Se7en's Deadly Sins

Again, over the bed, the word pride written in blood. A woman, laying in her bed, dead. Hung on the wall is what seems to be a charcoal drawing of her face, its deep and piercing eyes, a beautiful woman.

(Somerset) What have we got here?
(Mills) Sleeping pills glued to one hand, telephone glued to another.
(Somerset) You see what he did?
(Mills) He cut her up, and then bandaged her.
(Somerset) Call for help, and you'll live, but you'll be disfigured. Or you can put yourself out of your own misery.
(Forensic) He cut off her nose.
(Somerset) To spite her face.
(Forensic) And he did it very recently.

(John Doe) Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder any more. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer. Then you'll find you have their attention.

If only we could know a taste of the torture that filled the minds of these people who made the weaker choice, who proved their tormentor right by being feeble in their bravery, in being unable to shirk off what they deemed their responsibility, worth more than self-sacrifice, more than doing what's right. More than being a helpless pawn and a victim. We can even be proud in our humility, fluffing our feathers at how modest we are. While alone, in our homes, we may be pinching our faces or frowning upon our midsections, checking for flaws the world's spotlights have managed to miss for another day. And so our pride eclipses our humanity, passing over it as over so many bloated bodies on the shore. We often don't even realize it until someone points it out to us in such a way that we reveal it without even being aware, caught in the act of our pride.

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