The Voices of Pride, Envy, Lust, and Sloth

Author's Note:

This story is an experimental nonlinear narrative, crafted to allow each part to be read in any order, with each presented from a different writing perspective. I strongly advise that you reread this story, shuffling the order of the parts you read to alter the revelation of events and motives.

Part One — I Pride

Women, especially older ones, rarely book my services. It's not that I don't offer them to women of all ages, but many seem to harbour a disdain for it. Perhaps it's jealousy, an inability to gaze upon the reflection of beauty in a younger body. Nevertheless, it is always a pleasant surprise when I am graced with the company of one. 

At least, that's the usual case. All women possess unique qualities of beauty in their own way. However, she appeared to fall short of them all. Her nose was puffy and round, her eyes slightly bloodshot, and her hair, a mousy brown that seemed slightly dishevelled and off-centre. It was as though all her details had been pushed slightly askew, like a funhouse mirror distorting the image. 

However, it is not my place to judge the client, and if she sought womanly care, then it was my job to provide it. Only, that's not what she wanted—not in the slightest. She pushed past me into the hotel room, rather bashfully, I might add, and not in a fun way. Her eyes darted around frantically, her scent reeking of alcohol as she entered the room. I rarely fear for my safety in the company of other women, but this was different.

She barked with a horse-dry-sounding throat. ‘Shut the door, be quick about it. We need to talk.’

I did as instructed, hesitant and uneasy where this was all leading. ‘So darling, what can I do for you to—’

She cut me off throwing a folder onto the bed haphazardly. ‘Shut it, and listen homewrecker!’

I flinched as I saw pictures sprawl out across the bed. It was me, dozens of pictures, from every angle, every act, every depravity. The man I was with, I vaguely recognised, was a regular for the past few weeks. No one special, a slightly fat middle-aged man.

She pointed accusingly at me, her long finger like the rest of her, slightly warped and twisted. ‘You! You took David from me, with your whore’s body. But it’s ok, you’re going to fix it…

I’ve done my research. You’re Hanna Kim, I know your family, I know your day job. I know everyone you care about. I will share these pictures! Don’t think I won’t! Unless… unless… unless! You kill my husband.’

Part Two  — She Envy

Rain streaked down the car’s windshield, causing a thick, permutating fog to steam up the windows. Mary cursed, frantically trying to wipe away the forming mist, impatiently tapping the steering wheel as she skipped another red light. A bottle—she couldn’t remember of what—rolled towards her foot from within the footwell, its contents emptied out earlier that night.

The hum of the engine was drowned out by the sound of pattering rain—the road ahead appearing blurry as it shifted in and out of focus. She took a deep inhale of her cigarette; she hadn’t smoked in years, at least not since having kids. She had given it up—just like so many of her dreams, all for him. What a fool she had been! She pushed down on the accelerator, the bottle now rolling back under her seat.

She had, of course, known. Maybe not outwardly, but deep down she knew. Once, many moons ago, she had been beautiful, elegant even. Then, three kids had destroyed her will to live. Her body warped beyond its youth, her patience, once a vast pool, now reduced to a cup of water. But did he love her enough to help? To fix the problems he started? No. He wouldn’t even touch her anymore. Not that she would want him to. He had faded just as she had, only his was by choice—the drinking, the gambling, the bad habits. He was a person of his own design, independent of the circumstances that had strained her so greatly.

She let out a half-sob, half-piglike grunt as she slammed down on the horn, terrifying an elderly driver who was cautiously driving just under the speed limit. Overtaking him, she sped on, keenly aware she was almost there, provided she didn’t crash in the process. Not that she cared anymore; part of her wanted it, to spin off the road and let the rain take her. No. This was more important. She could rest after he got what he deserves.

She nearly missed the turn, slamming down on what she thought was the brakes—shattering the glass bottle that had been rolling around under her feet. She could feel shards of glass cutting into her, but she continued to press down until the car came to a steady stop. Flinging open the door, she exited the vehicle, rain pouring down on her, washing away the blood from her now slashed foot.

Now limping, she made her way to the passenger's side, grabbing her handbag and an untidy folder of messy documents. She grinned a wicked disgusted grimace, shielding the folder with her own body. She would not mess this up, not when she was so close to getting what she craved. Revenge? No. Justice.

The folder had been the accumulation of hours of research, dozens of emails, tests, and photos taken by private investigators. The DNA test had been the most important. An arrogant man he had been in his youth—no thought, no care, no worry. It was his daughter, alright; that much was sure. Neither of them knew, or at least she hoped. Somehow, in all this messed-up situation, that would make it better. Or worse. She hadn't quite decided yet. Perhaps it wasn’t up to her. Perhaps his own look of disgust in his final moments would reveal the truth.

