She saw the future — sharp and merciless, like bare skin on molten asphalt. Prophecy was his poisoned gift, wrapped up in his desire for her. No one will ever believe what you see. Because she refused his love, Apollo sulked like the petty little god he is — and cursed her anyway.
Kassandra, Hecuba, Thetis, Helen, Chryseis … all the prophetesses silenced, the heroines erased, the mothers ignored — written out of the endless Trojan War stories. They were meant to vanish quietly and drown in the waves of history.  Dismissed as hysterical. Erased from memory.
Enough of the endless hunt for proof! Enough with fake news, fake truths, and feelings masquerading as reality! Kassandra is storming forward now — loud, hungry, merciless with her words. Like a furious, untamed fury, she is tearing herself free from the loop of violence, from oppression, from his-story that wanted her silent. She’s finally believing in her own voice.
Between Beyoncé, The Runaways, and Fleetwood Mac, she’s rising up and celebrating herself. She’s owning her voice, her-story, her rage. In spite of the life-suffocating, ear-splitting silence of men — she is screams. She is dance. She is her own survival.