Lust had memories. They were strange, confusing, painful. But she thought maybe she remembered love. Also hate. They seemed, from her perspective, very much alike.
Falling back into the sun-warmed grass, Al smiled to the skies, offered them his hopes and dreams on a gilded platter of golden eyes.
But last night I dreamed of Teacher, standing in a brightness like sunlit mist, holding out her arms to me, smiling gently.
Gone was the helpless, kicked-puppy look from those purple eyes.
Lust was getting a migraine. It had started with an aura, a little blind spot that had popped into her vision the minute Envy sidled up to her and said family meeting.
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?