Part Three  — You Lust

It all started rather innocently several months ago when, out of the blue, Jessie Kim, your first high school sweetheart, sent you a friend request over Facebook. You hadn’t spoken in years, of course not. Why would you? It had been nearly twenty years since your fling. Besides, you were both married now—she to a tall and rather handsome-looking engineer, and you to your loving wife, Mary.

Despite the initial excitement, you never found the courage to reach out. What could you possibly say after all this time? However, you couldn't help but wonder about the life you might have had with her. Jessie, still as beautiful as ever, had aged gracefully. It wasn't that you didn't love Mary—you did. But with each passing year, being with her felt more like an obligation.

You stalked her profile, never openly liking or commenting of course, but obsessing all the same. That was until, you saw her, Jessie’s daughter—Hanna. Nearly twenty, and the spitting image of her mother, every detail, right down to her freckles. The only difference was the eyes. She had navy blue eyes, unlike her mother’s sea green.

She wasn’t on Facebook, but she did have Instagram. In Jessie's youth, she had been, for lack of a kinder term, a bit promiscuous. Not that you minded. In fact, her erotic past had been what made her so desirable at the time. It seemed her daughter had inherited that trait from her. She posted pictures that, twenty years ago, would have been seen as borderline pornographic. Despite her sultry nature, she, like her mother, somehow held onto that decorum of class that had made her so popular all those years ago. It was intoxicating.

Hanna, unlike her mother however, was more business-savvy. She knew the effect she had on people and milked it for all it was worth. Besides her Instagram, she ran an OnlyFans, a private paid collection of lewd photos, videos, and more. It was there that you discovered her more 'professional role' as a reasonably priced escort for hire. Holding back your desire became a challenge after finding that tidbit of intel.

Until now, it had all been a fantasy, a harmless little secret crush, nothing more. Besides, Mary needed you now more than ever. After the third kid, home life had become messier. Every day followed a routine of work, chores, and cooking. Mary’s back was getting worse, and it meant she could do little else but rest. It was hard not to feel disgruntled at her lack of engagement. It wasn’t her fault, but she wasn’t making things easy either. You hadn’t touched each other in so long, partly out of stress from the daily routine, but secretly you think both of you were scared of what would happen if she got pregnant again. The thought was enough to take another twenty years off your life, and you feel your hair turning grey just thinking about it.

And so, that's how it had all begun: the secret meetings, the sex, the venting about home life. Hanna, of course, had no idea who you were, just another client seeking an escape. But you relished every second with her, holding onto the memory of her mother. For a moment, just a moment, it felt like all those years ago, before life had gotten so messy.

Part Four — It Sloth

Every twenty-four hours, a Roomba is deployed to vacuum the hotel room. This service is performed periodically by an alarm, regardless of whether the room is occupied, and is typically set for an hour when it is least likely to disturb the guests. It's a more cost-effective option than paying the house staff to do it and is much less invasive.

At 6:30 am on Friday morning, the Roomba activated, beginning its journey. The room was mostly rectangular in shape, with an adjoining hallway that separated the ensuite bathroom and the front door. As the bathroom had no carpet to clean, the Roomba ignored that stretch entirely. Its lifeless mechanical whir hummed lightly as it began to pick up the dried skin and bits of dust that had accumulated.

In the event that an obstacle was placed in its path, the Roomba would recalculate and try alternative paths. This was often the case when occupants had left bags, clothes, and other items sprawled out across their rooms. Today, the Roomba seemed to be making rather a lot of recalculations as it moved around unshapely objects. It was equipped to deal with dust, dirt, and even some liquids. But as it glided swiftly across the floor, it found itself getting increasingly clotted by a clumpy wet liquid that had spilt out across the carpet. It dragged itself through this substance, leaving a trail of it as it went along.

The object and the mystery liquid seemed to be slumped over the bed, dangling down onto the floor, its protruding limbs jutting out in a splayed, almost branch-like sprawl. The Roomba, devoid of thought, carried on, however. Something metal and round was sucked up, a slightly sharp pointy gemstone scuffed up the inner lining of its bag. The Roomba slowed, weighed down by the clumpy liquid and the now tearing bag.

As it came to a stop, it did one last calculation, scanning the room for a way back. It had come to the conclusion that there were two objects in its way, not one. The liquid seemed to ooze from the top of the second object. The first dangled helplessly over the side of the bed. The Roomba logged a wireless request for assistance. Eventually one of the house staff would check in on it, and it would go back to doing its job.

The room was silent and still; the tension that had been held here had burst like a balloon. Violently, swiftly, and unobserved. No one knew about the bodies, or about the atrocities. No one knew about David, who had been shot, or Hanna, who had pointed a gun at her own head. Not even about Mary, who had wrapped her car around a tree. There were no more voices, just silence.

Jessie Kim would grieve for her daughter, and Mary and David’s kids would never stop asking why mummy and daddy weren’t coming home. But saddest of all, the Roomba would never roam those halls again.