Cassandra: A Short Story

nodded. “Your brother?”

  “No.”

  “Your cousin?” I nodded. “How much older is Thing than you?

  “Five years.”

  “That makes Thing ten. That’s an early age to start molesting. You said you were five when it started, how old were you when it stopped?”

  I was too ashamed to answer that question. “Can we please stop now? I really need a break.”

  “Just a few more questions.”

  “No. I need a break, please.”

  I stood in the waiting area of Zakiyyah office. I was a mess. My vision was blurry from tears. Thankfully, no one was there to see me like this, I was always her last patient. Suddenly I was trembling, my knees buckled. Jimmy, Zakiyyah’s assistant, ran from behind his desk. He took me by the arm, “here, sit down. Take some deep breaths and I’ll get you some water.”

  Once I got myself together I went back into her office. Why couldn’t I look like her? She was so beautiful. I loved how her dark chocolate skin glowed, I admired her curvy body and her thick natural fro. I patted my tiny, thirsty bush in envy. She was so beautifully put together, and I was sitting here looking like a hot mess.

  “Have you told anyone about the abuse?”

  “No.” I wanted to. On so many occasions I wanted to tell someone. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but never could I bring myself to say them. It wouldn’t have mattered if I did, Thing was the family favorite. The oldest grandchild, everyone loved Thing. Nothing Thing did was wrong. Keeping my mouth shut always seemed like the wise choice. “How could she not know?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My mom, how could she not know what Thing was doing to me? Every time she would leave us alone, I would silently beg her not to. But every time she left me alone, in danger, with a smile on her face. I thought moms were supposed to have a sixth sense about these kind of things. Why didn’t she hear me crying out?”

  “Cassandra this is a unique case. You and Thing were so close in age, I’m sure she couldn’t even begin to fathom what was going on.”

  “Maybe she just didn’t care. I always felt like she loved me less than my sisters. When she moved to a different state, she took my sisters with her, but left me with my grandma. Once I went to visit her, I begged her not to send me back, she told me to stop all that crying and get my ass in the car. She never cared about me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case. Have you ever asked your mom about this?”

  Once I again I shook my head no. I wanted to ask her why, but I never had the courage to. I’ve always been so weak, never had the strength or courage to defend myself. Zakiyyah scribed something in her pad. She looked at her watch. “Cassandra I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today. Her take this,” she handed me a small journal.

  “What’s this for?”

  “I want you to write down what you do between our sessions. How you feel, things like that. I want to you to get used to expressing yourself, without fear of being judged.”

  I stood up and shook her hand. “Thank you Zakiyyah, see you next time.”

  4

  “Cassandra you look beautiful as always.”

  “Thank you,” I said blushing. I knew she was lying, but it was still nice to hear. Zakiyyah was always good for a shot of self-confidence.

  “I want to start off with the journal I told you to keep, did you do it?” She clicked on the camera as I pulled out of the journal. I was uncomfortable talking in front of it, but it was necessary, sometimes I couldn’t remember our session. “Cassandra, you have a job? Where do you work at?”

  That’s right, I did have a job. Everything was blurred together, it was hard for me to remember things from day to day. “I work at Kroger, in the deli department.”

  “Do you like?”

  “I think so. I don’t know.”

  “That’s alright, don’t get flustered. This is what the journal is for, to help you remember.” She handed it back to me. “You want to read through it a little bit?” Reading through it helped me remember a little bit, but it was still somewhat jumbled. “Cassandra before we talk about Thing, I want to take a minute and talk about the dreams again. You said you burned Thing, was it alive?”

  “Yes. I hated that one the most. The smell is just awful.”

  “That one, the dreams are not all the same?”

  “They all start the same, but Thing dies different in each one.”

  “What are some of the ways Thing dies.”

  “Well, in one dream I beat it to death.”

  “That’s right, you told me about that one. Continue.”

  “In another I stab It, and in one I choke It.”

  “Cassandra, why are you smiling?” She was going to really think I was crazy if I answered that. I shrugged my shoulders. “If I’m going to help you, you have to be honest with me.”

