My demon fell from the sky on Monday morning, his wings tattered, black tears painting his cheeks. My first instinct was to run, but my other first instinct saw the look of desperation on his face as he reached towards me, his grey hand begging for my mercy. No one else in the neighborhood saw my demon fall from heaven, his head slamming on the cracked pavement, weeds getting caught in his dark hair. When I walked out to him, my skinny legs trembling under me, he called me "Amora" which is a Spanish name meaning love. My name isn't Amora, it's Mia, but he refuses to call me anything else other than Amora. Now, I think that it's weird when people call me Mia.