Envy used to be what defined her. She used to look at other women on the subway who were taller, slimmer and better dressed. The images of the muscle enriched bodies of actresses and the graceful bones of fashion models, grinned at her from magazines. Actresses were praised for the way they became a puddle of tears in front of audiences. She would stare and envy.
Common.
It is this word that fuels her wrath and now, more than ever, wrath is the seven deadly sin that plagues her. But it also feeds her. She takes pride in her rage. It is what makes her an individual. It is what makes her eyes glisten in the darkness and forces people to pay attention when she wants them to. It is what makes her voice boom with heavy undertones and shakes a room. People have taken notice. But it is not enough. Not yet.
The other day, her smart friend looked into the television and told her that the person behind it had a better life. She responded, "You never know what's going on." That was no satisfaction to her friend's ears. And he responded that the man in the television was "not mediocre." So be it. We must be seen by thousands to be more than what we are. "Yes," she thought, "I must be the one on the television. An audience must proclaim, 'She is not mediocre'."
There is no question.
And so her wrath continues to burn down the streets of New York City as she walks. Those that are taller than her, stronger than her and bigger in mind than her, who have no idea who and what she will become, push through her and knock her down.
"Sorry, didn't see you there."
Her fire burns.
"You will see me."
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