❝In which a celebrity dials a random number in hope of finding one last thing to make him smile before he commits suicide at the end of the month.❞
"I'm going to commit suicide in one months time."
"I think you have the wrong number."
"It can't be t...
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Vaughn had watched Cleo leave with a heavy heart. His cousin had brushed past Eddie's attempts to block her exit with the kind of determination that was purely Cleopatra Quinn.
Pride was something that Cleo considered to be one of her worst attributes. Feeling inferior was not something that she was a stranger to. Life, as well as a verbally abusive father, had taught her the rules of pride.
Holding her head up was key, she was only above them for as long as her eye contact was. The walk was equally vital, only a correct stride speed and length could truly broadcast the illusion of an overly confident teenage girl who suffered no hate whatsoever. Expression, of course, was crucial. Everything else may as well go to hell if the expression faltered even once. The face was a canvas and one wrong stroke could ruin the entire picture. The expression had to hover in the empty space between smiling and frowning, floating there with no intention of moving.
Pride was closely linked with self-respect. For, how could she expect anyone to respect her if she did not respect herself?
No matter how similar the two concepts appear to be, there is a thin line that separates pride from self-respect.
One example of this is a fateful Wednesday morning in which a teenage girl calling herself by the name of a deceased Pharaoh stalked the school corridors with no idea of the hell that she about to endure. It was Pride that had driven her to do this. It was Pride that had whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Sweet nothings that spoke only three words: Okay. Alright. Fine.
Completely fine.
Everything was going to be completely fine.
And yet, it would be the pride that faltered her steps as she continued her journey to the end.
