marilyn was what she called herself. others called her monroe. she didn't look a thing in the world like her namesake: dark black hair, with even darker skin. she cut her hair into a bob when she was sixteen. it was a cheap cut, blunt on the edges. blunt, too, were the remarks it received. they were well deserved. with the triangle top, she looked a lot like an alien creature, trying to phone home using a portable head antennae.
what's interesting about marilyn? why is she remarkable? what constituted herself special enough to have someone stop and remark upon her life?
nothing. there was nothing remarkable about marilyn. she worked from seven thirty to five at the corner store. she sold apples and tampons and beef jerky and Vault(C) energy drinks! to the customers that came in after noon. when there was no traffic, she just sat in the corner and did nothing. she'd stare out the window and watch the cars drive by, imagining the lives of the people inside them.
she felt watched. always. the same way that she watched the cars and the lives outside her window, she was eternally conscious of being the potential object of attention to someone else. monroe had decided, at the age of thirteen, that her life did not belong to her. it belonged to all of those with whom she would come in contact in her life. her life was of and for the people.
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