Uncovering the true self

Cassandra was abruptly broken out of her trance when her brush went over the pencil outlines, blending the colours together and ruining hours of hard-work exerted over the past few weeks. Although the drawing was now unrepairable, Cassandra did not feel taken by the accident; she inhaled a deep breath apathetically and deliberated the uselessness in her regular, dreary painting routine, or as some would call it—exquisite talent. But she never saw her talent extraordinary, or anything peculiar, due to the treatment she gives herself based on the society’s perspective of her. 

People would say, “She got running fingers of gold that designs portraits costing thousands, unlucky for her she was a born a girl, unlucky more: a widow. She liberates no rights at all to, at least, establish an exhibition of her own and make her artwork renowned. She is dearly and tragically lonely, has got not a man to help her through much of her lives’ obstacles nor even a child. Miserable. Some also say: she didn’t tear up when the news came by that her husband met God. Perhaps, she had another man in mind and wasn’t quite satisfied with her husband, or perhaps, for her looks admit it, nobody will ever be attracted to such beast—dark skin, as if burnt, bushy eyebrows, a crooked nose and a broad forehead which narrows the space of which her large countenance is placed, so her husband must have despised her presence. He never slept with her, you may guess, as they had not born any child throughout their five years of matrimony, or possibly she could not hold one in her womb. Her life must be hell; oh, we hope she is doing fine alone. Undeniably desperate! Let’s not talk about people when not present though, it’s evil!”

Cassandra’s opulent home is her only safe haven; her fellow portraits, colours, and as much as there is of various brushes are considered her only companions since her husband died. She had drawn him three times, only once under his utmost consent, but the rest, which are of darker colours, he was forced to pose even though he could not maintain it for long because of his sickness at that juncture. Passing by them, they were covered with a patched, thin, white, dusty cloth: she always dare not pull the coverlet down and see his face again or posture, as she found solace in thinking: this was the one and only way to move on with her imprisoned sadness as well as her broken soul. She fetches a chair to settle in front of the covered portraits to wonder how her life turned out so horribly and unexpectedly fatigued. She sits and recalls her husband’s laughs, smiles and unpleasant expression when furious and angry with her, smirking at the nice memories and her damned past. But, however she tries, only one memory of him is evoked with utmost details: his death days. 

He hugs her, catching his last breath, and apologises for wasting her youth—making her life more stressful and unbearable. She shakes her head and he kisses her hand making her promise not to cry upon his death or during his funeral and to frequently come and visit his grave to decorate its corners with ample amount of colourful and scentful flowers, excluding tulips, for he did not like its form; she already knew. 

He was charismatic, energetic, joyful, handsome, and filthy rich (as her parents would say). She always thought she was not worthy of all his perfectness and rank, but he would always tell her that her soul hides peaceful delusions of imagination and that she is far more than he deserves, pity she did not reach to love him enough. The wise say that when a person falls ill or dies, he is remembered by his good deeds only if his wicked ones were so little, nearly null, and so true is the opposite of the statement. So, she marvels only through the great things he did for her during their five years together and left apart the vicious fights or slaps and the strict orders of being imprisoned in her room or not visiting her parents’ for months. 

When he lived, she thinks him the devil and when he died, she saw his angelic side—is it not a human characteristic to think always badly of what we possess and then repent not thanking The Lord for having it this while and enjoying its temporary presence in our days? It is the sentiment of dissatisfaction that results in the tragic ending of life; unconsciously, the humankind terminates the life cycle when seeking perfection which turns into frustration and unhappiness in the long-term. The apocalyptic change was the result of the disastrous human actions bred by displeasure, the journey to perfection, the inclination to suicide, and the malicious soul. Cassandra passes through such a phase in life, resigning the importance of existence, she beseeched the end from the start. It was an inner conflict throughout her life; she never was excited for tomorrow, nor satisfied with yesterday, nor cherishing the now. Every day for her was not a new beginning, she had not the purpose to keep going and did not exert ample power to reach the best—this carelessness was remedied by the good things her husband did to give her some ‘useless’ hope, but when he was gone she was struck and wished death to herself more for not appreciating the good moments. The war inside her reflects the world on the surface and its vanity to the influence of time. Her utmost displeasure was her only way down, the needing for more is just as plain as not wanting any more to survive; it originates mistakes which later causes disasters because of not caring enough but pleasing our inner self, even if it means harming others with us. And she harmed her husband a lot, she thought. 

She dared to finally pull the flimsy covers off the portraits, after being hidden from her sight a whole nine months, and when she did, she knelt in anguish and finally cried. It was the shock of losing the person who you later realise you sincerely admired in the hidden soul (the peaceful delusion of imagination). Cassandra always thought she was the one not worthy of living, that suicide was her only option to make her inner soul, conscience and the people around her feel free of her heavy burden, especially her parents, who always made her feel less than normal or even lesser as they would compare her with her nieces and cousins—how are they much more handsome or prettier, more talented and worthier… until he came, so tall and elegant, to ask her hand in marriage.

