That golden harp was always so perfect. Her posture, her anatomy, even the way she moved—delicate, graceful, without a single flaw. Her face was carved from ivory, but a certain god had once breathed enough life into those glinting lips that it seemed that her cheeks took on a nearly rosy color. No doubt it was because her life was so blissful. Ah, to just do nothing but sit pretty in this peaceful clean chamber, Cassandra thought mockingly. Perhaps if she wanted, Cassandra could just walk straight up to her and pull her cheek. And for sure, that cold earthly material would bend to her will, masquerading as supple, youthful flesh.
She's been good, Cassandra believes. She's gone for daily strolls through the gardens, eaten everything she's been given, and when she speaks to her "beloved husband", her comments aren't so snippy anymore. She's even been doing the normal things a normal woman does to pass time: sewing, singing, dancing—you know, the works. Perhaps it even seems that her mental health is improving. But this is not the case. If only burying herself into normal activities would put her mind at ease, just as everyone she's met so far has assured her! Instead, it's all rather tedious to her, so instead it gives her time to think.
And she is no fool. She knows that the artificial qualities of this harp woman run more than skin-deep. She thinks that Cassandra doesn't notice, the way she bats her eyelids at her master when he enters the room. The way she squeals with delight when he strums her, the way the dimples on her face curve insidiously when she holds out a prune cake to the imprisoned girl, when she thinks that she has fooled her into believing that she is a friend. This is so Cassandra will tell her her secrets, hopefully the most dreadful ones, so that she will report it to her Lord Apollo. Perhaps it would stop the way he looked so passionately at her, and maybe Cassandra would like that too. But it doesn't work, and so both parties are left unsatisfied.
Right now, Cassandra lays flat on the bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling. She's wondering why she feels so angry right now, so much filled with rancor than usual that she wants to twist something's neck. And eventually, after an hour or so, an idea occurs. It makes her smirk. So the harp woman wanted drama. She'd get it, then.
Screaming. It feels like that's what she's the best at. She screams, she makes others scream, and then they scream curses back at her to ward her superstitions off. Some things just never change. She pulls it off effortlessly as a sport, ripping out her hair, running around the chamber on all fours, flipping over tables, chasing after the harp woman whilst screaming bloody murder. Except this is different, because this one cannot scream back. She sings. She is frightened, and so all she can do is run away and cry. A few times, she plucks up the courage to stop running and offer a sweet to Cassandra to soothe her into submission, like a slave nanny to a spoiled child.
Except, Cassandra feels ill. So terribly ill, maybe she'll throw up. And so she smacks it out of the harp's hand and vomits all over her. So much food she's been forced to eat! All of it too rich to hold down, even for the Trojan princess' high standards. Today's special was roasted bass stuffed with feta crumbles, pine nuts, and tomato. She cackles loudly at the harp's horrified expression and shoves her to the ground. She finds it funny how she slips in the chunky vile fluids over and over again. And then they play again. And again.
It's not too long before Apollo himself shows up, alerted by his faithful servant's cries. He bursts into the room with a gust of great power, and it causes Cassandra to tumble.
"Cassandra," his voice vibrates powerfully throughout every brick. She smiles almost coquettishly.
"My husband," she coos, taking a moment to spit out a chunk of half-digested bass. "My pretty, pretty husband. Have you come to visit your whores?"
"Stop, Cassandra," he booms, his eyes flashing hellfire. "Stop right now, and sit down."
But she laughs at him and starts throwing things off the furniture. The lapis lazuli vases, the bow racks, the tapestry racks she'd tended to for a month, and his offerings. His offerings.
The first wine jug to crack against the stone floor, and Cassandra is sent flying across the room, and onto the bed again. The sheer curtains curl around her limbs like snakes, and she is rendered helpless suddenly. Her laughter quickly turns to screams of terror because there's a memory in the back of her mind of when she was held down forcefully like this, of when she tried to close her legs but could not.
She heard someone crying and someone else soothing. Craning her head, she sees the 2 of them. And she wants to spit again. How can he want to hug her like that when she's covered in puke? And of course the girl will drag on her sobs as long as possible. Cassandra is disgusted, and certainly not jealous.
10 minutes later, when the sound of crying fades away, she waits and sees his face above her. It is gnarled with a concoction of ugly emotions: disappointment, disgust, sadness. It must be infectious, because those are the emotions that suddenly overrun her. She squirms.
"Don't you hug me too! Don't you dare!"
"Cassandra."
She wants to beat her puffy red face with her hands, except they are tightly restrained and she cannot stop his rosy lips from kissing hers, nor the honey-stewed breath that makes her succumb to peace and suddenly feel sleepy. When he pulls away he wipes the vomit from his mouth, and she suddenly bursts into tears.
"I hate you!" She screams and kicks, ugly words threatening to spill out of her like stuffed bass. It tastes bitter and makes her choke. "I wish you were dead, you hear me?! I wish I were dead! It's not fair!"
It wasn't fair. He could do anything he pleased. He could derive her of her sanity and her future, and take her love all the same, all whilst tying her up like an untamed dog. She screams until something in her throat suddenly pops, and the curtains loosen enough for her to throw a hand to her neck. A mere whistle comes out, nothing more. He's gazing at her with pity. It's not fair.
"See what you've done?" She whispers croakingly, like the whine of a bicycle horn. "See how you've gained everything, through just a wave of your hand. And see how I lost everything just as easily."