After signing for the package, Cass sat on the bed and eyed the accompanying letter grimly. She hated when her mother wrote to her; it was harder to tune out the nauseating hippy sentiments. Rather than opening the package right off, she gritted her teeth and tore open the envelope.
As she read, a running commentary accompanied her mother's words. It was a sort of survival tactic, or at least an instinctive attempt to keep her sanity and avoid committing matricide. Things were looking bad right from the off;
Starshine, God, I hate that nickname. That's not my name, Mom, give it up!
First you should know I've changed your room. It's got a blacklight and Amber and Feelfree Who the hell is Feelfree? That's not a name! and I go in there to do bodypainting. The way the colours light up would so expand your mind, I think you'd really like it. Starshine, I know your room was your sanctuary, your haven and your expression of self, What? It was where I did my homework. Mom, I never even put up posters, don't be such a wimp. but the new vision is so radical. Any time you want to come back to the nest, I will change it right back for you. Uh. Yeah. Thanks. I'll get right on that nest thing.
Now, I'm sure you know the anniversary of the day your father transcended the physical plane and blossomed in the Other Side is coming up. 'Dad's death.' Economy of phrasing, ma, it's a good thing. We're having a drum circle in his honour. I bet you think it's totally flipped-out, but the vibrations of the drums can reach a wandering soul and communicate our love to it. So I'm going to talk to Mountain and see if he can't include a beat for you, Sassy Cassie. That's not my name either, damn it! Of course we want some of his things present for the dancing, so I've been going through his boxes in the attic.
Huh. I guess they're gonna set up a little shrine and dance around it. Wait, I've seen those hippies dance - Jesus, that's downright disrespectful. Poor Dad and his wandering soul. Hope he wanders in the opposite direction from the drum circle.
Cass, Fourth time's the charm? I need your help. After Nathan died, the museum came looking for an artifact he'd taken to a specialist out-of-state. Well, we ate the house, but it wasn't here. Only it was, because I found it in the attic last week! I don't know why your dad put it up there and not in his study, but we thought it had been in his car and had burned up. Now I don't know what to do. What if the museum is mad at me? What if they think I tried to steal it, or sell it? For God's sake, Mom, they're scientists, not Interpol. Feelfree and I discussed it and figured the way to go was to send it to you. You can say your dad lent it to you and you took it down to that island to have it studied. Well. This is completely unnecessary. Thanks.
You're just so much better with authority, you know? Real mellow. The money you've been sending back just proves what an old soul you have. But you shouldn't work so much, Starshine. Being a slave to the system stifles your creativity and spirit. Really? But then you wouldn't be able to afford blacklights and day-glo body paint. Horror of horrors. Being a waitress isn't the path to enlightenment, little one. Gee, there goes my get-rich-quick scheme.
Call me when you've dealt with the museum, okay? I so appreciate this. You're the light of my life, the sun and the moon, the shine of the stars. Oh GAG. This is why I insist you use the friggin' phone, so I can hang up before you make me barf! And I don't think 'shine of the stars' is grammatically correct. Sometimes I can't help wondering why Dad married you.
I love you, sweetheart,
xx Jewel xx
She signs her name like a thirteen year old girl, Cass thought, physically tired from reading through it without exploding. God forbid she signs it 'Love, Mom' and implies that she's not a unique young thing.
Rubbing her forehead wearily, she dropped the letter into the bin and went to the kitchen to grab a knife. After slitting through the tape, she reached in blindly to pull out the package's contents. The first was a cardboard box; under the lid she saw a heap of truly ancient parchment. Wincing that her mother had chosen to FedEx a priceless artifact, she replaced the lid and peered into the larger box. A sheaf of white, blissfully modern papers remained inside, and she took them out curiously. The topmost page was covered in the fine, spidery handwriting belonging to her father. With the faintest smile curling the corners of her lips, Cass ran a hand over the page, before sitting back on the bed and beginning to read.
Almost immediately, she stood up again, turning - against all probability - even paler than she usually was. It is my suspicion, her father had written, that these documents are in fact the lost portion to the third book of the Bibliotheca, the comprehensive history of Ancient Greece. This is the discovery of a lifetime. Her dad was gonna be famous when she returned this to the museum! Rushing to set the sheaf of paper down on her coffee table, while simultaneously wondering where she was going to put the manuscripts themselves, a sentence much father down the page caught her eye: ...contradicts the given myth of Cassandra of Troy, stating that her premonitions were the cause of the Trojan War. Seemingly, Cassandra had been given a vision of her brother Paris' death, and intervened to save him. Had he died, the war would never have happened.
Blinking, unaware that she was simply standing in the middle of her tiny apartment, Cass read on helplessly. A bad feeling was brewing inside her stomach.
...written prophecy makes reference to Cassandra's role as some sort of reaper (ref. 21); 'For death is she, as death am I'. Her face was gaunt, though she had no idea why the discussion of a new myth would affect her so. She scanned the rest of the page, seeking out some fragment of the familiar myth that would settle her. Instead, she found something that more than justified her mounting terror.
