Pride

The cold was irrelevant. She had the eyes of millions of unborn, the future generations, as well as the attention of millions more, unaware of their paramount obsession with her future, her potential held firmly within her grasp. Pride by name, pride by nature. Her old green hoodie didn’t fit perfectly, but a ‘casual jog’ such as this didn’t necessitate any of her more fancy clothes, the same going for her yellow shorts and stained white trainers. She looked ridiculous, but it was went on inside that was the focus of the world’s attention, or perhaps what was soon to happen. ‘Pri’ as her friends called her, was eighteen, an orphan, and she hated the world. Hated it, but wanted the appreciation of it almost immediately, some sick obsession with getting the respect of the people she hated. The uneven path on which she ran would always injure her ankles, which were exposed to the cold wind that had paralysed her ungloved hands, whilst her hair blew massy and wild with the force of the November night. She was running against the wind, dodging the people who would get in her way, the quite bat people who inhabited the deeply conservative village. The other word for them was the ‘closet racists’, of course. Pride wanted them dead but wanted to change them first, though only so she could take the credit for it. She had no clue how it would come about, but for some reason it was the only way she could die content; the whole world must be shouting her name.