God mocks the selfish

A demon could cry once, maybe twice every hundred or so years. A fact one like him was well aware of and had never personally had occurred. No emotion has spurred him to waterworks in his already several centuries of life. He hadn't felt attachment nor joy nor sorrow, just the empty hallow that bore the boredom his ever-living state embodied. As such, it felt like a mockery that once he had shed tears, it was from an ache he had no words for. So too was it ever cruel that he might discover a miraculous gift within the storm of distress. As if to ever laugh at him, it felt as if God himself had robbed him of the anonymity amongst the rain and the roaring hurricane that became his mind. Louder than any thought, and harsher than any pain he had felt. One without source, it seemed. But there was a source, and it lie cold and stiff in his arms, a skeleton of a memory. Retroactively breaking down any concept of hope or otherwise peace. For how could one feel peace again after seeing such a simple, joyous soul, ripped cruelly from a world they had yet even truly experienced. 

As if to mock the sinner he was, he could never experience such an escape or release from a world he was not even meant to be in. How was it, that one such as him, could have met and cared so deeply for another only to be shown a true display of beauty in such sorrow? Beauty he did not feel justified to take in and yet felt his breath pause of its own accord.  How could he marvel in the wake of tragedy, one of which worlds over could never find a reason for?

Children were innocent after all. As pure as the first tear he shed, that alone could be his lesson.

For what was more a blessing than to have felt loved and lost? A thought he thought might tear him apart and thus, gave way to let his heart be torn asunder. Devils could never truly be blessed after all.