Hey, sorry about kind of abandoning this... I don't know about Melano, but I am here to write some more shit up for you. Here's Senya's POV of Inclinative Deviation.
My head reels. The glass shatters in front of my face, and I can't help but to flinch. I can still smell decay, blood, and death. Particularly the latter. It's so...intoxicating. There's nothing just like it.
His body lies on the floor a few feet away, a long pole still sticking out from his heart. I hear his spluttering and gasping as he tries to breathe, tries to survive. It's to no avail. I step away from the broken window, snatching a shard of glass away from my impaled skin, and bending down to hold it to his throat. The glass presses into the pale skin, a little bit at a time. Blood bubbles up to the surface, then leaks down the side of his neck, like some sort of crimson waterfall.
"May God hear your prayers," I speak, driving the glass in hard, and snatching up the sharpened pole. Red seeps from the wound, as he cries tears of death. Tears of remorse. Tears of the past. They've forsaken me. And so had Leon.
He had to die.
They all would die.
I start to drag the shard across his arm. Once...twice...fifteen times...they would pay for this. For all of it. For the fifteen years of pain they caused me. For how they'd nearly shoved me onto that ledge, whispering to me their secrets as they told me to take my own life. They'd never expected the poor, helpless Senya Alexandrov to fight back. They'd never imagined that he would throw one of their own over the edge, or hunt the others down over the years, impaling them, burning them, beating them until they were just a bloodied mass of flesh.
I hop through the window and make a dash for the nearest tree. My instinct tells me that the police won't arrive for a while yet, since no one even knew he was here, but who knows? I certainly don't. Not anymore.
Just because my name means to be heard by God, doesn't mean that I know His will. All I can rely on is my inner turmoil, the animal that was created after that first blood on the ledge, seven years ago. But that's reliable enough... for someone like me...
I'm not that person. Not that person that breaks down after the kill, not the person who howls in joy or screams in agony. I am the one who stays emotionless. For that is the only way one knows that another will not suspect a thing.
They walk past me, heads facing forward, eyes averted. I know that they don't want to see my face. I know that I shouldn't stay in their view. Instead, I should be hidden away somewhere, locked up. I am outcast. But is that not what I have always been?
I barely notice when the woman walks into me, crashing back onto the sidewalk. She's shorter than myself, with dark hair and dark eyes. When she glances up to meet my eyes, I find the same look reflected in them that I know is always in mine. For the first time in forever, I smile, and extend my hand. She takes it, eyes not quite trusting. The paper grasped in her hand falls on the ground, wrinkled. The headline catches my eye. She smirks.
"Be more careful next time, okay?"