She has seen them, her pernicious political predators, force those far more fierce and capable than she could ever be — into cages, cubicles, deadly conflicts.
At the mercy of her political predators, she endures the mockery of endless reverse-psychologies, countless militant mythologies, which demand that she pawn off the vestiges of her peace-of-mind, as a pawn of her masters’ rivals: shuffle off docility, expose herself to the social disdain which, for women, commonly brings abandonment; which, in all but the rarest cases, means — whether in hours or decades: an agonizing death.
Stripped of all survival instincts beyond the servility of “charm,” she daily suffers the doubled soul-destruction of both complete helplessness and constant blame for it.
If, the theory goes, she would just build enough bombs, whether military or social — then she would be let to love a progeny. If those bombs win her betters a war of enough value — then she might even manage to spare her love from isolation: buy a sibling.
Thus thrust since birth, thence expected to evince — somehow — more elegance, as loom daily harbingers of her overripened worth.
Shaved and shined — de-odorized and odorized; her dreams become whimpers; and her only consistent hopes: to feel less, to stay braced for these constant soul-rending social storms, telling herself that, someday, she will move to heal as soon as pain allows, so she can reunite with love; and, from there, move on to happiness.
Then, after a life of loneliness, a life of being scorned as a “spinster” — scorned for surviving despite abandonment, if only emotional — she dies alone.
For disease-prevention purposes, her carcass is quickly collected and incinerated. For economic purposes, her hovel is quickly sanitized and re-rented. For morale purposes, memories of her are quickly made to vanish.