‘Cassandra,’ a Short Story

Everybody’s gonna die, and very soon.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

It’s not that I didn’t try—Oh, God, how I tried!

But no one would listen to me, no matter what I said, no matter what proof I presented, it all fell on deaf ears.

What can I do, except wait, and die?

I’m just sitting here in my bedroom, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, knowing that the nuclear missiles are getting closer and closer to our town on the west coast. One in particular is heading straight our way.

My name is Cassandra, and I’m sixteen years old. I’m a clairvoyant, but no one believes me when I predict something, or know that something from far away is coming, like those missiles. Even when my predictions come true, which they always have, people still refuse to believe in my ability to predict them; it’s said that I was lucky, a fluke.

I was aptly named.

But I didn’t need the gift of clairvoyance to know that a nuclear World War Three was coming. All anyone had to do was watch the news. Tensions between the US on our side, and Russia and China on their side, have been going on for years; but few people have bothered to pay attention. Few people care.

My family is particularly ignorant, being blinded by American patriotism. When I tell them the missiles are coming, they imagine that our defense system can “easily” intercept them all! Idiots! To this day, they continue to believe in American invincibility.

I can feel that one missile in particular coming closer and closer to our area.

It will be here within minutes.

I hear some people making noise outside. It must have dawned on them what danger we’re all in.

What’s that? My brother’s voice? I’ll take a look through the window and find out. Here, I’ll open the window so I can hear better.

“Oh, don’t worry, Margaret,” I can hear my brother, Phil, saying to our next-door neighbor. “Do you actually think a bunch o’ Russkies and Chinks are gonna outdo the good ol’ US of A? You’re really overestimating their chances!”

He is such a fucking moron.

And sadly, the rest of the family think just like him.

We’re doomed.

I’m closing the window and going back on my bed.

It’ll make no difference what we do, Margaret, whether we drive away or stay at home: those missiles will hit us, at least a great many of them, and that’s bad enough.

The lucky ones among us will be killed immediately by the nuclear blasts. The not-so-lucky ones will die of ionizing radiation in a period of ten to twelve weeks, as happened to the Japanese. Then there are things like nuclear winter and the extinction of the human race through societal and economic collapse, and slow death by starvation. That’s what I read online.

And this is all coming very soon.

I tried to warn people. No one would listen.

Months ago, I tried to assemble a group of protestors to raise awareness of the danger. I couldn’t get even one person to join me.

The fact that this ultraconservative town deems me a freak in my black, goth fashions doesn’t help.

The neighbors think I’m a dyke (I’m not.). My family tends to wonder if I am. I could tell them I’m not, but they wouldn’t believe me.

They never listen to me, anyway.

I feel so alone now.

So helpless.

I can feel that missile getting really close now.

I don’t need to look out the window and see it in the sky. I know it’s coming. Soon.

What else is there to do, but sit and wait?

When it hits, what is Phil gonna say then?

“Oh, the Chinks got one lucky shot in,” he’d probably say. “So what?”

He’s such an idiot.

The funny thing is…I’m not even scared.

I’m not shaking. I feel no nausea, my heart isn’t pounding. I just feel…nothing.

Fear implies the hope, however faint, of being saved. I’m beyond that now.

It’s much too late for hope now.

There was a bit of hope when I began trying to gather that group of protestors, but even that hope dwindled away very soon.

Just like that missile is coming soon.

I can feel it approaching. It’s almost touching.

What’s that? Screams from outside? The neighbors must be seeing the missile in the sky now.

That’s about right. I feel it so close now.

I hear a noise out there; it sounds like an airplane flying over the house. It’s the missile.

We’re dead.

Wait: am I hearing cheering out there? Yes, I can hear my neighbors cheering and clapping! They think that just because the missile didn’t hit us here, that we’re safe? It’ll just hit a nearby area further beyond, and that’ll be bad enough!

Why did I have to be born and raised in a town with such stupid people?

“Those commie Chinks couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a brick!” Phill just yelled, loud enough for me to hear through my closed window. “Ha-haaa!”

He is such a jackass.

I can feel the missile lowering to the earth.

It’s too far off for Phil and my neighbors to see, but I can feel that missile getting lower and lower, closer and closer to making contact with the earth.

I’m just sitting on my bed here, staring at the wall with a frown of resignation. I feel dead already.

The moment of truth is just about upon us.

…and those idiots outside are celebrating.

I can feel it…the missile is just above the blades of grass, just about touching them.

Touching the tips of them now.

This is it.

BOOM!

The ground is shaking.

The legs of my bed are rattling against the wooden floor.

The only reason my body’s moving is because of this shaking. I’m not shaking from fear.

As I said, I’ve felt dead this whole time.

The laughter outside has changed to screaming. Phil and my neighbors must be looking at the mushroom cloud in the distance.

‘Murica ain’t as strong as you thought, huh, Phil?

We weren’t among the lucky ones.

The future of our short-ass lives is to wait for the radiation to get us, or to die slowly of hunger.

I feel my empty stomach growling already.

Why go to the fridge for anything?

Why prolong the inevitable?

I’ll just sit here on my bed, unmoving.

I’m dead already.