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It's the way that he hears echoes of his hums during the loneliest of nights. The way he would feel ghost touches, the lightness of his steps, and the air move with him—all of those, he can sense it.
Ever since he entered this gloomy room, while his health deteriorating, he could feel him. In the dreamless sleeps where he could feel those green eyes burning holes into him. And every morning too, he will be left alone with nonexistent memories of the young musician's dead body, which looks strange yet familiar, which he could touch but not remember how cold it was. The string of actions he did not commit, or did he? Why did he come here anyway? Shrinking in the cold of autumn and trapped between white walls of doubts, the air here is so thick it's suffocating.
The accusations broke his mind. Maybe it's true after all. Maybe that's what happened. There will be no such rumor if there was no witness to this crime. There will be no such rumor if there was no crime in the first place. Maybe he did commit this sin. Maybe he did. Between the white walls of the hospital of Vienna, he groans in anguish. The falling yellowish rotten leaves forming few small piles under his window. He would feel the air shifts from the trees, the curtain floats, and he would taste the blood he spilled. Why would he deny his own innocence is beyond him.
This was all past. After going through what felt like forever in somewhere acting like a purgatory, he could feel his mind rots even further. He could always feel the glares of those related to this man, to him. To his murderer. To the voices of evil yelling at him. To the sword that manifested its being on his hand. To him that is Man in Grey. His reality and state of mind distorted to something beyond his ability to control or understand. A form which grew from a deep-rooted grief and guilt, and shame, and cluelessness—the rumor of his deeds, the forced idea of him partaking in the death of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, God's beloved.
Was it even him that went through all this? He couldn't even recognize his own wailings. Who is this... blood thirsty Monster. Who... is he?
At this point he had lost his senses, and his past, being the least of his concern, then forgotten. Once he caught the calling of his name, he answers with a pained bitter wail, he answers by going into this new physical form he gained. For he thought he was to be tortured forever in hell, he was surprised to this new sight of a room. Full of blue and lights so strange.
One part of him understands that this was the destination from that purgatory. For it was no purgatory in the first place. He understands it fully that he had make a pact with this Master—to fight for them and such, and such, as acknowledged in the contract. Another part of him is too busy entertaining this sudden urge to kill. To sink his claws into someone's chest, and while it rains of blood, he would too, maybe, die with them. If it is possible to be dead after death. If it is possible to rid of himself after committing such a sin.
"I am death. I must kill all those beloved by God," He spoke with a voice that is not his, but he was not sure anymore, "My name is Salieri...," It is not, "No...it is not... Who...who am I?" Deceived. Fell into the depth of madness. "Who am I." Is not even a question worthy of answering anymore.
"Hmm, an unexpected addition, is it not, Master? I've known one like him back then," a voice rings into his ears.
The ghastly haunting melody of those hums, of the air that shifts with his movements, "He looked healthier back then though." Of the blonde which he saw in his loneliest nights, in his shattered mind, in his distorted sight. The light laugh of a dead man. The face which reminds one of heaven's crimes and God's misdeeds, "Hey, do you remember me, Salieri?" He talks in sickeningly sweet voice. Salieri's—no, the Man in Grey cries. He kneels and breaks. Eyes bleeding from witnessing such a cursed blessing. The living, moving body of the young musician. A stifle of laugh managed to escape his cry of agony.
Salieri speaks, "I swear, I swear... It wasn't me..."
The Grey Messenger roars, "I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL KILL YOU!!"
For a mind so brittle to his presence, he shouldn't be walking towards Amadeus at this moment. But he needs him to hear it. That it wasn't him that killed the God's beloved genius. And he needs him to hear it, of how much he wants to stab him in an embrace. Maybe, if he could just—
"Er... Maybe we should send Amadeus out of the room?" The man he had formed a pact with glances around the room, signaling to the smiley man to not further entertain the new Servant. The atmosphere is so dense, yet the blond man still has the audacity to burst out laughing, walking backwards avoiding Salieri's shaky, hesitant movement. Making his Master even more nervous, aware of the murderous intents leaking from Salieri, filling the air with suffocating awkwardness.
"Right, Senpai, that might be the wisest decision..."