Cassandra’s Portrait

By Jordan Miller

CW: Self-Harm

Deborah’s heart felt a warm pang of pride watching her daughter enter their new house. The house was beautiful, with a red brick roof, white panel walls, and a blonde awning delicately dangling over the gray wooden porch. The walls had large white windows with green outer trims. An array of colorful flowers blankets the foundation, veiling the black railing. It is secluded enough but not far away from any stores and their neighbors. Cassandra’s school is only six miles away. The Finches are not a reserve family. Deborah loves people. The same goes for her husband, but after the difficulties of living in the rampaging city of Chicago, moving to Iowa is the best choice. She hopes to have a BBQ before the summer’s end, inviting many people into their new home. The wind was calm and warm, complementing the ice-white clouds. This home was her new world. It was close to the end of summer. Deborah and her family move into their new home.

 It was perfect timing since Cassandra, Deborah’s daughter, will begin school in the fall. Her daughter turns eighteen next year; she is short, with thin arms and stiff, bony legs. Her long bob-cut hair was a tangle-up mess. It dreads Deborah; no matter how many times she cut Cassandra’s hair, somehow, it was still long enough to cover her face. Her hair always made it look like Cassandra crawled right out of her grave. Since the beginning of last year, Deborah and Cassandra have fought over what to do with her hair.

I like my hair the way it is. It’s my hair, and I can have it tangled up or bald for all I care.

One time, their argument inflamed both sides. In a fury, Cassandra snatches a glass bowl smashing it on the ground. She crushes the glass under her Nike sneakers. She storms into her room, leaving pieces of blue glass lying on the ground. The pieces wedge between the floorboards. She became hostile, barking at her mother at bedtime and staring daggers at her during breakfast.

That went on for a week.

A moment Deborah will forget. Deborah and Cassandra just finished unpacking and tidying up Cassandra’s bedroom. Deborah rummages through the remaining boxes while Cassandra fills her shelves with her books, her collection of seashells, and snow globes. Cassandra unraveled a poster of her favorite K-pop group. Cassandra dives into another box, her legs sticking out in the air. “Hey, look at what I found.’’ Deborah pulls a long, white, thin, folded paper from the box. The paper was crusty, with brown stains highlighting the paper’s corners. “What is it?” Deborah unfolds the paper with care. Once she opens the paper, a smile curls, and her cheeks turn pink. “It’s your old drawings.’’ Cassandra grins as she walks closer to her mother. “Where did you find them?” Cassandra asked.

“I found this box in the attic,’’ Deborah said

“I guess Dad stuffed the box in the attic until we moved,’’ Cassandra said.

The illustrations were of different body parts–the box filled with papers. The two took out the rest of the drawings. There were pictures of arms, eyes, ears, and teeth. They decided to take a ten-minute break to look at the picture. They laugh as they pull one piece of paper out of the box, staring at each picture. The heat in Cassandra’s bedroom was ruthless. Their sweat kept slipping between their fingers. Deborah tells Cassandra to go upstairs to get some water from the cooler. Cassandra left the room, going up the stairs, hearing her sneakers stomp on each step. Alone with the drawings, Deborah thought these pictures were too good to be left in a dirty box. She had the bright idea to display them around the house.

I’ll go to the store tomorrow morning and buy some picture frames.

If done correctly, these drawings will look good anywhere in the house. There was no doubt in Deborah’s mind that she could accomplish this task. Yes, she will decorate the walls of her home with Cassandra’s drawings. A minute passes, and Cassandra returns carrying two bottles of water. Delighted, Deborah took Cassandra by her shoulder, holding up one of the drawings to the pale ceiling lights. Cassandra is confused but smiles anyway. Then, with a cheeky smile, Deborah explains the idea of hanging pictures as decoration. Cassandra’s expression went darker than a fresh mole. Cassandra’s expression shook Deborah. She searches her daughter’s face for any sign of light, but her hair shrouds her face. She was baffled by Cassandra’s sudden change in temperament. A coldness wriggles down Deborah’s neck. A chill wind climbed down each bit of hair on her back. Something is wrong. Deborah dismisses her feelings and continues.

“Maybe we can put some in the dining room and the hall.’’

Cassandra bent her head forward with her mangled hair covering her eyes and the bridge of her nose.

 “No, I don’t want that.’’

 Cassandra bit her lower lip, where the skin is peeled at the end. 

“How about we put them in the living room.’’

 Cassandra began to pick at the tip of her nub fingers. 

 “I don’t want to show my pictures.’’ 

