Angelus Palmer was a 16 year old boy of average height. Black hair that was probably too long, dark eyes that didn't gleam or sparkle, he wore glasses that made his nose look too big and like all teenagers he had horrible acne. He was average, uninteresting, but he did have something that not many people had.

Angelus loved blood. He didn't try to drink it like the vampire-obsessed girls, but he did like the taste. He didn't avoid the sun and holy water; he had no qualms about sharp looking pieces of wood sticking out of odd places. It started as a slight obsession, when he wrote, there was always a scene in the writing with blood splattering over something, when he drew the subject was always bleeding.

Then his family were in a car accident. His father died, his mother had some broken ribs and nearly broke her neck, his little sister, who was 7 years old at the time and didn't put her seatbelt on, had flew into the front seat and split her head open. He broke his jaw, leg and fractured his eye socket; the vision in his right eye was permanently damaged because the shards of glass from his glasses disfigured it. In the time it took for paramedics to get there his sister had lost a lot of blood, they all had.

Some people would call him crazy, but he was unable to move and left to watch his family bleed out in front of him. He eventually recovered, but the bloodlust was still there. It started just by slicing his fingers open. Watching the liquid rubies seep out of the finger tips. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He started cutting other places, his legs and wrists, and then he started going deeper. Then he went too far. His mother found him. They thought he was suicidal. He needed to see a psychiatrist. He was put on suicide watch. He didn't want to die; he just needed to see the blood. It had been so long. Eventually the suicide watch was relaxed, he only saw Mr. Parker once a week. He could start again. He was more careful this time; he knew that it would be even longer before he could cut again if he was caught. But he needed it, like water to a thirsty man; he needed to see, to feel his blood. Fear of being caught again though spoiled it. He always had to be too careful, he never got enough anymore. His first girlfriend helped him with his problem; he was willing to admit it was a problem. She was so beautiful, kind, smart and funny. He made her bleed. Her blood was different to his, slightly; it looked redder, thicker even. She screamed at first, asked him what he was doing. She called him a freak and pulled away, clamped her hand over the gash in her wrist and ran back to her house. He followed her, her parents weren't home. He grabbed her, tied her down and cut both her wrists wide open and watched, intoxicated, as his mania seeped from her severed veins. It came faster than he was used to, and he knew she wouldn't survive. He untied her, put a kitchen knife next to her corpse and took a photograph of her on his phone. She was the first. Not all his girlfriends ended up like this through his teenage years. Some he had no opportunity not to get caught. It was easier when he got older. He could pick them up at pubs, clubs he even got a date after church once. It was too easy. He would go to their houses and bleed them dry. Angelus found that blood didn't always react the same way. It could pour, seep, squelch, it interested him. Depending on where and how he broke the skin he got different reactions. But eventually he exhausted that too. He needed more. Angelus' infatuation with blood drove him to new extremes, and the 'suicides' turned into suspected murders. Eventually he was a wanted serial killer. Though he never saw it like that. He was experimenting, with blood, weapons. It got harder to get women alone. The thought that they could be butchered and bled dry scared them a bit. They were more cautious. He started praying on the blood of men too. Now he had new ways to experiment.

It was a cold night when he last killed. Matt was a really tall bloke, Angelus was only level with his chest. Fairly toned mostly good looking; his eyes looked slightly too big for his head, and he really shouldn't wear make up. Angelus had had to stab him quickly before he got away. He tried to run when he saw the knife, most of them do, but they at least pause in shock. Angelus pushed him against the wall with the knife buried in his shoulder he gasped and slid down the wall to the right. The blood created a diagonal line that was running down the wall, almost like a disfigured wing. He stood up again, and Angelus drove the knife in his other shoulder. The line this time joined with the other in a melting red 'V'. Angelus slit one of Matt's wrists and sat down next to the bleeding wound. He lifted the arm up and watched the blood run down his arm, unhindered because Matt shaves his arms. Angelus looked at Matt's face, he was crying, his eyeliner running, his breathing was laboured. Angelus raised his knife and violently hacked at the exposed neck until his head dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. Blood spurted from the severed neck of Matt and gently sprinkled Angelus' face with gore.

Officer Dale Ryan ran up the hall followed by his partner, Matt's wife and the reporter and her photographer. He got the 'we've got the right guy' signal, but no follow up. He feared the worst. He was first through the door, followed by the reporter's photographer. The criminal stood up in a flash, and at the same time the flash of the camera went off. What he first saw was an angel. A man with dark windswept hair, splattered with blood and gore the knife in his left hand reflected the flash of the camera, looking sinister. The man had dark wings, wings of blood. Like two broken bones sticking from his back the satin of blood on the wall seemed to protrude from his shoulders and the broken wings bled down the wall; an angel that would never fly again.

Angelus was sentenced to life. He didn't care. No one cared if he cut himself here, he sharpened the plastic cutlery. One night he cut too deep, the blood slowly escaped his veins, and he watched in exhausted awe as his life slipped away. That night he died. The angel that would never fly again.