They will never believe you, just like they never believed poor Cassandra. Except in her case it was the curse’s fault; what convenient excuse do you have? No god-given curse, no fatal prophecy, no unavoidable destiny. Nothing to fall back on but your own shortcomings. And at least Cassandra knew she was telling the truth, even if no one believed her. That was surely some small comfort in the end. Do you know if you’re telling the truth? Do you know if any of this is even real? Maybe no one believes you because they know it’s bullshit. Or maybe… maybe no one believes you because no one’s listening in the first place. Even mad Cassandra didn’t have that problem. How pathetic.
““You’re speaking in tongues, Samael.” The air around us began to burn. Dry wind rattled the bed. The desert heat made salt from his tears.
“Like Apollo his Cassandra, I’ve spit poison in your mouth and cursed you.” His face suddenly looked older: lined with suffering. His cheeks were sunk with burden. A stillness washed across him. It was a face that could lead you to Hell.
“Words. The words fail. What I touch breaks. You broke. I’ve fixed you. You drank my gall, girl, but it was not your time. You are bound to me now. By your will, I would raise the dead. It is not in my power to deny you.”
“So basically, you’re my bitch now?” My mind reeled.
“Everything I am is yours.”