This could be an excellent opportunity to show off her daughter’s talents. She believes Cassandra would agree. Why is she acting like this? They were extravagant and detailed; it would be impossible to tell that a nine-year-old girl drew them. She wanted to show off to guests who would come to visit.

“I want to put them under my bed.’’

Deborah shook her head. Her daughter keeps to herself and never asserts herself outside the family.

I know it will be good for her.

She opens one of the drawings, a lovely picture of a girl with red hair in a green dress sitting on a porch while petting an orange kitten. The painting looked real, almost like Deborah could walk up to the girl and give her an ice cream cone.

“I can ask your father to hammer them to the wall.’’

Cassandra squeezed her finger until her nail was shade red. She hunched over, scratching her bare knuckle.

“It’ll look good on the wall. Maybe a coffee table.’’

“I said no.’’

It took Deborah a moment to notice Cassandra standing right behind her, snatching the drawing from her hand.

“Cassandra!” I yell. 

 When Deborah turned around, Cassandra was already gathering all her pictures and stuffing them in a box. In a fit, she crumbles one up and throws it into the box, but Deborah grabs her wrist and wrestles the paper from her hand. Cassandra’s grip was firm. Deborah wrenched the picture from her fingers. The two went at it while running around the room, Cassandra running away and Deborah chasing her behind, trying to cut her off.  

 “NO NO NO.” 

Cassandra yells, which can be heard down the hall, up the stairs, into the kitchen and out to the front porch.

“Stop it!” said Deborah.

 A distant honk came from outside, interrupting Deborah and Cassandra’s tussle. Sounds of tires pulled up the driveway.  

“Your father is here.”

Deborah rolls up the drawings, tucking them under her arms. She sharply turns away, stomping out the door. She looks back once more to convey her Cassandra ratchet behavior, but the seventeen-year-old girl already closed the door, her eyes icy, crusty, and keen.

It is a silent dinner. The only necessary noises were the clatter of plastic forks and paper plates. Paul, Deborah’s husband of twenty-five going on twenty-six years, sat diagonally from Deborah. He had the bright idea to pick up Indian take-out on his way home, completely forgetting that spicy food catalyzes her acid reflux. Whatever, it was the thought and effort that counts. The long mahogany table, a wedding present from her in-laws, painstakingly haul from their storage, is now and forever resting in their new dining room, and Cassandra sits at the very end. Deborah has yet to speak to Cassandra since this afternoon, after their quarrel. Cassandra remains in her room, Paul talks to the movers, and Deborah sits lonesome in the living room unpacking box after box. She only sees her daughter when she enters the kitchen to grab a water bottle or the occasional granola bar.

“How was your day? Got a lot of unpacking done?” said Paul.

“Well, I got most of the living room done,’’ said Deborah 

She could’ve gotten more of the master bedroom, but the movers were in the way.

“Oh, I thought you too were doing Cassie’s bedroom together?’’ said Paul.

Deborah’s lip tightens. The red on her face turned crystal white. 

 “Cassandra decided to work on her room by herself.” 

“Ah, Well, Cassie baby, how much did you get done?” said Paul. 

 Her father is speaking to her, and she doesn’t do anything. Instead, she plays with the peas that rolled out of her Samosa. Cassandra did not say anything when the movers were walking in or out. She says nothing when they set up the table for their pathetic dinner. Cassandra did not utter a single word when they finished saying grace.

What is going on with her? Why is she like this?

“Cassie?” said Paul.

This silence grips Deborah’s nerves: she will no longer stand it.

 “Cassandra. Your father is speaking to you,”  said Deborah. 

Cassandra did not lift her head but replies with an exaggerated oh as if she had not heard anything the first time.

“Cassie baby, is something wrong?” said Paul.

This time, Cassandra lifts her head from her plates and looks straight at Deborah. She is still silent, looking straight at Deborah, trying to construct the correct sentence in her head. 

“Well, I finished decorating my wall. I took out and hung up all my clothes. Framing everything perfectly as it should be. Everything is where it belongs.”

She stabs her chicken, screwing her fork till the juice oozes onto the plate.

“What is this all about, Cassie?’’ 

“Why don’t you ask Mom? She knows.’’

“Debby, what is she talking about?’’

It hit Deborah like a raindrop on the pavement.

“Her pictures. We found them an-’’

“And she wants to hang them around the house. She wants people to see them.’’

“Why is that a problem, baby?’’

“I don’t want to hang them. I want them to stay in my room.’’

Deborah sighed, which got Paul’s attention.

