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Seven Deadlies by inspiredl
Chapter 1 : Wrath.
Rating: 15+Chapter Reviews: 7

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 Disclaimer- Sorry to disappoint, but I am not JK Rowling. 

Challenge- This is an entry for notreallyblonde's The Seven Deadly Sins Challenge.

Beta'd by- PrincessPadfoot on the HPFF forums.




Thanks to Lady Malfoy@TDA for this absolutely wonderful banner! :)


When someone says the word ‘wrath’ people automatically get a mental image of a man with blood all over his hands and fire in his eyes.


No one sees a little blonde girl leaning out a window to see the top of a head bobbing by, watching the head as it walks past everyday- watching the head looking smug and proud and just all out infuriating.


But I’m that girl. I am wrath.


I’m going to get him.


He’s evil, pure evil, and I’m the devil incarnate. You’d think we’d get along nicely, killing off all the good people one-by-one.


I can’t stand him. I hate him. I loathe him. Every particle that makes up his disgusting, dirty, little body.


I watch him as he walks down the street and in my mind I’m ripping him to shreds, I’m wiping that grin of his face.


In my mind, I’m doing that to all of them. Everyone who judged me, everyone who looks down on me, everyone who get to live while I’m cocooned inside my own mind, surrounded by my own hate.


It’s time for me to escape soon though, I’m not going to wrap myself in this shroud for much longer, I’m going to shed this skin, this smile.


Swap it for the real me.


Then they’ll all run scared, then they won’t laugh, and then they won’t dare to say the things they say.


Then they’ll be gone.


I spat on him once, as he was walking past below my second floor window. I watched at the saliva fall: slowly, silently, secretly. Towards him, towards that… that… that thing.  It was wonderful, that moment when I saw my spittle land on his good-for-nothing head.


I imagined him reaching up to brush hair back from his face, and feeling something wet and gooey on his hand. His confusion when he looked at his hand and saw spittle smeared all over it. His embarrassment when someone pointed out to him that he had drool on his hair.


Everyone thinks I’m crazy; everyone’s right.


They say red is the colour of anger, but I say it’s purple, or blue maybe.  Those are the only colours I see.


Purple and blue.


His face, purple.


His lips, blue.


They’re the pictures that rotate around inside my head. I love it. I smile every time I see the spasms of death ripping through his limbs, his body pulsating rapidly, trying to save itself. I envisage his futile attempts at pulling my hands away from his throat, his widened pupils screaming at me to stop whilst he lies beneath me, helpless.


You can say you’ve been angry. Fuming. Enraged. Cross. Infuriated. Furious.


I won’t believe you.


The only reason you’ve made up so many words for it is that you can’t explain it, because you’ve never felt it; pure wrath flowing through every fibre of your being. 


It eats you up, ever so slowly, from the inside. You don’t notice it creeping in, until it’s got a firm hold on you.


I remember the first time it touched me, the anger.


I’d had nits, so my mum had shaved all the hair of my head.


He came up to me, and he looked me up and down, and he laughed, and he pointed. He shouted, he called everyone to come see the freak of nature. The bald girly. They all circled round, the whole bunch of them. Hyenas. They laughed for years, they’re still laughing now. Every single one of them. The filthy brats.


I hear them in my head, just laughing at me and I want to kick them, scratch them, tear at their skin, hair, eyes.


Instead I had to stand there, not moving an inch, listening to their jeers. The wind blew, and it made me shiver; my ears got cold. The whole world was against me.


I ran home and I couldn’t take it, the feeling inside me. I just wanted to scream until their eardrums burst and I could laugh at the blood gushing out of them. But blood doesn’t gush out of broken eardrums. And you can’t scream so loud you break an eardrum, at least I don’t think you can.


So I had to squish ants instead.


I went out into the backyard and jumped up and down, I put my fist in my mouth to stop myself screaming at the sky. That was when I saw them, crawling along the ground, in a neat little line. They made me want to be sick, running up and down like that. Doing what they wanted. Working together. Being there. Being alive.


So I went over to them and I laid down on the floor and I just watched them skittering along, happy as anything. I felt it rising, rising, rising inside me. I wanted to get rid of them, wipe them off this world so they could never go around like that again. Doing what they do. Being alive.


I ran into the house and grabbed a magnifying glass, I held it above them and moved it until the light hit it at just the right angle. They started to sizzle. To boil in their own skin. To die.


Then I used my finger, and I felt them breaking apart as I pressed down on them. I felt their innards bursting out of their sides.


And I laughed.


It didn’t stop the anger though; it just magnified it.


Everything I’ve done since then has made it worse, it’s built up and up and up inside my body. I feel like I’m going to boil in my own skin like those stupid ants from the heat of it.


I don’t go out any more, I just watch people moving around outside my window. Wishing they were all ants and I could squish them easily with my little finger as they tried in vain to scurry away from me.


I don’t speak to anyone, I can’t, and I don’t want to say anything. I have nothing to say. I just want to scream and scream and scream at all of them.


I know something’s happening to me, something bad. It’s the anger, it can’t all fit inside my petite body anymore so it’s seeping out, manifesting itself in this smog that seems to surround me.


My face is graying and distorted, it’s lost any hint of beauty it might have had when I was younger and it’s scary and disturbing. Formally golden locks are turning black and shriveling up so they hang like tendrils around my face.


All I wear is this huge black cloak and it doesn’t seem to want to come off anymore. I don’t mind though, I pull it lower, over my bloodshot eyes and cracked lips. So no one can see the monster I’m transforming into.


I’ll walk out one day, and I’ll be completely new, and they’ll all be scared of me. They’ll go running and screaming, but they won’t be able to escape the feeling of dread and hopelessness I will bring with me, in this black fog.


I want them to remember every horrible moment in their disgusting lives, and I want them to be haunted by those memories. I want them to feel like they have nothing and no one to live for. I want them to feel like everything in this world is evil and bad and worthless and that they are never going to feel happy ever again.


I want to suck their souls out through their mouths.







Author's Note: 

Hope you enjoyed that :) Please review because I love to read reviews and want to know what you think!

Thank you to PrincessPadfoot from the HPFF forums for being my beta on this chapter! I found your input very helpful! 

Thanks for reading!

Lily ^_^ 

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