Cassandra

I'll never post this.

When I was fifteen, my school put on a play called Agamemnon. They cast me as Cassandra, a woman who is cursed to see the future and speak it, but never be believed by anyone. People said I was amazing. It must have been my horror.

I couldn't imagine, when I was fifteen, what could ever be worse than knowing a truth and trying to make people believe it, but also knowing that no matter how much you say or how hard you try, no one will ever listen.

I don't need to imagine any more.

Last Christmas, I bought a new dress for a party, and I wore it for a man I knew would never look at me. He kissed my cheek, but it was the kiss of a little boy trying to apologize for something he didn't really understand.

Then he died. I mean, there was a lot in between. There was even the time he proved to me, once and for all, that he really did consider me his friend. He proved it by needing me.

He died, but he didn't die. That's why I can't post this. That's not what I try to tell people.

I've told the police, the Times, a few tabloids. I've told them all over and over. Sherlock Holmes was a good man. Sherlock Holmes did what he did because it was the right thing to do. He never lied the way they said. He didn't need to.

I've seen him working, hour upon hour, and I know it was real. I've watched him sacrifice food and sleep to save someone, over and over, not that he'd ever admit it.

I've loved him, and that's really how I know, not that I tell anyone that part.

When you love the way I've loved Sherlock Holmes, you know someone, just as surely as poor Cassandra knew the fate of the men of Troy. No one cares what I know.

I wish—I wish sometimes that I could go back and play her again.


A/N: Inspired by Loo Brealey's article in which she mentioned playing Cassandra.