"I'm a twit

Degenerate young rebel

And I'm proud of it."

- Lady Gaga, Bad Kids

with a heavy feeling gnawing inside me. I've been staring, been watching the mortals through this floor-length glass. My heart has already calmed down yet my head is still flashing vivid images of the demon pushing me back at the counter, his face inches away from mine.

Inside my stomach is a bunch of butterflies fluttering wildly; just the thought of him does something inside me. I feel different. The feeling inside my chest is unfamiliar – it's confusing me. I want to explore this more, to know more about this feeling but to be honest it scares me. I'm afraid to know what this is. When I see the demon, Slate, I feel fuzzy and dizzy, and my heart races. My heart does a somersault whenever I see his perfectly-sculptured and beautiful face.

There are times, I realize, that I just want to run my fingers across his hair, to feel it against my fingertips, to feel how soft it is. Then I get this urge to run the pad of my fingers across his skin as they remind me of a China doll's. Then his eyes – they are a shade of dark brown, and they are amazingly beautiful. I could stare at it all day and never get tired of it. Yes, I admit that I get scared whenever he's around, but I also feel calm and secured whenever he's around. He had saved me thrice now – when I was sent down on Earth, he helped me, let me bathe myself, gave me clothes, hell he was even the reason why I got money to pay the landlady when I escaped because I found out that he was a demon; the second one is when I attempted to escape out of his grasp, and these unfriendly monsters tried to kill me when I successfully got away, or so I thought, and he appeared to save me; the third time is when he rescued me from Maki, though I still don't know if he's a bad kind of demon or a really, really bad kind of demon.

I have already cleaned the unit, from my room and to the kitchen. They are already cleaned, and I'm sure not even a single dust there is. Now that I have nothing to do, the only way to entertain myself is to watch the people fussing over the hot weather and yelling at the other passersby. I could watch television, but I wouldn't find anything worth watching since I really don't know how television works. It's a mortal device, so it will have mortal channels, and when it comes to mortals, I only have limited knowledge.

"I'm an Angel of Love," I hear myself saying, pouting. "I should know something, right?"

Though I'm only talking to myself, I'm hoping that someone's going to answer my question. Clearly I should know something, right? But when I rack my brain for any information about love, I come up with nothing. Of course I have no idea about love; that's the reason why I was sent down here on Earth, to learn the purpose of love. Or is that it? I remember my father saying that.

The night has come, and the moon is now giving light to the dark sky, which is a shade of a deep violet. Stars are visible, too, but since the clouds appear to be darker, as if it's going to rain, they are slightly visible.

Hours and hours have passed yet the only thing I've done, after cleaning the unit, is to stare and watch the people outside, watch the streets filled with honking cars, and watch the skyline. I have watched the sun slide down until it cut through the horizon, and watched the moon rise. Slate is yet to come home.

The clock reads 7:34 in the evening; I'm now looking at the door front door, as if expecting that Slate would open that and come inside, instead of looking at the busy streets of Brooklyn. I heave a sigh, shaking my head and muttering under my breath. Why am I hoping that he's going to come home? He said to me that I should not wait for him. Clearly that's another way of saying that he's not going to come home, right?

Slate also said to me that I could roam freely around the city, but my soul feels like it's bound here, in this unit. I could roam, but I don't want to, not without Slate. He'd make a great tour guide.

You are mine, he said.

Just thinking those words make my heart race again, and there it is again – my heart is doing somersaults right now. Those words obviously have an effect on me. This scares me yet it excites me. I feel a thrill coursing through my veins, and the words keep replaying over and over inside my head like a broken record. The feeling is great, and if I could let it stay this way, I would but as each second ticks by, my heartbeat goes slower and slower until it beats normally.

I remember the first time Slate and I met – I was in the woods, just landed on Earth. I was really scared and confused the whole time. Then when I saw him, a scream escaped my lips. He chuckled at me, though there was really nothing funny. I wasn't being funny yet he looked at me with amusement in his eyes, but that was before I found out that he was a demon. The first thing I noticed about him was his dark brown eyes, then his chiseled jaw, filled with stubbles, then his hair. He was really attractive, a mortal man, but that was before I found out that, yeah, he was a demon. He was topless that time, and he had a half-empty water bottle; he was sweating, as if he had been jogging, exercising for hours. His hair was sticking up in every direction yet it really looked good on him; it went as a bonus to his overall features. His voice was a music to my ears; it was deep and manly and sweet, and it drew me into him. I remember hearing his voice when we first met – it sent a tingling sensation all over my body. I couldn't look into his eyes because his eyes were awesome and beautiful.

