In this work, the Gorgon Medusa is shown not as a monster, but as the result of violence and unjust punishment. Medusa was a beautiful girl, a priestess of the temple of Athena, who fell victim to the lust of a powerful god. And instead of protection, she received a curse—her body and face were transformed into a symbol of horror, and the blame was shifted onto her. This myth is not about the past. It continues to operate today. A woman who has experienced trauma is often forced to wear a mask of coldness, harshness, and "danger." Society sees her as Medusa—a bitch, a threat, a source of discomfort. But it does not want to see the reason for her transformation. The snakes in this work are not aggression, but protection. The gaze that turns to stone is not a weapon, but a boundary. This crack is a glitch in the script, the moment where the ancient myth ceases to function unconditionally. Through a crack in Medusa's head, a girl's face peers out warily—who she was, before the trauma, before the imposed role, and who she still is: a sweet, pure little girl in need of protection. Within the monster, vulnerability, memory, and purity still reside. It's a reminder that no violence erases the human essence. It only forces it to hide. Medusa becomes the archetype of the 21st-century woman—the bearer of an ancient script that is still being rewritten for her. This is a myth about how society creates monsters—and refuses to acknowledge the girls within them. Today, women who have experienced trauma are often forced to become hard, closed, "inconvenient." Society calls them bitches, monsters, problematic—unwilling to acknowledge its own role in their transformation. If Medusa was called a monster, today her story reflects the real tragedies experienced by women who have fallen victim to jealousy, anger, or impure desires. How many modern Medusas are still suffering today?
