Cassandra's Woe

A Story by RDLarson

Flash fiction about the addiction of fame

Cassandra Woe

RD Larson

Lit from above, the mirror looked old. Scarred, with rents in its silver lining. Cassandra brushed the blue eye shadow above her lids. She outlined her eyes with black pencil. Heavy coats of mascara made her long eyelashes droop. Eyelash curler, she thought, digging in her Fendi bag for the tool.

She took a brush and outlined her small lips far outside the lines, making them huge. With a heavy purplish red lipstick, she filled in the lips. She grabbed a piece of toilet tissue and repeatedly wiped her teeth hard. Then reapplied the lipstick and blotted.

Her long red hair, she thought wistfully, brushing it with a natural bristle brush, didn’t seem as thick. Fans remembered her hair always. Her trademark; even her statement.

Cassandra opened the dress bag. It had been torn and repaired with duct tape. She carefully put on her costume. The sequined low-cut tank top in a rich ruby red. The tiny black skirt. Hardly buttoned tonight. Why ever not? She'd spent days starving just for tonight.

Then shoes which had cost so much of her meager funds.

She signaled into the shadows that she was ready. She could hear the band; she knew they would ratchet up the volume when she came out. She kicked her day clothes into the corner. She missed having Sheila, her dresser. The woman had just up and died, of all the nerve.

She flung the boa, black as the clouds around her shoulders, just hiding her incredible cleavage. She walked down the board walkway on to the stage.

Then she strutted out there and turned to look at her adoring fans, her people.

Cassandra stood on the platform. The mike loved her as the wind whipped her long red hair around her face. When the first big drops fell, she didn’t feel them. Her mouth opened wide forming the words to the rock hit that made her famous. Her breasts heaved as she reared back and then flung herself forward in time to the beat. Her body twisted in a familiar staccato to her public, beyond the stage and beyond her helpless dreams.

“I’m not just any child,” sang Cassandra, her voice deep and throaty, against the wind and the rain. “I’m not just any child. I’m Wednesday’s child and you know it, you know it. So let me. . .

The star flung her hair to the side and arched her hip at where the front row boys sat. Her groin bounced convincingly. The needle marks and the cuts didn’t show. The gravel in her voice worsened becoming even thicker. Turning her still beautiful face to the black clouds above, her song took wing for only a moment or two.

“So let me be used by you. I’m not just any child, I’m Wednesday’s child.”

Rolls of thunder drown out the rest of the song. When the lightning struck Cassandra, she thought it was just the applause and never knew the arena was empty.