For The Want Of Everything

When Phyllis becomes so possessed with what others have, she forgets what she has.

          Phyllis's eyes were a sprawling, glittering bazaar, their perpetually unfulfilled customer. Every shining bauble, every novel gadget became a burning ember in her own soul, a relentless, gnawing need that eclipsed all reason, all comfort, all love. She lived in a constant state of wanting, an exquisite torture that defined her existence and, tragically, the lives of her two children.

          Tiffany, her eldest, was a shadow in her own home, a repository for her mother's frustrations and an endless well for her sharp, cutting words. She was the one who saw the mounting bills, the dwindling groceries, the threadbare clothes, and dared to speak of them. She was the one who, with a quiet strength born of despair, tried to anchor her mother to the cold, hard ground of reality. For this, she earned Phyllis's scorn, a constant barrage of verbal jabs, and the sting of a backhand across her cheek.

          Erik, her youngest, was a golden child, bathed in the warmth of Phyllis's unwavering adoration. His desires, however trivial, were met with an alarming alacrity, even as Tiffany's most basic needs were neglected. He was his mother's confidante, the gentle echo that always affirmed her choices, no matter how destructive. "Mommy knows best, right, Erik?" Phyllis would purr, ruffling his hair. "Of course, Mommy," Erik would dutifully reply.

          It began subtly, years ago, with the Montours next door getting a new garden gnome. Phyllis saw it and suddenly felt an irrational, consuming urge. "That gnome... it looks so... established,
doesn't it, Tiffany?" she'd mused, her eyes narrowed. Tiffany, seven at the time, had shrugged. The next day, a significantly grander, more ornate gnome appeared in their own modest patch of weeds, purchased with money meant for Tiffany's new school shoes.

          As years passed, the scale of Phyllis's envy magnified exponentially. A neighbor's new car, a sleek European sedan, sent Phyllis into a frenzy.

          "It's about status, Tiffany," she'd explained, her voice tight with a strange excitement, ignoring Tiffany's plea for a school trip payment. "People see what you drive. It tells them who you are." Within weeks, a slightly older, but undeniably luxurious model sat gleaming in their driveway. The car, once acquired, quickly became just an object. The car payment, meanwhile, became another millstone around Tiffany's neck, as she often had to walk miles to school or work odd jobs to scrounge bus fare for Erik.

          The old heater had given up completely weeks ago, deemed less necessary than the new smart home device that monitored their nonexistent footsteps and adjusted phantom thermostats.

          "Oh, look at this! Anastasia Greene just got the limited edition. It's divine. Every
one's talking about it."

          Hesitantly, "My tooth... It's really bothering me again." Tiffany touched her aching jaw, where a dull throb had become a persistent pain. Toothaches had been a constant companion since Phyllis had declared dental care an "unnecessary expense" in favor of a new, high-definition television.

          Phyllis finally looked up; her expression was turning hard. "Stop being such a drama queen, Tiffany. You're always complaining. There's some instant coffee in the back. Erik, darling, there's some orange juice for you. And for goodness' sake, Tiffany, stop talking about your tooth! It's making me anxious. Besides, who cares about a tooth when everyone is gasping at Anastasia's new acquisition? It's not just a bag, it's a statement. A declaration."

          Erik, munching happily on a dry cracker, nodded. "Yeah, Tiff. Stop complaining."

          Tiffany bit her lip, the taste of blood mixing with the familiar bitterness of her mother's dismissal. She knew what "figuring things out" meant: more skipped meals, more overdue notices, another layer of financial precarity in their already crumbling existence, all for another transient thrill.

          The obsession escalated. Phyllis delved deeper into the online world, a realm where curated perfection fueled her envy. Social media became her personal torture chamber, each perfectly filtered image a fresh wound. She began comparing herself to digital phantoms, influencers with perfectly sculpted lives and endless streams of new, shiny things.

          Their house began to reflect this warped reality. The kitchen, once a place for meals, however sparse, became a gallery for unused, high-end kitchen gadgets: an espresso maker that had cost money that should have paid for groceries or the looming electricity bill. Food, when available, was often cheap, processed, and unhealthy, served on designer plates. Tiffany's clothes were hand-me-downs or thrift store finds, while Phyllis flaunted the latest trends, often bought on credit with eye-watering interest rates. Erik, of course, always had new shoes, new toys, and a full belly; his needs were prioritized with ruthless efficiency.

          One evening, the lights flickered and died. A thick, unsettling silence descended, broken only by Erik's startled cry.

          "Mom! What happened?" Erik whimpered, clutching Phyllis's leg.

          Phyllis, who had been admiring her new, diamond-encrusted watch in the dim glow of her phone screen, sighed dramatically. "Oh, honestly. Just a fuse. Tiffany, darling, be a gem and check the fuse box."

          Tiffany, her stomach rumbling with hunger, knew better. "Mom, it's not a fuse. It's the power bill. It's been overdue for three months. I told you."

          Phyllis snapped. "Don't you dare lecture me, young lady! I'm doing my best! Do you know how much a woman has to strive to maintain a certain image in this world? It's not cheap, Tiffany. People judge. They judge." She waved her hand dismissively. "We'll manage. We always do."

          They managed to eat cold cereal in the dark, and Tiffany studied by candlelight. At the same time, Erik played games on his tablet until its battery died, bundling up in layers of clothes against the creeping cold.

          Tiffany's health began to decline visibly. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her eyes sunken. The toothache festered, radiating pain into her jaw and head, making concentration impossible. Classes became a struggle. She started missing school, too weak, too ashamed, or too unwell to attend.

