Blank Doll melts into a puddle of wax. Wait, he's not made of wax!

She touched him, a singular finger on the bony tip of his bare shoulder. It was hot, like fire. It was fire, her finger was a tongue of flame. It hurt to be touched by her. It hurt even more that he could not touch her in return.

They kissed. Their tongues met. He remembered the first time they fought. His blood had formed a perfect halo about them because they had fought whilst floating four feet above the ground. It was the same pain again, the same throbbing blindness that drove him on. Catharsis by blood. A kiss was just the same.

He felt her wind her hair once, twice, thrice across his neck. He had never felt warm before, his skin never a colour other than the absence of colour, until the woman had touched him.

A part of him crawled away, stuggled to reach for the door, flaying and thrashing about like a mad man. The same crazed despair that had brought the woman to his doorstep, that had delivered him into the embrace of fire.

He felt another part of him burn in the toxic heat of breathlessness. No perspiration had ever touched the albino down of his lips, no sweat had ever trailed his temples. He was flushed, flushed with lust, flushed with a cold sort of fear, flushed with fire. He was being touched, and for once, he could not touch in return.

It was altogether too maddening. The angel collapsed into the encircling circle of fire, the woman's touch had scorched his wings to nothing. He was falling. The woman had clipped the wings of an angel.

With a singular touch. With the noxious fire of lust. The cold trembling of tomorrow's fear. The angel had fallen without his wings.

C'est tout.