“Is this true?”

Deborah does not speak but instead nods her head.

“Cassie, why don’t you want your pictures hung up?”

“They are my pictures. They belong to me. I drew them.’’

“I see your point. Debby, don’t you think it would be better if the drawings stay with Cassie,’’ said Paul.

“Don’t bother; she already took them. I don’t know why she wants to hang them. They are my special drawings.’’

“You drew lots of pictures. Let’s hang a few of them, and the rest stays in your room,” said Deborah

Cassandra slammed her hand against the table; her plate flew in the air, falling on the floor, carrots spread on the carpet.

“NO! They are all my pictures. They all stay with me. So why do you want them so badly?

“Because I am the mother, and I want to hang them.”

“You and this damn house can rot.”

Deborah’s eyes widened in surprise. She didn’t even consider that Cassandra could speak in such a way. She never heard her daughter use salty language. Yes, there have been times she made a scene, but never once had she spoken to her mother like that.

“Don’t talk to your mother like that. Clean up your mess and go to your room.”

“You’re taking her side.’’

“Cassandra, don’t yell at your mother and me. Clean up and leave.’’

“You clean it up!’’

Cassandra kicks the plate, red hot sauce splattering on the bottom wall. She ran down the stairs, the patting of her soft footsteps getting further away.

Deborah finish hammering in the last frame. She knew if she starts in the morning, she would be done by the afternoon. The glass frames hold beautifully on the cream wall. Her chest is full again. If Cassandra sees this, if she sees the effort she put into this project, there would be happiness again. The two of them would finally taste peace. She sat leaning against the wall, admiring her work. She tossed the hammer into the toolbox, her arms aching. She heard shuffling coming from the front door. Cassandra walked inside from the front yard. Since sunrise, Cassandra had been with her father in the yard. She decided this yesterday when Deborah asked if she wanted to help paint the bathroom.

 I’m going to help Dad.

Cassandra stops flat, looking at the wall. She said nothing. Deborah got up and smiled, dusting the dirt from her pants.

“Doesn’t it look good?”

Her daughter did not respond. She walks up to the wall, raising her hand and caressing the frame.

“I told you it would look good.”

Deborah grabs Cassandra’s shoulders. Cassandra swats away her mother’s hand like a swarm of gnats. She looks at Deborah with a glacier stare. She turns away, walks down the steps to the basement, and leaves a muddy track. Deborah’s heart hurt when she heard her daughter screaming, followed by a door slam.

Deborah went to the car to gather the last few boxes from the trunk. She thinks about Cassandra’s disgusting expression.

What is going through her head?

Cassandra did not speak to her not since yesterday. Deborah open the front door and found her daughter standing in the hallway at the frames where she nailed two days earlier. Her back turns towards me.

“Cassandra.’’

She did not respond. Cassandra stands there, staring at the wall in a hypnotic trance, one hand balling up into a tight fist while the other gripping her shoulder.

“Cassandra!”

Cassandra turns around, astonished that there are other people in the world.

“Can you help me?”

She stomped over; no hello, or how was your day? But only to grab one of the boxes, Deborah held in her arms, and she marched into the kitchen. As she walked away, she bore an expression as flat as an icy road.

That night, she lay in her bed, tucked next to her husband. Paul was reading a book, The Way of Economics and Agriculture. Vol. I. Thoughts about her daughter boil in her head like hot water in a steel pot. She searches for the words in the back of her mind and delicately aligns them accordingly.

“Have you been able to talk to Cassandra at all?” He turns the page. “No.’’

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Not while you two were together? ’’ Said Deborah.

“I wanted to give her some space.’’

He took a deep breath. She can see what is written in her husband’s book, the reflection of his reading glasses. She did not think the book look all that interesting.

 Is what he’s reading more critical than his daughter’s bad behavior?

She adjusts her rear to get her husband’s attention. When that doesn’t work, she sighs loudly, but that does not work either.

“Why is she possessive of those pictures?”

“Why can’t you let those pictures go?’’

“They look nice, and I want to show them off.’’

Paul sighs. With no other reply, Paul turns the page.

“Why is she so mad at me?’’

“Your mother put your basketball trophies on the mantel. You were mad.’’

“What does my mother have to do with anything? What are you trying to say?”

“Never mind.’’

“Stick to the subject.’’

“I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Whatever. You’re no help. I’m visiting my mother tomorrow. I’ll talk to her about Cassandra.’’

Deborah plops her head on her pillow. She switches off her light. Before falling asleep, she last hears her husband quietly closing his book.

