The Misadventures of Sybil Cook

Chapter Two

"Oh, horrendous little Opal. Why couldn't she ever keep her fat mouth shut?" thought Sybil, trudging through the middle of a muddy street in Pensbury. She was on her way to market, and even though it was Bartholomew's turn to go, she had been forced by her aunt as punishment. Sybil had a tongue as detrimental as a viper, and she had used it on her whole family (or at least what was left of it) this morning. Truth was, all the Cook children did. But to be wholly honest, Sybil's was the worst.

It had all started this morning, 5:58 to be precise, when Sybil had awoken two minutes in advance than was usual.

This invigorated her irritation with everyone to a rather high level and she stormed downstairs with a temper that would have impressed Queen Elizabeth.
The first person to cross Sybil's path was Opal.
Needless to say, there was a spectacular commotion in the kitchen and by the time their aunt had persuaded her feeble old legs into the room, it was a total wreck. Being much too ancient for spanking the two girls, Aunt Agnes sent Sybil to market and instructed Opal in cleaning the lavatory.
So here we are, reader, back with Sybil, watching her curse at every pedestrian who ventured within two feet of her, watching her spit on the beggars, and witnessing her jeer at the pompous old ladies whose voluptuous regal China was held high as they were paraded in their expensive carriages across the putrid streets of Pensbury.
Sybil herself was dressed in once pretty clothes, now faded and patched in more areas then she cared to admit. But she did not let anyone look down on her concerning this aspect, oh no. She treated the many torn petticoats as if they were still as blazing with color and just as fashionable as the day they were bought (which, reader, was quite a long time from that day). Her dirty brown hair was split-ended and stringy, but she arranged the long locks like they were a queen's nonetheless. She picked her worn slipper-footed way among the refuse with such a haughty pride that it would have been hilarious to see her so, if it hadn't been for her eyes.
Ah yes, her eyes, reader. Her eyes were the coldest blazing shade of slate grey imaginable, and set so deep in her dark, sunken sockets that they were impressively fierce, if not terrifyingly so.
If anyone who knew Sybil was to describe her appearance, they would have shuddered and said,
"Her eyes, me lad (or lassie). Her eyes were the most beautiful and fearsome thing I do admit I've ever seen." And if you were to inquire about the rest of her physical stature, your witness (who would be long in the grave by now), would have just chuckled.
"Ah, she was but a wee lass, an' so spiteful an' spoilt you ne'er would come close to guessin' that she was seventeen. She was very haughty, y'kin? Like an old woman trapped inside a young, grimy body. She could've been a beautiful lass if it hadn't been for her temper. Oh, her temper..." And they would have rambled on and on about Sybil's terrible reputation until doom's day. Nevertheless, Sybil expected everyone to love her, even though she knew plenty well that she was indeed less than like able. Her petty airs did not enforce complete control of her heart, however, for she was indeed hurting.

Some people blame themselves for everything when a hurtful event comes to be in their lives. Some people will blame everyone, and hate the world for no reason. And yet another group will accept the catastrophe for what it is and be content to blame the responsible persons.
I don't think you'll find it necessary for me to restate which group of people Sybil made herself at home in.
The funny thing is...Sybil knew she was wrong.
She hated herself because she knew she was wrong.
And yet, she couldn't change. The shackles of pride held her back in her self-created prison, where happiness occurs based on good circumstances.
Sybil also knew she was hateful. She reminded herself with disgust day after day, that if she was to die, nobody would mourn. Nobody would be sad, deep down inside. She would have a cheap funereal just like her father's, and nobody would be sad.
Sybil also knew that she didn't care. Well, at least she tried not to most of the time. When her mother died, she realized that a portion of her sensitive heart was gone.
Completely.
If a person is hurt hard enough, for a long enough period of time, they will eventually cease to care.
And let me tell you, reader.
Sybil Cook
Couldn't care less.