Angels are crashing and he doesn't care, There is torture in her kiss and it can't be fair,

She didn't understand, the wretched girl. Didn't understand what it was to love something you had no chance of getting. Not that he deserved a chance, no, he was truly a monster, and he knew it. But she didn't know what it was like to positively loathe the face one saw in the mirror, to know the horrible, dark secrets behind your own eyes and despise them until the very skin you lived in crawled.

And it was all because of her.

No, never. The dancing angel would never intentionally hurt anybody, it simply wasn't her nature…so how was it she could tear him apart so mercilessly, day after day? Was there anything on earth more confusing than a woman and anything more painful than this obsession, this unrequited devotion? Had he ever felt more a prisoner of his own faith?

Some days the pain simply comes from nowhere

It wasn't just lust anymore, either, and really, that's what ate at his very core day after day. Lust was a sin that could be conquered with devotion to a higher power. Love…love was something entirely different that he had no experience with and no comprehension of. It was a lesson he couldn't be taught by anyone besides Esmeralda and she would literally sooner be hanged than teach him.

Hell. Hell awaited him for these feelings, and could he bring himself to care? No, why should his mind allow that? Hell, that pit of eternal torment he'd been conditioned to fear, loathe, and avoid at all costs, was waiting, gates wide open, when he died and he didn't care. Because surely she'd be there as she was here now.

These circles he runs in will go nowhere fast

His friends-no, he didn't have friends-the others who worked for the church fretted mildly over the deep, ever-darkening circles below his eyes, asked if he'd been trying to sleep. It was a pretty stupid question, but they didn't know that. He tried every night to sleep, but his mind refused to give him darkness, peace, silence. Behind his desolate eyes there were only images of shining waves of dark hair, sparkling emerald eyes, and lips half-parted in mutual desire that had to be imaginary.

And on the worst nights there was a white dress with buttons that always came undone at a torturously slow pace, exposing inch after inch of skin, of curves, of forbidden things. There were phantom sensations he wasn't supposed to know of, a glow that grew brighter until he practically burst.

And every morning he stood, shaking, wondering just how much more he could take before he burned down all of Paris.

He prays for this Angel of Death to take him at last