Cybil

Standing before the cracked dressing mirror hanging loosely on the wall, six fragmented reflections stared back at her-each one more hollow than the last. Her eyes were dull, stripped of emotion. Someone watching might assume she was indecisive about what to wear. But a single glance around the room would prove otherwise. She didn't own much. In fact, she could count the number of blouses she had on one hand. The cramped one-bedroom space felt detached from any notion of comfort. Her single mattress sat on the floor, old and torn, with foam spilling out like forgotten memories.

To the left, a secondhand reading table-once considered junk by Mr. Henried downstairs-now served as her refuge. That "junk" was her solace. A sudden ringtone jolted her out of thought. "Fuck," she muttered, snatching her phone. She stared at the screen for a moment before answering. "Hey, Cybil." It was Anne. She could tell immediately from the tone-laced with concern, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Cybil drew in a deep breath, steadying herself. "Hi, Anne." "Are you okay?" "You don't need to sugarcoat it, Anne. I'm safe, I promise. But I've got to go-I've got a teaching gig to get to." "Should I come-" She ended the call abruptly. She hated this part-the pity, the looks that reminded her of everything she tried to forget. This so-called freedom everyone chased? It was a luxury far beyond her reach. The air felt like chains, time like a prison, and her nightmares-her warden. She never feared the monsters under her bed as a child. She grew up living with them. Another call. This time, the caller ID read: Theo. "Good morning, Theo." "You still going downtown, girl? I'm coming around in a bit-get ready." The call ended. Stalling wouldn't stop time. And though she dreaded the ride with Theo-her childhood friend who knew every corner of her pain-she knew she had to go. Eventually, Theo arrived. She grabbed her backpack and rushed downstairs. After a quick, awkward exchange of pleasantries, she got into the car. The low hum of music did little to ease the tension. "Do you need police protection?" he asked gently, breaking the silence. "Theo, I'm not twelve anymore. Hiding won't make it go away. Quit worrying-this awkwardness might just ruin my day." "I'm sorry, okay? Just know I'm only a call away." She gave no response, letting silence return. As a child, Cybil Hales never had the freedom to simply be. While other kids built memories and played out little mischiefs, her childhood felt like hell. Her father's "love" for her mother had always been poison-controlling, cruel, consuming. He claimed to love, but all she saw was loathing. And it didn't stop with her mother. That hatred passed to Cybil, too. She had no memories of a warm embrace, no recollection of a bedtime story or kiss goodnight. Her mother was too weak to protect her. At just six, Cybil learned how to dress wounds before she learned how to dress herself. She knew more curse words than basic conversation. Pain was her language. The neighbors whispered but never helped. The kids kept their distance like she carried a plague. Daytime was her only solace-her father worked during the day and only returned to torment them at night. She didn't fear the dark. She feared what came with it-her father. By eleven, her small frame bore the marks of malnourishment. Even her clothes, worn threadbare, could no longer hide the bruises. One afternoon, she stared at her mother lying pale and still on their thin mattress. The woman, once beautiful, now looked like a ghost of herself. "Mama, are you dying?" she asked quietly. No reply-just a faint smile from her chapped lips. Their eyes met. In that look, Cybil could feel the sorrow, the regret, the apology. If she could, her mother would've rewound time-never met Isaac, never birthed Cybil into this cursed life. "Mama?" Cybil urged again, curling up beside her. "Mama's just... too weak," came the strained voice. Too weak? After everything she endured, her mother still refused to blame Isaac? Was this what love looked like? Because if it was, then love was broken. Cybil stared at her mother, lips parted as if to question more, but held it back. Silence filled the space. Bitterness gnawed at her mother's heart; helplessness consumed the child. A noise from downstairs pulled her toward the window. She peeked through the curtain and saw a boy her age, wrapped in a cozy pullover, laughing with a woman holding his hand. A man stood nearby, grinning. So that's what a family looks like, she thought. They must be the new neighbors. The boy looked up suddenly, catching her gaze before she could duck away. Her heart skipped. She stepped back, realizing the sky had darkened. Her stomach growled. She ignored it. Her eyes drifted back to her mother. Even now, with life barely hanging on, she was painfully beautiful. Her father used to say that, too. "Mama, Papa will be home soon." No response. As expected. She began tidying the room, making sure nothing would "set him off." "I just hope he brings something to eat," she murmured. And then, as always, Isaac came. The stench of alcohol clung to him. From her corner in the dimly lit room, Cybil watched silently, barely breathing. Maybe-just maybe-he'd pass out on the couch. But heaven had other plans. "Hey, little slut," Isaac groaned, slurring his words. He called again, louder. "Playing smart now, huh? Just like that crippled slut... teaching you to ignore your father?" Crippled? After he did that to her? She remembered the night. He came home drunk and stabbed her mother's legs. Cybil passed out from the sight. Since then, her mother hadn't walked. Isaac staggered to her. "Hey, bitch. You dying? Still so beautiful, even now..." His words softened-then broke. A sob. "You're so cruel to the end, you whore. Death isn't enough for what you did to me..." Then, without warning, he stabbed her. Cybil screamed, lunging at him. But she was no match. "Playing hero, huh?" he laughed. "Let's all die together. Maybe we'll be happy in another life." Another stab-this time, into her. Pain flooded her. Her senses blurred. Don't children get to choose their lives? she wondered. Doesn't God listen to kids? Or maybe... he's busy with worse stories than mine. "Mama?" Her voice trembled. Then she heard it-her mother's voice, weak but clear: "Cybil... stay with me..." The noise at the door grew louder-someone was breaking in. Maybe it's God after all, she thought, before the world faded. "Hey, Cybil, we're here... but really, you know you could just-" "I get it, Theo. I've got this. I knew he'd get out someday. But I can't keep running, and I won't be a burden to you or your dad. I'm twenty-six now. I can handle my shit." She cracked a small joke, trying to ease the worry in his eyes. Theo didn't laugh. But he let her go. She stepped out of the car, took a deep breath, and stared at the building ahead-a café that also ran a bakery, popular and always buzzing. She wasn't here for a lecture. This was work. A step forward. Inside, the cozy scent of pastries and coffee calmed her nerves. She scanned the room and spotted a woman in a tailored suit by the window. Their eyes met. Cybil walked toward her.