She did not like seeing her basketball trophies stand on the mantle, never touch except for weekly dusting and polishing. She will tell her mother to put them away; she senses the inevitable shame and embarrassment that comes whenever she sees them. Her mother refused every time. After Deborah, Paul, and Cassandra left Chicago and came to Iowa, they lived with Deborah’s parents until they saved enough money to purchase their own house. Deborah is in debt to her parents; she never again asked her mother about the trophies.

“Have you eaten breakfast?” said her mother. 

When she arrives, her mother is already in the kitchen cooking up something. 

“I’ll eat when I get home.’’

The smell of smoked sausage float out of the kitchen into the living room, where Deborah sat on the sofa beside her father.

“You better not be skipping breakfast.”

“No, I am not.’’

She looked at her father, who was reading a Cormac McCarthy book. They glance at each other, her father giving her a slight smirk.

“Cassie kept skipping breakfast every day when you lived here.’’

“I don’t have much of an appetite right now.’’

“When you were her age, you always skipped breakfast.’’

“No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t talk back to me. But, yes, you did skip breakfast.’’

“I played basketball; I would never skip breakfast.’’

“I always thought you should have never joined the basketball team. No place for a little girl.’’

And she had my trophies on the mantle.

 “I still do. I’m just glad Cassie did not turn out that way. Your father wouldn’t convince you to leave, no matter what I said. I kept telling him that you didn’t belong there.’’

Her father coughs vigorously and follows with a refined snort. She sat there fuming with anger at her mother’s remarks. The smoke from the sausages fog her vision, making it difficult to see anything. The smoke shrouds the mantel, and the shine from her trophies breaks the gray clouds. 

“The biscuit and sausages are done; come and eat.’’

“I’m not hungry,’’ said Deborah.

Yes, you are,’’ said her mother.

She sits down at her usual table. A plate is set up for her. She did not speak but kept her mouth shut and let her mother pile the biscuits, sausages, and apple slices. She takes a bite, and the flakes from the biscuit melt with the creamy butter. She is going to miss having someone helping her with the cooking.

“I want to talk about Cassandra.”

“What’s wrong with Cassie?” said Mom.

“She’s been acting weird.’’

“I am sure it is not so bad. Cassie is a perfect little girl,’ said Mom.

“We argued the other day.’’

“About what?”

“She is upset that I hung her drawings around the house.”

“I forgot Cassie used to draw. It’s a better alternative than basketball.’’

“Mom, I mean it.”

“I don’t see what the problem is with some drawings.’’

“Me neither. I want to show people how talented my daughter is.

“She is talented.’’

“Right! It’s a good idea.”

Her father sits on the other side of the table, coughing again.

“I understand. I am sure Cassie will get over it.’’

“But I want her to stop being mad at me.’’

“Apologize,’’ said Mom.

“Apologize? Why do I have to apologize?’’

“You want to put this under the bridge.’’

“But what am I apologizing for anyway?’’

“Whatever it takes. In every quarrel, just apologize.’’

I don’t recall you ever apologizing when I was seventeen.

She nods and thanks her mother. She came to her for a solution but left with a full stomach and a headache.

She texts Cassandra at the red light. She will be home in ten minutes. She needs help with the groceries. The visit to her mother did not clear her foggy head. She did not believe that she got the answers she wanted. She steps out of her car, arms carrying heavy brown bags, and tries to open the trunk without dropping anything. She struggled with her balance. She waits for help that may or may not come. Deborah with an insecure walk to her house. Her keys fell from her hands twice as she tried to get them out of her pocket, then the front door swung open. Deborah’s hair blew away from her face. Cassandra stands at the entrance, her hair pull back in a sloppy bun. Her head stays down; not a single greeting, but she nervously rubs her hands. Deborah notices the band-aids wrap around each of Cassandra’s fingers. Before Deborah could say anything, Cassandra is already halfway down the driveway. Her daughter’s swift motion looks like a brittle leaf, not saying a word.

She steps off the welcome mat she and her mother made many summers ago and walks steadily into her home. She wondered what shocks her the most: the shattered picture frames? The broken glass lying unbothered on the floor? Maybe it was the torn pictures scattered from the hall and into the living room; could it be the rusty white hammer resting on the broken glass? Was it the hammer’s handle covered with blood-stained fingerprints?

Jordan Miller pursued a career as a playwright. In 2024, She completed her Master’s degree in English at Southern New Hampshire University. In 2025 she published,for the first time, a short story Yellow Eyes to Dark Horses Magazine.