Voices in my head were something I had all my life to some degree. I wrote them off as the byproduct of a creative mind-of someone with an imagination.
Of someone who would read voraciously. Someone who could and would craft stories and worlds for friends and others to enjoy.
So when I first heard the Beast it wasn’t that weird.
Not the weirdest part of it at least.
What was weird was that it was a fracture of myself, a jagged edge that never seemed to fit back into place right to close the door on. Characters were compartmentalized with their respective storylines in various rooms.
The Beast-Sybil, as I came to call her because someone who was going to be a part of me, a consistent part would need a name, since she would not go away. And we'll, having consistent company didn't seem like that bad of an idea. Right?
Thankfully my talking to myself, reminding myself about tasks or various things had already been normalized in my life-even at work- when she became a regular part of it.
Sybil was…is I suppose is the better way to phrase it, many things all at once. She’s an impulse.
I was cleaning some dishes at home when it felt like hands curled around my shoulders. I clutched the bowl tighter. “Wouldn’t it feel good to just…smash it? See the pretty pieces on the ground?”
Before I could fight it I smashed the bowl against the wall across the room. It shattered. I stared at the pieces and heard Sybil laughing. “You did it, you really did it! I didn’t think you would.”
She is scatterbrained. “If you’re waiting for a waiter, does that make you a waiter?”
She is defensive. When one of the nurses gave me an odd look for talking to myself she was ready. “I can take her out. Let me, let me let me let me-”
Of course I couldn’t let her do that. I deserved the look. I probably looked as crazy as I felt
But Sybil is also…helpful. “Cassandra.” Her sing-sony voice came through.
I ignored her.
“Cassandra.” Her voice was more insistent. A pressing rattling energy in my skull.
I needed to focus.
“I fed you already.” I muttered, pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead. “Hush.”
“CASSANDRA.”
“What!?” I snapped at the air. The waiting room was blessedly vacant. For a moment.
Then the wail of the ambulance cut through. Bodies were moving, rushing someone in. An old man who had collapsed.
A heart attack.
Sybil rested her chin on my shoulder as though she was a physical being. “He’s going to die.”
People were shouting, trying to stabilize him. Running orders as though it would help. Chickens clucking, barking orders like dogs.
What are we going to do with all these chickens?
Pick a little talk a little pick a little talk a little cheep cheep cheep pick a lot pick a little more.
Quite a farm, all hustle and bustle like a city street.
City sidewalks dressed in holiday -
I shook my head, trying to rattle myself back to be painfully present. They were running, trying so hard to save him.
All in vain.
By the time they had come back with the doctor he was gone.
I was tasked with collecting the appropriate paperwork, filing the reports of the incident.
Sybil slunk back, a bit smug. “Next time listen to me. You can get things in order quicker.”
Sybil is a fractured being.
But
so
am
I.