A Little Misunderstood

I would bet a considerable amount of money that if I started to describe myself to you, you could guess who I was. Ready?

I enjoy baking, for one. Fall is my favorite season, even though it only lasts, like, a week. I can almost fluently speak three- no, four -different languages. Including sarcasm, sometimes. I love flipping through classic novels, indulging in a little Elvis, or whipping up a batch of warm chocolate chip cookies.

No? Well, shoot. Let’s try something else, then.

How about the stories? The painting of me? The horns? The magic?

Isaiah 14, even…?

Oh, there it is. I can tell you’ve figured it out. That is correct. You people know me as Lucifer or Satan or something. But for the sake of anonymity, let’s go with Cassandra.

I’ve always liked that name.

Now, I would like to address the concerns. I understand that when the majority of you hear the word Satan, you think of this Daredevil-looking creature: red skin, large horns, and a tail (which is stereotypical but expected). I get it; the image many have of me is deeply ingrained in culture and religion. I can assure you I look nothing like that as I am typing this on my laptop. Currently, I’m in a comfy hoodie and lying on my bed, kicking my feet like a teenager calling their partner on a pink rotary phone. It’s quite nice, actually. Not scary at all.

But what if I were to tell you that the tales painted by historians and writers are just, well, stories? A colorful reinterpretation to serve their own narratives?

I can see how those interpretations would stick—after all, who doesn’t love a good story? It’s easier to fit everything into a neat little box, isn’t it? Light versus dark, good versus evil. I get it. But let me tell you, those tales are just the tip of the iceberg. Take, for instance, the idea of rebellion.

Yes, I chose to step away from a path that was laid out for me, but doesn’t that resonate with every time anyone has ever dared to pursue a dream against the odds? It’s funny how a single act of individuality can shift someone’s identity from a misunderstood artist to a villain in the eyes of the world.

And let’s not overlook the concept of temptation. Perhaps it’s just a little nudge in the direction of self-discovery rather than the evil subterfuge that people often make it out to be. It’s about asking questions, challenging norms, and trying different perspectives. Isn’t that the essence of growth?

Then there’s the creative spin documented across ages—works of art, literature, and music that have used my symbolism. I’ve become a muse without wanting to be one! And let me tell you, I quite like being a muse. It’s nice to have someone you can look to-slash-at and gain a multitude of ideas and inspiration. I’m sure you have someone like that at home. They might even be sitting next to you.

I have someone like that, too. His name is Nikolai. We met in a rather unusual way. How, you ask? Well… he was running from the police.

You see, he had chosen my home as a place to hide. He assumed there was no one inside, so he finagled the window open and stepped inside. I was making tea at the moment.

Just as I turned to grab a spoon from a drawer, I heard the faint creak of the window followed by the soft thud of footsteps on the floor. I froze, cup in hand, my heart racing. I had just moved into this house, and the last thing I expected was an unexpected guest.

I softly set the cup down, my curiosity getting the better of my fear. I peeked my head around the corner and saw a young man. He had dark hair, messy and tousled, and his clothes were hastily put together, like he had thrown them on in a hurry. His eyes darted around the room, scanning for any signs of danger, but they landed on me instead.

“Um, hello?” I managed to say, my voice trembling slightly.

He turned sharply, surprise flashing across his face.

“What’s your name?” I hesitantly asked, glancing towards the window he had just entered through.

“…Nikolai,” he replied, his voice low and urgent. “I promise, I mean you no harm.”

Despite my instincts telling me to be cautious, there was something about him—a certain desperation in his eyes—that tugged at my empathy. “Neither do I. My name is Cassandra.”

Nikolai stepped closer, the faint light of the moon illuminating his features. He looked weary, as though he carried the weight of many burdens. Despite breaking into my house, I have to admit I found him at least a little attractive, even then. Sue me. “Cassandra,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. Nikolai’s gaze lingered on me for a moment, and there was an intensity in his eyes that both unnerved and intrigued me.

“Pardon me for asking, but why in the world did you come in through my window?”

He sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I had no choice. They’re looking for me, and I had to find somewhere to hide.”

“Who’s looking for you?” I asked, taking a step back as the reality of the situation settled in.

He hesitated, casting a quick glance toward the window before meeting my gaze again. “It’s complicated. I don’t want to put you in danger. I just need a moment to gather my thoughts.” As much as my mind screamed to ask him to leave, there was a part of me that wanted to know more.

“What have you done, Nikolai? What’s so dangerous that you had to break in?”

Nikolai stepped forward again, the moonlight instead casting shadows over his features. “Cassandra, if I tell you, you have to promise to trust me. It might change everything for you.”

And change everything it did. After about a year of conversation (and arguments, because I’m not perfect), he asked me to marry him.

It was a moment filled with so many emotions — surprise, happiness, and a bit of disbelief all wrapped into one. I remembered all those late-night talks we had, the laughter we shared, and even the disagreements that somehow brought us closer.

When he got down on one knee and pulled out that ring, my heart skipped a beat. I could hardly believe that after all we had been through, he wanted to spend his life with me. I finally managed to nod my head, tears of joy streaming down my face, and whispered a heartfelt “yes.”

And now, even more time later, we have a little girl by the name of Alexsandra. She just started school.

That goes to show you even the most devilish person you’ve met (I had to. I’m not sorry) can lead a normal life. Well, I can try my best.