text: It was the year 1782, the year Maria was to wed one of the many eligible bachelors in the country. She didn't have her mind on anyone in particular but herself, but the thought of having to share even a ballroom with a man riled her up to the point she felt on the verge of a terrible illness. Her guts had been tying themselves in knots ever since the Queen had announced the courting season opened, and her home (well, her father's) had suitors pouring in at even the most unusual times of the night. It was expected anyway. While she had what men wanted in aesthetics and body build, her father was a rich person with connections that reached even the King himself. Who wouldn't want to be related to someone like that? Maria yawned and continued to think about her case. What was going to happen after the marriage? She would live as her husband's *marionette* for the rest of her life? Or she would serve as some sort of servant? Answering his beck and call? She wanted more for herself, but society spoke for everybody, even though those who were the society never really agreed with all they said. *What do I do?* She flipped herself in such a way that her upper body faced the nicely painted ceiling, the delicate strokes of different colors of paint somehow calming her frayed nerves. She felt she could be more than she was, more than society had predicted she was. She turned her head to the side and jumped up immediately when she realized her makeup might stain her pillowcase. Turning to the mirror, her eyes met those of her reflection. *I guess that's the end of the day. The makeup isn't necessary anymore, is it?* She mustered some strength into her body and pushed herself off the bed and walked toward the sink in the bathroom. She tapped the tap handle as water gushed out almost immediately. She stared at her image in the mirror one last time. Maybe it was best that she and her family members knew exactly what was going on. It didn't matter anyway. Whatever season she decides to get married would be the beginning of the end. And somehow, everyone in her father's care was prepared for it. Her palms were cupped as she placed them under the running water and brought it to her face. Her eyes stung from staying awake so late. Not like she cared. She couldn't just be bothered. Her hands did all the work, scrubbing her eyeliner and mascara from her eyes, cleaning the lipstick off of her lips, giving her the natural look she was born with. There was a reason why she was called Bruixa. Although it wasn't her name (because she was never given one), it told the truth about what she looked like. She had given herself the name but not once had she answered anyone that called her that. The girl with the heart of gold. But the face of a witch. &#x200B; \ Please comment if you want more parts of this.