Remember me naked
CASSANDRA
The whisper swells, each day a little more, like a dark tide rising in the heart of the damp walls that never recedes, crawling through the narrow corridors, hissing between the twisted bars, slipping into the breathless whispers of the cafeteria, until it saturates the very air, so that we no longer speak only of the princess who has fallen from her pedestal, but of me, Cassandra, the one who does not bend, the one already called the bite, the one who laughs when the blood spurts and pain becomes spectacle.
And around me, without me calling for it, without me demanding it, a pack begins to weave, fiber by fiber, an unstable but growing circle, composed of women who approach with h
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