...not raped to death by Ajax as in legend; the Bibliotheca claims that Cassandra was indeed attacked, but killed him using some sort of mental power, one she claimed was granted her because of her nature as Death personified...
As she read, a running commentary accompanied her mother's words. It was a sort of survival tactic, or at least an instinctive attempt to keep her sanity and avoid committing matricide. Things were looking bad right from the off;
Starshine, God, I hate that nickname. That's not my name, Mom, give it up!
First you should know I've changed your room. It's got a blacklight and Amber and Feelfree Who the hell is Feelfree? That's not a name! and I go in there to do bodypainting. The way the colours light up would so expand your mind, I think you'd really like it. Starshine, I know your room was your sanctuary, your haven and your expression of self, What? It was where I did my homework. Mom, I never even put up posters, don't be such a wimp. but the new vision is so radical. Any time you want to come back to the nest, I will change it right back for you. Uh. Yeah. Thanks. I'll get right on that nest thing.
Now, I'm sure you know the anniversary of the day your father transcended the physical plane and blossomed in the Other Side is coming up. 'Dad's death.' Economy of phrasing, ma, it's a good thing. We're having a drum circle in his honour. I bet you think it's totally flipped-out, but the vibrations of the drums can reach a wandering soul and communicate our love to it. So I'm going to talk to Mountain and see if he can't include a beat for you, Sassy Cassie. That's not my name either, damn it! Of course we want some of his things present for the dancing, so I've been going through his boxes in the attic.
Huh. I guess they're gonna set up a little shrine and dance around it. Wait, I've seen those hippies dance - Jesus, that's downright disrespectful. Poor Dad and his wandering soul. Hope he wanders in the opposite direction from the drum circle.
Cass, Fourth time's the charm? I need your help. After Nathan died, the museum came looking for an artifact he'd taken to a specialist out-of-state. Well, we ate the house, but it wasn't here. Only it was, because I found it in the attic last week! I don't know why your dad put it up there and not in his study, but we thought it had been in his car and had burned up. Now I don't know what to do. What if the museum is mad at me? What if they think I tried to steal it, or sell it? For God's sake, Mom, they're scientists, not Interpol. Feelfree and I discussed it and figured the way to go was to send it to you. You can say your dad lent it to you and you took it down to that island to have it studied. Well. This is completely unnecessary. Thanks.
You're just so much better with authority, you know? Real mellow. The money you've been sending back just proves what an old soul you have. But you shouldn't work so much, Starshine. Being a slave to the system stifles your creativity and spirit. Really? But then you wouldn't be able to afford blacklights and day-glo body paint. Horror of horrors. Being a waitress isn't the path to enlightenment, little one. Gee, there goes my get-rich-quick scheme.
Call me when you've dealt with the museum, okay? I so appreciate this. You're the light of my life, the sun and the moon, the shine of the stars. Oh GAG. This is why I insist you use the friggin' phone, so I can hang up before you make me barf! And I don't think 'shine of the stars' is grammatically correct. Sometimes I can't help wondering why Dad married you.
I love you, sweetheart,
xx Jewel xx
She signs her name like a thirteen year old girl, Cass thought, physically tired from reading through it without exploding. God forbid she signs it 'Love, Mom' and implies that she's not a unique young thing.
Rubbing her forehead wearily, she dropped the letter into the bin and went to the kitchen to grab a knife. After slitting through the tape, she reached in blindly to pull out the package's contents. The first was a cardboard box; under the lid she saw a heap of truly ancient parchment. Wincing that her mother had chosen to FedEx a priceless artifact, she replaced the lid and peered into the larger box. A sheaf of white, blissfully modern papers remained inside, and she took them out curiously. The topmost page was covered in the fine, spidery handwriting belonging to her father. With the faintest smile curling the corners of her lips, Cass ran a hand over the page, before sitting back on the bed and beginning to read.
Almost immediately, she stood up again, turning - against all probability - even paler than she usually was. It is my suspicion, her father had written, that these documents are in fact the lost portion to the third book of the Bibliotheca, the comprehensive history of Ancient Greece. This is the discovery of a lifetime. Her dad was gonna be famous when she returned this to the museum! Rushing to set the sheaf of paper down on her coffee table, while simultaneously wondering where she was going to put the manuscripts themselves, a sentence much father down the page caught her eye: ...contradicts the given myth of Cassandra of Troy, stating that her premonitions were the cause of the Trojan War. Seemingly, Cassandra had been given a vision of her brother Paris' death, and intervened to save him. Had he died, the war would never have happened.
Blinking, unaware that she was simply standing in the middle of her tiny apartment, Cass read on helplessly. A bad feeling was brewing inside her stomach.
...written prophecy makes reference to Cassandra's role as some sort of reaper (ref. 21); 'For death is she, as death am I'. Her face was gaunt, though she had no idea why the discussion of a new myth would affect her so. She scanned the rest of the page, seeking out some fragment of the familiar myth that would settle her. Instead, she found something that more than justified her mounting terror.
...not raped to death by Ajax as in legend; the Bibliotheca claims that Cassandra was indeed attacked, but killed him using some sort of mental power, one she claimed was granted her because of her nature as Death personified...