Bloody Mourning

     The sky is raining blood. Deep copper tears of rust run down buildings older than the oldest child, and pools of ruddy liquid gather in the pavement cracks. It is angels' blood, and it is falling from Heaven onto the streets of Hell. He takes in this information with a disconnected apathy, not at all concerned for what is happening.
     In truth, the whole thing was coming sooner or later.
     People seemed to assume that angels had no free will, that it was a punishment of the rebellion, or that the free will enabling the rebellion itself was a fluke. He found this amusing. Of course all angels had a mind of their own! Hive mentality was a difficult thing to break away from, and it was difficult to betray what a parent instilled into you from existence. But those of the rebellion had been precocious scamps. Now, other angels had begun asking questions, begun displaying curiosity. They felt lied to, betrayed, and asked important things.
     "If the reason for Hell is to punish sinners, doesn't that mean the people running it are on our side? Why is there eternal damnation, what if these people can be redeemed? What about those born in Hell to demons, don't they have any say in the matter? Why is Hell permanent, why isn't it merely a phase one must go through?"
      Eventually, the hardcore fanatics and those brave enough to question the system were fighting one another in Heaven. Once upon a time, he might have cared, but he had long ago lost his compassion. Anything he had believed he could accomplish in Hell had long since been abandoned. So many looked to him for guidance, but what could he provide? He was just as stuck in this eternal torment as they were. He had been his father's favorite, the whole reason he was in this damn position. The rebellion was a ruse that went too far, he only did it at his father's urging. He knew what his father knew; people needed someone to blame, and he could provide the perfect scapegoat. But even though he truly was on the side of the "angels", he no longer felt so benign on the matter.
     Father had said it was a responsibility, that he had a purpose of greatness in the universe. Greatness. In a dank, dark, stinking, rancid pit. Right.
     From his tower, he looked out the window the the ground. Demons and fallen and damned souls alike meandered through the streets, throwing back their heads and opening their mouths, catching the blood on their tongues like snowflakes. Mad laughter filtered up from the streets below to his tower. This is what his father had damned them all to. Madness. One couldn't maintain their sanity and pureness in such a filthy place.
     It took a minute for him to realize he had shattered the glass of brandy in his hand. The glass shards were slowly pushing out of his skin and the cuts healing over. He stared at his hand for a minute, thinking. Raising his head, he looked up at the ceiling of his tower, pretending that this time his father would listen and respond.
     "Dear Father in Heaven, it's me, the Devil..."