neverwas
-x-
It's strange how she hears the students and her colleagues saying Trelawney this and Trelawney that, until she, too, starts believing that Sybil is someone else entirely, an almost nameless 'other' living in an alternate unreality.
"She's not all there, you know," a boy who could be twelve or eleven or fourteen or ageless whispers to his friend, and they give her funny looks and giggle as she passes by and thinks, Oh, yes, she's not. She kills off the ageless boy the next day. Because "the lightening-struck tower, can you not see?" And the class falls silent for an almost endless moment.
She pulls the shawls around herself and there's the Christmas-like tinkle of fake plastic beads and silver chains. She's shrouded in a buzz of white noise. The silky fabric chafes against her windpipe, too tight, like a hangman's noose, and she would throw up if not for the knowledge that Sybil has remained behind, locked up in her tower, transparent and placeless, floating through time and destinies.
She might try juggling sherry bottles one day. She just might. To hear glass shattering against stone and the world becoming alive and real in the nanosecond of an explosion. (And she imagines: her watery, colourless eye winking from a ragged-edged shard.)
She just might.
Be.
-x-