Original fiction *gasp! faint* "Cassandra"

[dragonimp]

This is a reworking of something best left forgotten. Right now, it goes nowhere, and has no story, let alone anything resembling a plot, but Cassie wouldn't shut up. So. This is to get her off my back, as it were.

You asked me who I am. You genuinely think you want to know, so I'll tell you.

I'm Cassandra.

That's the best answer I can give you.

That wasn't always my name. My parents or somebody must have given me a name when I was born, but my sense of I used to get so tangled up with everyone else's sense of I that I would lose track of which I was mine. Was I Mary? Randal? Jacob? Evelyn? They all felt right; they all felt wrong. I learned quickly that people became upset if I asked, so I tolerated the not knowing, the ambiguity of self. It wasn't as if I knew any other way of being.

That started to change when I was nine. When I was nine, I found a book on Greek myths. I remember it very clearly, one of the first memories that I could confidently label mine and know it was the correct mine. In the book, I read a story about a girl who was gifted with knowing the future and cursed with never being believed. I remember thinking, that's me. I may not know the future, but I, too, have been cursed with knowing what I shouldn't, and I, too, am never believed.

I'm Cassandra.

That gave me a label to hang on events and memories and feelings, and gradually I started to be able to distinguish my sense of I. Whenever it starts to get muddled, I just have to think of that story to remember, I'm Cassandra. It's a blanket I can wrap around myself, a fence I can put up between my self and everyone else's self.

I don't know if I remember my parents. I remember a lot of parents; I just don't know if any of them were mine. Some I wish truly were; others I pray were not. All I know for sure is that my parents were gone by the time I was nine. Very few people have tried to be a parent to me since. I put people off. They think, I don't want this girl, she's got this look in her eyes, she gives me the creeps, I'll take someone else, get her away, I don't like the way she's looking at me. Even the people who are paid to take care of me think that way. None of them truly want me around. It makes me sad, but I can't blame them, and I'm used to it. After all, it's not as if I've known any other way of being.

You're hoping to find out why I don't speak. It's not a very complicated reason, so I'll explain.

I don't remember the last time I spoke. I was little, I think; five or six at the oldest. I couldn't tell what was okay to know and what wasn't, and nobody wants to hear someone talk about things they're not supposed to know, especially a child. What I said frightened people, and they would get angry, and more and more I began to say nothing instead of risking saying the wrong thing. Eventually it was easier to simply not speak at all.

I know you think you want me to speak. I know you think you want to figure me out. But I already make you uncomfortable. If you're like the others, you'll decide the challenge isn't worth the discomfort, and you'll give up. Or maybe my caregivers will grow too uncomfortable, and I'll be moved again. That's the way it's always been.

Comments

[radcat38.livejournal.com]

Interesting...I was wondering if you were going to expnd on it. I feel for this girl.

[dragonimp.livejournal.com]

This poor thing needs a plot, or at least a purpose ;_;. But I want to finish at least a rough draft of Silver before I start on anything else. Good to know Cassie came through here, though. Thanks!