.
Closes his eyes and wipes over them.
Removing any stain from the previous night.
Wipes at his forehead then over his neck.
Tosses the wipe in the bin.
He pats at his skin.
Checks for spots.
Patches.
Marks.
Blemishes.
Checks his neck for passionate bites.
Finds none.

He looks once again, still no change in his face and still he feels vile. He pulls a purple bag out from a draw and tips its contents onto the surface of the dresser. Various shades of eyeshadow roll across the wood, three eyeliner pens drop out and try to escape off the dresser but he catches them quickly. Lip gloss and balm even falls out of the bag, blusher, foundation and creams for spots. Mascara and body glitter joins the pile too.

Eyes.
His eyes need brightening.
To take away the fact he has a hangover.
He needs a cover up.
He paints his eyes in black eyeliner.
A line under each.
They bring out his pupils.
Make them appear wider.
Brighter.
More awake.
More alive and glamorous.
Eyeshadow above his eyes.
To bring the blue out even more.
A hint of glitter in the white eyeshadow.
His eyes sparkle but still appear to be in the shade.

He frowns at his eyes not looking as beautiful as they should, he reaches for his foundation and mixes some on the back of his hand getting the shade just right, he stares at his bruised hand, the vicious purple attacking his skin making it appear odd and ugly.

Cheekbones.
First he covers up the shadows under his eyes.
Perfect.
He adds blusher to make his cheekbones stand out.
Blusher that almost appears as though it is invisible.
He feels better, a little better.
He smells burning.

His straightners blink red signalling they are hot enough. He picks them up almost not caring if he burns his hands on them and sets to work on his hair.

Back to his hair.
Runs black strands through the hot plates.
Straightening them out.
Steam rises and disappears in the cold air.
He flicks the instrument outwards.
His hair follows.
Forming flicks.
Some straight.
Most straight.
He spends ten minutes on his fringe.
Getting each piece in place.
Back in line.
He pauses.
Reaches for Root Boost.
Applies some.
Reaches for Naboo's miracle wax.
Applies some.
Reaches for the hairspray.
Stops.
He sees one strand of hair out of line.
Eyes wide, he attacks it with the hot straightners.
Then the hairspray.
He douses his hair in the stuff.
He coughs.
Wafts away the mist.
Smiles.

Next he heads to his wardrobe and changes out of his skinny jeans and exchanges them for a different outfit.

His body.
He pulls out outfits.
Different tops.
Matching jeans.
Scarves.
Accessories.
He holds an outfit up to his body.
Looking into his ceiling to floor mirror.
Another one that isn't broken.
Delicate silk top with skinny black jeans.
No.
Bondage trousers with a sleeveless top.
No.
Mirror ball suit.
No.
Glam-rock-ski-suit.
Definitely not.
Lightning bolt tee with drainpipes and a pac-man belt.
Maybe.
Leopard skin jacket.
No.
Cowboy hat.
No.
Cowboy boots.
Maybe.
Converse.
No.
An endless circle.
Five outfits on the bed.
Decision time.

He holds each outfit up to his chest and legs once again while trying on hats and holding belts against his hips over the top of jeans. Each time he smiles but sometimes he frowns.

Drainpipes to make the hip bones stand out.
To show off his legs.
To show he is thin.
Lightning bolt t-shirt, which hugs his figure.
To show he has a flat stomach.
To show he is thin.
No hat.
Perfect hair.
No hat hair.
One accessory.
One guitar pendant.
A pac-man belt to finish it off.
Cowboy boots.
Done.

He turns to his wall length mirror one more time and takes an overall look at himself.

Straightened hair.
Bunched at the top.
Make up done.
Eyeliner perfect.
Cheekbones visible.
Shadows gone.
Knuckles wrapped and covered.
Will be fine in a few days.
Clothes are neat.
Everything matches.
Accessories are important.
Shoes are tied.

He smiles at himself in the mirror.

More important.
Attractive.
Sexy.
Glamorous.
Amazing.
Stunning.
Beautiful.
Perfect.

He frowns at his reflection in the broken mirror.

Big headed.
Large ego.
Self-obsessive.
Arrogant.
Cocky.
Conceited.
Proud.
Vain.