The muscles of his back were sculpted, and I stared at it as he walked as it was flexing whenever he moved. He offered me his cabin to take a bath, and I agreed. I followed him inside the cabin. When I thanked him, he only rolled his eyes, as if I had somehow offended him. Of course it offended him; he's a demon. They don't do thanks, or say it.

So he told me where the bathroom was located, and I bathed myself once I found it. He gave me a pair of clothes and pants to wear. When I thanked him, he froze, then after a few seconds, he got out of the room real quick. I found him weird, really odd, and I thought that he wasn't just used to helping people. When I was done, he was nowhere to be found, which resulted me to checking the woods out because I really wanted to thank him and make up for him for helping me, but it led me to find out the truth – he was a demon. He was with another demon. I found out that was a demon just because of the demon who was with him – he hissed, telling me that I was a fallen angel, and it felt like it burned his tongue. I remember Slate calling the demon Aeshma, and he told me that he would see me soon. He smiled at me, and I ran away. Aeshma was supposed to catch me, but Slate stopped him from running after me. Then a car pulled up once I was on the road, and I told him I needed help, and that was it. I thought I was not going to see him again, but reality had a way of fucking things up – he found me, I found him, and then he made me as a prisoner. But looking at it now, at this moment, I'm not a prisoner, or at least I feel like I'm not.

Sensing that nothing interesting will happen tonight, I look away from the door and hoist myself up, deciding that I should just sleep this off. Slate will come home if he wants to come home. He's probably doing some demon stuff, and by demon stuff, I never want to know.

I head to my room and let myself fall on the mattress. I sprawl, turning around and facing the window, which overlooks the busy city of Brooklyn. My mother would really love this view. I wish I could talk to her right now, and to my father, and to Leandre. But I can't. Sitting up cross-legged, I put my palms together and shut my eyes. The best way to communicate to them right now is to pray, and I hope the Angel of Prayer will deliver the message to them. I say my prayers – I tell them to guide me, to help me while I'm still here on Earth, and to protect me. And then I end my prayers with an "I love you" for my parents.

What is love? I ask myself.

I love my parents, and some of the angels, but how come I can't define it? How come I don't know the purpose of it? How come I was assigned to be an Angel of Love? I didn't choose to be that type of angel, but I was assigned. Yet I don't regret being chosen as an Angel of Love. There are angels who don't have a title – they are just simple angels, or warrior angels, but having a title, it means you're different, you're superior, you have a purpose. But I don't know what my purpose is. I don't even know the meaning of love let alone its purpose. All I know is I love my parents and my friends back home. That's it.

Wrapping the duvet around me, I sigh in contentment as I relax against the soft mattress. There's something calming about watching the dark sky.

My eyes roll, focusing on the door instead rather than what's outside. I'm looking at the door of my room, as if expecting someone would come in, and oh how I wish he could come in, but after staring at it for several minutes, I decide that I'm being stupid. I stare at the ceiling for several minutes before deciding that I should just sleep this off. Perhaps when I wake up in the morning, everything that is bugging me today will be gone. I shut my eyes, already feeling the exhaustion and darkness creeping up on me, and then after a few moments, they take over me and see myself wandering in Wonderland.

There are marks all over my arm, just one arm. It's numb. I guess I've used my arm as a pillow instead rather than the actual pillow. As my eyes flutter open, I already feel the morning aura, and a smile tugs into my lips.

What a good day this will be, I think to myself.

Remember the demon, I shoot out of bed and run into the living room. But there's no in the living room, and there's no one in the kitchen. Looking at his room, I slowly walk towards the direction of his room and knock on his door several times, expecting an answer, but no one answers. The only sound you can hear is my breathing. He's not here. Looking around, nothing has changed. I see the things the way I left them. The kitchen is clean as well as the living room. I know that once he finds out about this, there's a chance that he's going to kill me, but I need to know if he's here or not. My heart pounds against my ribcage while my hand grasps the doorknob of the door of his room, rolling it slowly until it clicks and I push it back slowly, and then I see his room empty. He's not here.

Groaning, I shut the door close, harder than intended and I walk lazily and grumpily into the kitchen.

Fine. If he doesn't want to go home, then I'll make him.

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