SYBIL
Chapter 3: Sybil, an introduction

In her two-piece yellow swimming suit, young Sybil Carpenter walked down the beach in pursuit of Seymour Glass. She liked spending time with him because he never treated her like a child. Seymour, on the other hand, enjoyed her company and was always happy to see her. This particular day at the beach would be their last together. Sybil didn’t know that Seymour was about to shoot himself.

Don’t be concerned. This is not a true story. Nobody really dies. Sybil and Seymour only exist in J.D. Salinger’s mind. It’s just fiction.

At least, that is what I believed.

Before I personally met Sybil, in any case.

I began to question if J.D. was writing fiction at all but was talking about real people? That would make it simpler. After all, I had just discovered one of them.

Unfortunately, it became more complicated. Sybil kept reappearing in my life. There is one other thing I haven’t told you. Time is not linear for Sybil. She entered my life at various ages, but never in chronological order. The last time I saw her, she was a little girl. She remained an enigma to me throughout my life.

I don’t think that I am schizophrenic, but that would explain a lot about what I am going to tell you. Remember, you shouldn’t trust me about reality. I’m not really positive that she was there myself.

“Hi. You’re Ben.” The young girl looked up at me from the sand where she was building a castle. She was wearing a yellow two-piece swimsuit and heart-shaped yellow sunglasses. That was the first time I met Sybil.

“And who are you?” I asked.

“Sybil,” she replied. She looked at me as if she knew me. And somehow, she looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place where. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I sat at the beach. The repetitive sounds of the waves seemed just right for the short story that I was reading. It wasn’t the first time that I had read it, but I was always drawn to the story. For most people, the sunny day at the beach was enough, but not for Seymour Glass. It would be his last. A young girl had come to the beach from the hotel in search of him. She would be the last person to talk to him. But that was another other story. Not mine.

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