Another Monday for the Downtrodden

Long gone are the days of solitude of the droplets of rain. They all come in armies now, fighting the rigid poise of our windows like there was no tomorrow. Ever since she went to bed, meaning ever since she was born, it has not stopped raining.
She wakes up, pulling a paper-thin sheet of fragile glass from her feet. Glass keeps no warmth, yet it gives her what people seek: transparency. That sheet she could so easily break represents the crush of her human spirit, with all its mysteries and shady charms. No living thing, no matter how pure, will ever be translucent.
In getting to her feet, she cracks open her own skull, inserting the cotton brains that she had put on her night-stand when going to sleep. A smiling mouth is tattooed on her face, her muscles all wired up in the mechanical effort to smile. But she feels nothing.
Behind her, there is a two-way mirror. Behind that, is a middle-aged lady who has been monitoring the cotton-brained girl for nineteen years. She pushes a lonely button, opening a door, then commands the girl to go out. The beast is thus released into the harmless wilderness, sent to go about her daily routine.
With a wry smile, the middle-aged lady takes out a file from a cabinet. It holds the records of the last traces of cerebral activity in the girl: a dream. She had dreamt that her body had crushed the glass sheet and, without using the given brains, she had set the cotton ones on fire before starting to dance around the room, finally falling dead from the exhilarating exhaustion.
The scientist snapped the file shut in anger and frustration. She took a deep breath and decided that nineteen years were nineteen too many: she would not partake in this tomfoolery anymore.
She took her badge and let it drop to the floor, walking out of the room-behind-the-mirror, leaving behind a white coat and a shard of metal inscribed: TH. SOCIETY, CHIEF BRAINWASHER.