Marie

MARY WAS NOW SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. Contrary to popular belief, Marie was very serious at seventeen. She worked during the day and slept at night. That's what made him look weird, too healthy, maybe. Few were people like Marie. A healthy mind in a healthy body. Some might have found her perfect. But no. In this society, perfect people were frowned upon. Women with oversized legs and protruding bones were much preferred to girls, with skin, but not too much, and simple beauty. Simple. This is how people defined Mary. A young girl with neutral features, calculating her movements without calculating them and smiling without smiling. A small daisy, fragile and robust. Marie, he didn't care. She was not found to be special, and she was not found to be special either. She lived, a little mechanical doll, well surrounded. Loved and hated - because in this society you could also hate people for no reason, just to be able to hate something. But Marie, that we hate her, she didn't care. Or at least she didn't care. The phantom mockery crossed her to disappear. Marie had no friends. Knowledge, at most, but no one to turn to sincerely, with whom to share what we call secrets. Anyway, Marie had nothing to say. She got up, ate, worked, ate, worked, ate, slept. And got up again. It was his life. It was Marie's life. And that was the only thing she liked.