Lvndr

Crowley isn't okay. It's been 46 days since Aziraphale left, and Crowley hasn't been doing any better. It's actually all gotten worse. Now, on one particularly destructive day at his apartment, all of his usual cycles of ringing his misery out to the world haven't relieved any of the feelings that he's drowning in, and a thermos 1/4ths still-full of holy water feels like the only way out. At least it'll make a point.

Part of the demon wondered if he was made from nothing; that in some strange way the humans and their stories had been right and if someone were to split open his ribs, that instead of a beating heart and any sign of life there’d be nothing but the hollow sculpture of clay. Somehow, it’d make him feel better than having all the right parts and still being wrong. That it could explain countless days spent walking far away from his mind, to feel so disconnected from himself.

There’d been a proverb of sorts that went around for a while, it's always been hidden away in ancient human stories and experience, but experienced an additional surge in popularity when written plainly across posts in cursive font by 2010 Facebook moms; You are built by your experiences. It’s just some stupid supposedly motivational quote at first, but it certainly held true as much as Crowley hated to admit it, seeing the blasted thing among pictures of puppies and sunrises. For millennia, Crowley found himself in anyone else but himself. Layers of dissonance from his horrid being built between dancing with shitty liquor in Mesopotamian crowds and crowding within the modern London morning rush; quick thrills without the horror of being truly known were the few breaks from drowning Crowley could find. The true emptiness that consumed him with the vigor of a blackhole could easily be ignored by rising temperatures and flaring emotions at insignificant things, really anything that could get someone, anyone to look at him and to think that he was alive. Truly alive.