  “I know it’s not right, but I like the dream where I choke Thing to death. I feel powerful as I choke the life out of it, the fear in its eyes is motivation. The only thing I wish I could change is the smell of onion on its breath.”

  She was concerned. Whenever I said something that concerned her, she would twist her wedding ring. “There is nothing wrong with thinking ill thoughts about someone who has hurt you. That does not make you a bad person, it makes you human. But to this extent, is rather extreme.”

  “I agree. I hate Thing. I avoid it at all cost. I’m not ashamed to say at times I wished harm on it. However, in all these years, I’ve never wished Thing dead, nor have I wished to be the one to do it.”

  “You told me that in the dreams you consider stopping, then Thing asks you why are you doing this, and you lose it. Why does that question set you off?”

  I grip the journal hard, so hard it started to bend. “How dare you ask me that. Like what you put me through my whole life was nothing. I was just a little girl, I was scared, I trusted you. Now you have the audacity to ask me that question like you are so innocent.”

  “Cassandra, clam down. Thing is not here, it’s me, Zakiyyah.” I look to her and remember where I am. My hand hurts so I loosen my grip on the journal. “If you’re up to it, I would like to talk a little more about what Thing did to you.” Of course I couldn’t avoid that for long. Maybe this time would be easier.

  “The next instance I remember is when I was a little older. I was sick, mama had to come pick me up from school. I had a fever, it was 101.1. Mama dropped me off home and went across the street to my aunt’s house. I was sitting in a chair she had in her room when Thing came in. Mom must’ve sent it over to check on me. Thing didn’t waste any time. It pulled off its shirt first, then mine.

  Thing licked my breast, I developed early. “You are burning up, my baby is really sick,” it said. Then it pulled off both of our pants. I was so scared, what was I supposed to do. Thing laid down on the floor, and pulled me down on top. It pushed me down until I was face to face with its crouch. “You do me then I’ll do you.” It pushed my face deep in its crouch. I tried to pull away. “Come on, you’re not done with me yet.””

  I began to gag. “I can still taste it. It’s so awful. Just out the blue, the taste is in my mouth. It’s so nasty.” I try to wipe my tongue with my fingers, but I can still taste it. “Why won’t the taste go away.” I could feel the vomit about to come up. On cue, Zakiyyah grabbed a trash can. As soon as it was in front of me, I begin to hurl. Zakiyyah pats my back. “Don’t touch me,” I shout in between waves of vomit.

  A few minutes later I was able to calm down a bit. I sat in my chair focusing on the taste of the Big Red in my mouth. “Gum?” I held out the pack to Zakiyyah.

  She smiled and took one. “Most families have a no secret policy, that way they avoid situations like these. And to get the victim the help they need.”

  “Please, you grew up in a black family. So you know the black family motto; what goes on in this house, stays in this house.”

  “I know it all too well. That’s one of the factors in my
picking my profession. That and the stigmata of mental illness in the black community.”

  “Which is why I keep everything I go through and everything I feel to myself.”

  5

  “Wow, so this guy really told you, you have a pretty face?” Zakiyyah had bumped up my sessions from two times a week to three times a week. I didn’t mind, despite the difficulty of them, they were the highlight of my week.

  “He did, and couldn’t understand why I was insulted.”

  “Because it was an insult,” she said, closing the journal. “Telling you that you have a pretty face is the same as telling me I’m pretty for a dark skinned girl.”

  “I never understood that, if you’re pretty you are pretty, period. Did you get that a lot?”

  “Yes, especially in my family. Most of them still have the paper bag mentality.”

  “Before we talk about Thing or your dreams, I would like to talk about your mother.”

  “Why?”

  “It appears you have a lot of animosity towards her.”

  “Maybe. I mean I love her. I guess she did the best she could. I was her first; I didn’t come with instructions. And she was young when she had me, twenty.”

  “I’m not saying you don’t love her, but it is clear that you blame her for a lot of the stuff that has happened to you. It is especially evident when you talk about your fear of intimacy.”

  I sat back in my chair, thinking about what she said. “When I was in pre-k, our cubbies were in a closet. You had to go in there to put away your book bag and coat. One day, I and a little boy happened