In her room that day, her mother came in and said, “Oh, stop being foolish,” she took the lipstick from Cassandra’s grip, “Don’t bother, nothing will make you any prettier, just be yourself, eh? Although, I ask myself why such a handsome and filthy rich gentleman come and ask your hand in marriage; must he be in the wrong address and mistakes you for your new neighbour living next door? Surely. Oh, Cassandra, how pretty she is indeed! The brightness of the moon in a sky so dull comes nothing to her exaggerating beauteous state! Now, hurry up, we need not waste more of the poor man’s time, come on. Smile!”

The minute Cassandra crossed the threshold, curtsied for the guest and shook hands with him, he did not quit smiling at her. At first, she believed his smiles were some sort of involuntary action until she noticed he only smiles when she speaks or offers him something to eat or drink. He and her father talked a lot about his ships, travels and his family, which was holding a greater fortune than that of a king and that he is the only legitimate heir of his late father, who turned out to be a great Lord at the King’s court and died a few months ago; he did not have to say he passed away, only his name was enough as it was a breaking news in all papers, then. 

In between the conversations they were so taken by, he said, looking into her eyes as she looked back at his, which had little lilac in them, “I came here today, my dear sir, sorry for the interruption,” her father nodded for him to keep going, and he did, “to ask your permission and allow me the pleasure to take your daughter to be my lawfully, wedded wife.” 

Her mother, instantaneously, stood up and cheered over the fact that she, at last, was going to get rid of Cassandra to someone she thinks she doesn’t deserve; for he is of rank and she is a peasant, for he is so handsome and she is so ugly and fat that she may be designated as unlovable, for he is so elegant and polite and she is so wicked and chaotic, but then when she glimpsed at him and found his stare was all over her body, she smiled, “So, do you agree upon my proposal, Miss?” 

“Of course, she does, unquestionably, sir!” The mother said and the father approved with a curt nod. 

However, Cassandra has unquestionably not agreed upon the gentleman’s proposal. She did have doubts then and even when walking down the aisle tangled to her father’s arm, she asked herself multiple times if this all was some sort of an irritating dream and she’d soon wake up to curse the sleep, but it was not fortunately. She was starting a new phase of her life with a man who loves her in another world: a palace to be called home; a floor made of marble; ornaments so big and shiny she fears coming near to, it falls; ceiling so high with a chandelier so bright, not a single candle unlit; servants to make her bed and do all the chores Cassandra always despised doing but was obligatory when at her parents’; fancy and luxurious dresses, jewellery, shoes and other accessories; journeys and sea-sicknesses; love, care, honesty and delicacy she thought would never be the fate for someone like her.

Cassandra and her husband would visit orphanages and kingdoms suffering from extreme famine and starvation to save desperate lives, only then she thought her days could have been worse, but she had her patience triumphed with a genteel human being. They completed each other: he was short-tempered and so imprudent but yet regretful if the consequences were the hurting of someone he loved; she is tranquil, obedient, and enduring. He helped her enhance her talent, provided her with all the equipment and bought her a palace in Paris near a river and an appealing garden. She drew it hundreds of times to finally get it right, and he nor she got bored of drawings portraying the same views and gardens. When she finally became an expert artist, he asked her to draw him with this garden a background, which she now abandoned; she assumed its flowers wilted and all its freshness ruined because of the numerous industrial factories, which beasts built to ruin the environment, the natural habitats and the sceneries a painter grasps his ideas from. It was the age of uncreativity.

The next morning, Cassandra awoke on the harsh floor before the great portraits of her husband, she covered them once again and closed the door behind her, knowing surely she could never move on by dismissing the past but by accepting it deep inside and claiming peace. She ate some roasted beef, of which she did not have any appetite for yesterday and left it to nearly stink. Then, she roamed the house trice to magically find someone she could talk to, or perhaps she needed this to be a nightmare, so when she awakes she curses the sleep, but it was not, for her misfortune. She regretted the mourning, yet at the same time, assuming it is not enough for his pure soul, but at last she realised that day when pulling down the covers off the drawings, that facing the hardship is the only way to consciousness. 

Cassandra has felt sombre throughout her entire life, but with her husband she felt secure and cared for, because she never believed in herself, accepting what is told about her blindly. She never had the courage nor the confidence to admit to herself and everyone else, particularly her husband, that she saw herself worth everything she has and will have. She reflected, for a moment, and lit all the candles, slid the blinds, wore her day dress without a corset, removed all the blankets covering the piano, the drawings, and the unused furniture. She felt free from being haunted by her husband’s ghost, the people’s gossips and their unmeaningful expectations, which was her way to darkness. It was a recognition she faced. She acknowledged, with all her senses, that she is worth living no matter the circumstances and harsh talks, she knew that the pure soul is what radiates the prettiness: she understood her husband’s lively jokes and flirts with her. Then, for the shock is still present, she wished she had analysed this earlier when the plague had not gone to him and ended him between her feeble arms. 

For the first time in her life, Cassandra walked before the uncovered mirror, her husband bought her in their fourth anniversary, and looked at herself who she did not quite know. Her eyes were hazel and sparkling, her cheeks were rosy and fluffy, her lips were elegantly drawn its size matched the rest of her countenance. 

She said, “Jamie, I see it.”