          "Mom, I need to see a doctor," Tiffany pleaded one morning, her voice hoarse from a persistent cough. "My throat hurts, and I can barely breathe sometimes."

          Phyllis, examining a new designer scarf in the full-length mirror, frowned. "A doctor? For a little cough? Don't be ridiculous. You'll be fine. Just gargle with some salt water. I currently cannot afford a doctor. Not with the new spring collection coming out. And besides, I just bought this incredible scarf. You wouldn't believe the price. But it's an investment. It elevates everything."

          Tiffany retreated, her cough growing ragged.

          Then came the announcement. The prestigious "Bellezza Gala," an annual charity event benefiting local arts, was just around the corner. It was the event of the year, attended by the city's elite, splashed across society pages and social media feeds.

          "Anastasia Greene is going. And Felicity Carmichael. Everyone who's anyone will be there. And I... I need to make a statement. I need to show them that I belong. That I'm not just... ordinary."

          "But Mom, we don't even know these people. Our electricity is still off, and I have a fever."

          Phyllis ignored her, already scrolling through images of designer gowns. "The dress. It has to be perfect. Emerald, green, of course. And the jewelry... oh, the jewelry is crucial." She paused, her gaze locking onto a picture of a stunning emerald and diamond necklace on a luxury website. It was an antique piece, a one-of-a-kind. Its price was astronomical, more easily than their annual income.

          "That's it," Phyllis breathed, her voice filled with a reverence Tiffany had never heard directed at her or Erik. "That's the piece. It's breathtaking. It says,' old money,' it says, 'I am someone important."

          The Bellezza Gala was two weeks away. Tiffany's cough had worsened into a racking gasp. Her body was wracked with shivers and aches. Her jaw throbbed incessantly. She had stopped attending school altogether, too weak to leave her bed.

          "Mom, please. I need to see a doctor. I can't breathe."

          She turned to Tiffany, her eyes sharp. "Not now, Tiffany. Can't you see I'm getting ready? This is important. This is my moment." She gestured at the small, velvet box on her dresser. "Besides, I've spent everything. Absolutely everything. There's nothing left for doctors. Just sleep it off."

          Tiffany closed her eyes, tears tracing paths down her feverish cheeks. She was suffocating, not just from the illness, but from the crushing weight of her mother's incurable malady.

          Phyllis walked into the Bellezza Gala feeling like a queen. The emerald gown clung to her perfectly, and the antique emerald and diamond necklace gleamed at her throat, catching every shard of light. Heads turned. Whispers followed her. She saw Anastasia Greene, saw Felicity Carmichael, and for the first time in her life, Phyllis felt not envy, but a strange, intoxicating sense of triumph. She had arrived. She had surpassed them all. For a glorious hour, she was everything she had ever wanted to be.

          She left early, the triumph already decaying into ash. The drive home in her financed luxury sedan felt colder, darker than usual. She barely noticed the beauty of the city lights, her mind already drifting, seeking the next unattainable object, the next thrill that would surely, finally, fill the emptiness.

          She found the house in complete darkness, an oppressive silence hanging in the air. Erik was asleep on the couch, the costly suit wrinkled, a half-eaten bag of chips spilled on the floor beside him. Tiffany's room was eerily quiet.

          Phyllis stepped in, the expensive fabric of her gown rustling. "Tiffany? Are you asleep, darling?" she asked, her voice flat, devoid of its earlier self-congratulatory lilt.

          There was no answer: only the faint, almost imperceptible sound of shallow, struggling breaths. Phyllis fumbled for her phone, turning on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating Tiffany's face. It was chalk-white, her lips tinged blue, her eyes wide and unseeing, staring up at the ceiling. A faint, rattling sound emanated from her chest with each desperate, shallow gasp.

          "Tiffany?" Phyllis whispered, a tremor of something akin to fear coiling in her gut. She reached out, her fingers brushing against Tiffany's forehead. It was burning hot, slick with sweat.

          Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through Phyllis's self-absorption. This wasn't a drama queen. This was something worse.

          "Erik! Erik, wake up! Call 911!" Phyllis screamed, her voice cracking. She fumbled with her own phone, her fingers clumsy, her mind a whirlwind of confusion.

          The paramedics arrived quickly, their flashing lights casting stark shadows across the house, revealing the squalor, the unpaid bills, the empty refrigerator, the unused luxury items glinting in the beam.

          They worked on Tiffany for what felt like an eternity, their faces grim.

          "Why wasn't she seen sooner, ma'am?" one of them asked, his voice low but firm. "This looks like severe, untreated pneumonia. And that jaw infection... It's spread. She's in critical condition."

          Phyllis could only shake her head, clutching the emerald necklace, its weight suddenly unbearable, a crushing burden around her throat.

          Erik, now fully awake and terrified.

          Tiffany was rushed to the hospital. Phyllis hovered, a phantom of her former self, the emerald necklace lying forgotten in a drawer, the designer gown still in its hanger, a cruel monument to her folly.

          One cold, gray morning, the doctor delivered the news. Tiffany wouldn't recover. The infection had taken too strong a hold, too late. Her body, weakened by malnutrition and neglect, had given up.

          Phyllis was left with her possessions, an ocean of debt, and the gaping, unfilled void. The relentless pursuit of the latest and greatest, of what others had, had not brought her status or joy. It had stripped her bare, leaving her with the bitter, echoing envy.

          And in the oppressive silence of her ruined home, Phyllis knew, with chilling certainty, that this hollowness, this utter desolation, was the only thing she would ever truly own.

Words: 1972
Deadly Sin: Envy