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poised on the cusp of snapping. All of this I took to be a
physical metaphor concerning the creature’s progress at
returning to the world, each chain and buckle a symbol for
the intervening layers of reality that had already fallen to the
master of madcaps.
I was about to try my luck at finding the edge of the bed
when Deleriael freed another of its many limbs from a stout
chain, howling at me, “I’m tired of asking you, Vincent! So
now I’m telling you! Go mad with us!”
I was instantly made flush with the bed as legions of
viperous straps wrapped tightly around me, pulling me into
its stained folds. I heard the awful memory of my mother’s
confession creeping closer to recollection, her once distant
words growing like feral tumors. Implications like monsters
began to snicker and harrow my every thought. I needed to
escape.
Then I saw it, the door out—the escape from damning
revelation, and beside it the Angel of Madness, politely
holding it open.
My sisters called out in unison, the sting of steel playing
small and sharp within their shrill singsong speech. Oh, my
dear brother, might we stay and play here for a while, where
the madness is raw and tender? What a feast two small girls
with bottomless appetites could have here, among the mad
and the undying! Before I could answer them, the twisting
and crooked thing that was Deleriael’s hand attempted to
close around my much-restrained body. A foolish move,
even for an angel of madness.
In a blur of steel and teeth, my sisters freed me and
stabbed themselves into the delicate spaces underneath
the angel’s outstretched claws. Deleriael yelped like a
gigantic dog struck by a rolled newspaper, recoiling from
the pain. My sisters’ voices rose to a screech as they called
out to the angel, Withdraw, you wicked thing! Lest we
slide beneath your skin as we once slid beneath our sheets
when the monsters of midnight came for us! Their words
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