The Beautiful Ones sit on their obvious pedestal. I watch as each one smiles and laughs, and even talks to one another. They do not glance down at us. They don't even look, to do that would be frowned upon by the Perfect Ones. It isn't illegal, yet, just a potential point taken off their imaginary tally. I sit on the floor, while The Beautiful Ones sit in padded chairs on the balconies and The Perfect Ones sit on the small stage. You see, at meetings like these, The Perfect Ones make sure there is a distinct difference between us and the Beautiful Ones. They let us know we're inferior, not by saying so exactly but in the ways they show us. The whispers, the seating, the food, the housing, everything is different for us. They never comes right out and tell us what we're called, but we know. We see it in their eyes, every time they're forced to look at us. We're the Unfortunates.
