Never Let Them Define You

TRYING TO FIND A WAY

She wakes up on the couch and gets startled, then touches her head, and closes her eyes. Couldn't even make it to bed. She stands up and yawns, stretches her arms out, and blinks a few times. Her feet drag across the floor, she yanks the portafilter out of the espresso machine and shoves grounds into it. She stumbles back to her couch, sits absently while staring at the wall, and blinks slowly.

Thoughts, thoughts, where are you? We want coffee. You'll get it. We need it NOW. Worry not, my dearest, I'll feed you the golden elixir of America. Thank you, oh gracious Cassandra, you are the greatest. Please, you sound like my fans. The machine squeals and stutters before brown liquid squirts into her favorite cup, shortly followed by steam, and then more steam. It's broken...probably; I mean, is it broken if it still does what it's asked to do?

She slinks over and grabs the cup, then pours in an unhealthy amount of cream and sugar. After chugging half the glass, she starts another, and walks up to the only mirror that isn't cracked. She stares at herself drinking coffee, then not drinking, and just standing there with a cup in her hand. She pulls on her curly black hair, which is so dark and shiny that it looks coated with oil, and lets it fall again as her hand falls to her side. Cassandra Nova, greatest new talent from Michigan. Prodigy? Creative genius? Your new obsession? We'll just have to find out. Her brain recites that headline daily, ever since she saw it two weeks ago. Me. ME. It's funny how they always say Michigan and not Detroit.

She stares into her indigo eyes, which are streaked with splinters of violet that radiate from her pupils. She chugs the last of her drink, finishing it in three swigs, and places her cup in the sink full of cups and grabs the next one. She sips this one like she isn't a caffeine addict, then sits on the couch again, and stares at a painting hung up on the wall. It's a Picasso, a man who proved you didn't have to be a good person to be a good artist, and the work is The Old Guitarist. I wonder if that will be me someday, performing to no audience but my own, and still loving my work. I think he loves it, I mean, why else would he be sitting on the street playing when no one's asking him to?

She smells her coffee, which assaults her with bitterness, and is sickly sweet too. Marco...what did I do to him? She looks down into her cup, sways it around gently, and watches the liquid turn in her cup as steam gently rolls off the top. 'They don't want you;' how could I say that to him, when I know how he feels, and I support him? Just because I don't want to be famous doesn't mean I should trash his dreams...I guess, but it's just-

She suddenly hears a knock on the door, but stops herself halfway through getting up, and squints. That better not be fucking Josephine. She prepares to smile, but gives up halfway to the door, and opens it slowly.

"Hi, Cassandra! Oh, aren't you just a ray of sunshine today?" says Josephine. Her parka is covered in snow, she's shivering, and her smile is stuck on like usual.

"Hello...what is it now?"

"We could at least pretend to like each other."

She blinks.

"Okay, well, you know that show you're doing this afternoon? It got cancelled unfortunately due to the blizzard, so you're off the hook."

She keeps looking into her eyes.

"Don't get too excited." She chuckles. "Oh, and a little memo from the big guys." She passes her a note.

She looks at the note, snatches it, and holds it by her hip as she continues to stare at her. "Anything else?"

"No, nothing important." She starts to walk away, then stops and turns around. "One thing though, just a personal note, you could really stand to work on your attitude. This is a good job you got...don't want to screw it up." She chuckles again.