The Last Prophetess

Part 1

The strong wooden doors slam shut with force, causing the floor to tremble as I am flung inside against a wall. Heavy bars crash into place and I, Cassandra of Troy, am a prisoner once more. I hurl myself against the solid doors in desperation, but it is of no use. They are an immovable enemy.

Sliding down to the floor, I rest my head on my knees. "Locked in again," I moan. My father, the king of Troy, does not appreciate my ill-tidings, however true they may turn out to be. He says he does not need my madness while this war with the Greek scum has reached its tenth year. I don't need to see the future to know I am branded insane. I seethe with anger and bitterness towards them all. My family and the people of Troy brought this war on themselves by not heeding my warnings. I despise Helen and those Greeks for causing so much bloodshed. But in the blackest part of my heart I nurse a special hatred, saved alone for the god Apollo.

I should be a glorious and beautiful prophetess, renown for my wisdom, but instead I am thought to be a madwoman spinning a web of crazed lies all because of that wretched god. He gave me the gift of prophecy and cursed me with it at the same time, because I did not return his love. It was not love I saw in his eyes. So he spurned me and made it so every word I speak of the future is true, yet never believed.

I pitch a vase against the impenetrable wall opposite me and sigh when it shatters into a thousand pieces. Eventually my anger dissipates and I unsteadily rise to my feet. Hating Apollo does me no good; it only weakens my mind against the madness. It is a poisonous thing, anger, that seizes control of the mind and lets the bitter emotions inside rule.

I walk across the floor, my feet sliding over the grooves worn in by anxious pacing. I know exactly where they are. Sometimes the places we know best are the very places where we feel most caged. As I fall back on my bed, I reflect on the conversation with my father just before he locked me in again.

He had sat on the edge of my bed and sighed wearily. "The war..." he had started. "Don't speak to me of it," I had said bitterly. "My brothers, Paris and Hector, and so many innocent Trojans are dead because of this cruel war! If only you had listened to me, in the beginning; but no. You chose to die."

King Priam had sat in painful silence for a moment, then risen angrily to his feet. "I will not let your insanity defile the honor of my brave son Hector," he had growled. He then stormed out of the room, but as I tried to follow him, guards had pushed me back.

I fear that my father is ready to give up, but what can I do trapped up in here? Sleep visits me after a time, scarce and fleeting. I always find memories instead of dreams, this time ten years in the past.