Doomed Prophetess.

That's what my fuckin' name means.

I checked it one the Internet. The site says that the Name 'Cassandra' is Greek and the meaning derived from mythology. So that would mean that in some Greek myth a person with the same name as mine was a doomed prophetess.


Maybe that's why I never really like being called 'Cassandra' or any of the derived nicknames that many in my life attempted to create like, 'Cassy', 'Sandra', 'Cass' and so on. I've always been called 'Van'.

Cassandra VanWright. That's my full name.

So I've always been called 'Van'. Some of my immigrant friends can only think of automobiles when they come across my name. That's why Joyce calls me 'Car-woman' sometimes. God, how I hate it when she does.

Van. Van. Van. Van.

Can anyone not get that?

If I were to write a novel, I would begin each chapter as if it were the beginning of another book. To confuse the reader, of course.

As a writer I want to confuse. I want to disturb. I want to make them cry and laugh. I want them to understand me. That kind of writing never pays anyway, right?

This morning I was fiddling with a screwdriver. I remembered seeing a movie wherein a guy gets killed because someone drove a screwdriver through his head. I tried to imagine the procedure.

It seemed hard considering the skull. To pierce through the side of the head. I asked my father how it could be done and all he asked me was why I was always thinking of such things. I just smiled to myself.

That night, my friend Yvonne and I took a walk. Yvonne says she's a lesbian. I think she's bisexual. Usually lesbians didn't want to find out that they were in love with another woman but Yvonne seemed to want it. Want it even before she became it.

We started walking and she lit up a cigarette. As always I said the same thing.

"You shouldn't smoke, Yvonne."

She inhaled the poison in and then exhaled it out and the smoke became visible. I imagined the dirty smoke being inhaled inside her. She turned to me and said, "Why not?"

I sighed like I was a parent teaching her child about common sense. "It kills. It takes away seven seconds of your life for every puff." My voice tasted dry and unhealthy compared to hers. Which is quite ironic because she was the one with the poisoned stick. "And besides, you're underage." I finished.

She let out a laugh into the night sky. I shivered. But I wasn't afraid of her. I was afraid of what I could say and do to her frail spirit.

"At least I'm getting the job done." She said. Referring to her 'suicidal' personality. But to me, it was just that. Just a personality she put on. Like we all put on.

She took another puff.

I didn't wish to be this way. In fact, I have no reason to be depressed. I have a good life. But why am I so lonely.

I decided to not tell Yvonne off anymore. She would never listen and she never did, anyway.

But I knew in my heart that I always wanted to tell her what to do and wanting to tell her that she was wrong. To me, she was wrong a lot of times anyway. But we've shared too many years and if I was to tell her every wrong scene she's created our friendship would fall apart.

"So how's Judacia?" She asked.

"She's okay."

"You're friend's hot, Van."

"You may like her looks but trust me, she's not your type."

"Why not? I've met her, we've had some similar interests."

"Just because you have similar interests doesn't mean you're perfect for each other." I shot back.

We were silent. We had similar interests. . .in literature, most of all. I sounded angry when I shot that at her.

She looked at me like I was something obviously mental.

Then she sat on some grass of the sidewalk. I sat down with her and hugged her. "I won't have another friend like you, right, Yvonne?" I asked.

She nodded then hugged me back.

Then I said, "Just don't kill yourself. . .yet. Not until I go."

By 'go' I meant die. And when I said go I probably meant suicide.