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Chapter Nine: SanityA/N: Please read artist's note first.
An electric shock shot through Caphriel, and he sprang from the bed. Turning in every direction, frantically scanning the walls and ceiling, he cried out, "Zirah! Zirah, answer me, please! I know you're there, I can hear you! Where are you, Zirah? Tell me where I can find you! I'll do anything, anything! Just come back to me, Zirah! Please, Zirah, say something again! Zirah!"
He stopped, closed his mouth, clenched his teeth hard enough to crack them, and felt his knees give out under him, as the realisation of what had just happened sank in fully, like spikes of ice-cold metal.
He'd gone mad.
It had finally happened. He'd gone mad.
He'd heard Zirah's voice, that beloved, golden voice, after one thousand years, as clearly as though he'd been in the same room with him. And Zirah had called his name, had said he loved him, and was coming back. He'd sounded so lost, so desperate. And all that was impossible, because Zirah was g
Chapter Eight: OceanA/N: Please read artist's note first.
The lack of focus and the bouts of dizziness had long gone, but things most definitely had not improved. Aziraphale didn't think he could take it much longer.
Over time, the ache in his heart and the feeling of missing something had grown exponentially. Now, it felt like he was being stabbed at every step, and as though he was constantly being sliced in half, right down the middle. This pain was much more ancient, he knew, than the day he'd seen that third mirror. It had always been there, but it had been hopelessly buried under mountains of madness, far beyond his ability to feel. And he still didn't know what it was all about!
There was a strange rushing sound in his ears. It had been there for hours now, getting stronger and stronger. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Still, he didn't mind. It was oddly soothing for some reason.
There was a rather steep-looking hill in front of him. He th
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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