When Gary asked politely if she wanted him to tie her to the bedposts that night, Sybil politely declined. Polite, polite, polite - she was sick of it, the way he always asked when it was a nightly routine. It was idiotic how gentle he was when he took the silk ties he bought for her and clamped her wrists gently to the headboard behind her. She absolutely despised that he kissed her on the forehead afterward. Why couldn't he just act like it was fucking weird and avoid her gaze while he tied her down like her previous lovers had and rolled to the side? Tonight she left the room before he could say anything after she refused his weird, bland brand of sweetness.
When her grandmother used to tie her to the bedposts, for her own good, she gave no tenderness, making the ropes tight enough so that there'd be marks worn into Sybil's skin that often prompted ignored phone calls from teachers at her school. You know how — yes she knew how her grandmother's second son sleepwalked into the woods. And how great aunt Bea sleepwalked out of her condo in New York and dropped into a sewage grate. It can happen anywhere, that's why we lock the door and bound our wrists, yes, disappearances in our family are genetic I know and and the worst part is
No bodies found. Sybil knows. Disappeared not just out of the realm of living, but out of the realm of existence at all. She never knew why her grandmother harped on this — wasn't it easier, not having to deal with the corpses?
Never let yourself be tired while you're unbound. You could wander off. Sybil sat in the bar, and reveled in feeling her eyelids grew heavy. The air felt different at 2 A.M., something she had never felt conscious before. The people during this hour seemed like they were more, for some reason. More intense, fatigued, frustrated, drunk, loose, more everything. She was pleased to feel like more, finally.
She had felt less when the neighbors had found their grandmother dead, thin and paper wrists tied to the same sandalwood bedpost that she had been tying herself to for thirty-eight years. A peaceful death, passing in her sleep. Sybil couldn't understand why it felt wrong that they had a body to bury, that her grandmother's friends wanted an open casket so they could look at her pasty skin and smell the disinfectant the coroner had dressed her body in.
One time Gary had wanted to kiss her after he had tied her wrists down. She turned her head before he could. He always smelled like the bakery he worked at and held her after her grandmother died while she had to stare at the still, still, still, it wouldn't move, still body but she just couldn't shake that feeling. That somehow — between the dawn and dusk — that he liked her being tied down this way.
4 A.M. feels practically the same as 3 A.M. air, she discovered as she reached the shore. The pull had stopped — she had reached the end. Sybil sat in the water, which only reached her knees. She was tired but sleep evaded her. Instead, she focused on the increasing calm as it sunk into her skin and veins with each cresting wave.
Sybil began to sink into the sand and it became colder as she sank deeper into a sort of wetness that would not dry. It only occurred to her now, that she was completely lucid of what was happening to her, wide awake. She wondered if her family had been awake — her uncle, great aunt, second cousin — when they had gone. She wondered if her grandmother hadn't actually died in her sleep, if her eyes had coincidentally been closed in her final moments.
The tide tried to take hold of her, bring her back to the surface but Sybil felt her body already buried underneath. She thought of her grandmother's body buried under the dirt and felt relief that she could already feel her body fading away. She would not be a corpse beneath the earth, but rather nothing at all.
Sybil grinned as the grit filled her mouth, thinking about how in the morning they would look for her body at sea and would not find it.
When her grandmother used to tie her to the bedposts, for her own good, she gave no tenderness, making the ropes tight enough so that there'd be marks worn into Sybil's skin that often prompted ignored phone calls from teachers at her school. You know how — yes she knew how her grandmother's second son sleepwalked into the woods. And how great aunt Bea sleepwalked out of her condo in New York and dropped into a sewage grate. It can happen anywhere, that's why we lock the door and bound our wrists, yes, disappearances in our family are genetic I know and and the worst part is
No bodies found. Sybil knows. Disappeared not just out of the realm of living, but out of the realm of existence at all. She never knew why her grandmother harped on this — wasn't it easier, not having to deal with the corpses?
Never let yourself be tired while you're unbound. You could wander off. Sybil sat in the bar, and reveled in feeling her eyelids grew heavy. The air felt different at 2 A.M., something she had never felt conscious before. The people during this hour seemed like they were more, for some reason. More intense, fatigued, frustrated, drunk, loose, more everything. She was pleased to feel like more, finally.
She had felt less when the neighbors had found their grandmother dead, thin and paper wrists tied to the same sandalwood bedpost that she had been tying herself to for thirty-eight years. A peaceful death, passing in her sleep. Sybil couldn't understand why it felt wrong that they had a body to bury, that her grandmother's friends wanted an open casket so they could look at her pasty skin and smell the disinfectant the coroner had dressed her body in.
One time Gary had wanted to kiss her after he had tied her wrists down. She turned her head before he could. He always smelled like the bakery he worked at and held her after her grandmother died while she had to stare at the still, still, still, it wouldn't move, still body but she just couldn't shake that feeling. That somehow — between the dawn and dusk — that he liked her being tied down this way.
4 A.M. feels practically the same as 3 A.M. air, she discovered as she reached the shore. The pull had stopped — she had reached the end. Sybil sat in the water, which only reached her knees. She was tired but sleep evaded her. Instead, she focused on the increasing calm as it sunk into her skin and veins with each cresting wave.
Sybil began to sink into the sand and it became colder as she sank deeper into a sort of wetness that would not dry. It only occurred to her now, that she was completely lucid of what was happening to her, wide awake. She wondered if her family had been awake — her uncle, great aunt, second cousin — when they had gone. She wondered if her grandmother hadn't actually died in her sleep, if her eyes had coincidentally been closed in her final moments.
The tide tried to take hold of her, bring her back to the surface but Sybil felt her body already buried underneath. She thought of her grandmother's body buried under the dirt and felt relief that she could already feel her body fading away. She would not be a corpse beneath the earth, but rather nothing at all.
Sybil grinned as the grit filled her mouth, thinking about how in the morning they would look for her body at sea and would not find it.