Cassandra in Reverse

by Holly Smale

I don’t understand it, but there’s just something in me that knows how to stand still when the earth shatters.

Because if things can be broken, then things can be changed; and if things can be changed, then it stands to good and logical reason that they can also be fixed.

Love is a courageous thing to pursue, and to me Eos represents hope, and resilience, and light in the darkest hour. She represents the strength to keep trying, even when you know you’re doomed. She represents new beginnings and refusing to accept defeat. She also represents the ability to change your husband into a cicada when he gets very old and kind of annoying.

Honestly, I think I can take changing the universe in my stride as long as nobody screws with my bedroom.

The full truth is not easy or comfortable; it is often far safer to construct an alternative that keeps everyone happy instead. Especially when it’s the story we’re weaving for ourselves.

That’s the thing I’ve never really understood about emotions. We’re given unhelpful words for them—sad, happy, angry, scared, disgusted—but they’re not accurate and there never seems to be anywhere near enough of them. How could there be? Emotions aren’t binary or finite: they change, shift, run into each other like colored water. They are layered, three-dimensional and twisted; they don’t arrive in order, one by one, labeled neatly. They lie on top of each other, twisting like kaleidoscopes, like prisms, like spinning bird feathers lit with their own iridescence.

Logically, there’s no point being angry when there’s nobody left to be angry with: it’s a waste of time and effort, and I’ve done plenty of that over the last few weeks.

As if I have to hide who I am, all of the time. As if I have to pretend to be like everyone else, just so people will love me. As if I’m constantly being asked to share, to reveal myself, to open up, and when I do—when I finally show people who I truly am—it’s not what anyone wanted and they explode right in front of me. I am so fucking done with making myself smaller.

Because I am not a monster or a goddess; I am not a prophet or a princess, a gorgon or a priestess. I am not Aphrodite or Athena, Arachne or Medusa. I did not emerge from a seashell, or the inside of a head; I do not have to weave my story, over and over again, and it is not—and never should be—told by other people. My fate is not written in time, or sand, or stars, or in a tapestry, or a spider’s web, and it never actually was. I am Cassandra: the future was always in me.

Because the whole truth is overwhelming, but sometimes you have to be brave enough to look it straight in the eye. Artemis has spent the last ten years apologizing, but I was the one who couldn’t forgive, who ran away, who cut her off without giving her a chance to make things better. Who tucked my pain and memories neatly away where they could never be accessed, never be processed, never be given the room to breathe or grow old. Who trapped the past in a time capsule, sealed it up and buried it deep inside me where nobody could reach it.

My sister is temporarily taking my old box room in Sal’s house while she works out what she wants to do next, which—knowing her—will never conclusively happen. I’m fighting the urge to make a plan for her. Some people are weird like that, and just prefer not to have one.

Let me be the cool aunt with the amazing clothes and the quiet house full of books and peace and beautiful things that nobody ever touches. Let me have the life I’m supposed to have. Let me love you both, the best way I can. Please.”

As for the rest of my story... There’s just no way of knowing what will happen to it. I’d imagine it will change. I’d imagine I will want it to. Maybe it will have different characters. Different emotions. Different social events I have to avoid. Maybe my story will be better, maybe it will be worse. Maybe it’ll be bigger, maybe it’ll be smaller. Maybe I’ll be a hero, maybe I’ll be a monster. I’d imagine ultimately I’ll hover somewhere in between, the way most of us non-goddesses tend to. Only time will tell, and now I’ll be listening just as hard as I can.