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ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴋʏ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋɴᴇss ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅs sᴜɴᴋ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴡᴇʀɪɴғ sᴋʏʟɪɴᴇ, sᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏғᴛᴏᴘs ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ.

Flashing lighting lit up the sky violently as the crashing of the cloud's drums rang intensely, making picture frames and china stutter. Even the Eiffel Tower, so faint in the backdrop, looked like a mangled skeleton against the dreary backdrop, twisting hardly among dense, brooding fog.

Rain pounded against the cold glass in front of Valentine, who stood motionlessly, stormy eyes trailing across the dim sky. She watched as the strong wind picked up the leaves and the clothes that were left stranded on the balcony, whipped about by the gusts before being forced against the french doors of the apartment, charging them open powerfully. The wind licked against her cheeks as she stood staring out of the doors, ignoring the loud clatters and the damage that was being inflicted to the room over.

Valentine had grown used to Jean's savage outbursts when he was drunk, creating a routine for fixing the outcomes of his own brutal habits. Only last week, he'd broken a necklace given to her from her grandmother. He'd smashed in under his heavy boot.

"Valentine!"

The shout of her name, she had shortly realised, was always a signal of what was to come. Jean Pierre stumbled into the room, grasping for the furniture to keep him from toppling over. With fatigued and drunken eyes, he looked up at her with a disturbing smile before wobbling his way over to her.

Valentine stood tall with her chin tilted away from him- she refused to flinch. Firmly, he gripped her face, silently demanding her to look him in the eye. Valentine resisted.Letting out a brittle gasp upon realising she had defied him, Jean Pierre started forward again.

"You are my fucking wife," he slurred out, as if that was some sort of excuse.

Jean advanced on her once more, coming too close to comfort as he gripped onto her arms tightly, and shook her, pushing her flat against the wall. A handprint would be engraved into her skin, not doubt, just as it had been before. A bright, red tattoo.

Valentine forced him back, bringing her hand up to hit him across the face, the golden rings that lay upon her slender fingers cutting slices through his skin. He roared, lunging towards her but caught his own feet, sending him toppling into the oak cabinet. Jean-Pierre clambered to his feet, his face a solid red from anger and teeth bared viciously, But Valentine's hands had already swiftly reached into the hidden pocket in the inside of her dress coat.

The french doors were clashing against the delicate walls behind her, adding to the cacophony of crashes that lurked from behind the looming storm clouds. Wind whipped at her her, twisting it messily and pushing it to her face. Such noice. Like a blanketed cover in the dark night.

Jean Pierre clambered to his feet once again before stomping towards her, with double the anger and hatred. His hand was raised, the other gripping her wrist and drawing streams of blood from his filthy fingernails. But he was too slow, as Valentine had already hauled the shining gun from her pocket and pointed it straight at his forehead.

The man was ignorant to his wife's real nature, having never spoken more than fifty words to each other at one time, and so he laughed slyly and began to lift his hand further.

"You are my wife." He repeated, using it as an attempt of showing authority that he did not have.

Rain water began to seep into the room from the balcony pooling around her expensive shoes. She spat at him, looking dead in the eye, before hesitating slightly. Jean Pierre roared in anger, almost biting back a laugh, as he moved his hands to grip both her face and her already bruised wrists.

But as she saw the deadly smirk that etched its way into his face, her trembling fingers pulled the trigger, watching as the bullet stuttered nervously through the air and planted itself in his chest. Jean's body seemed to hit the floor in slow motion.

He was finally silent, eyes wide in shock as his head settled against the wet boards. He gasped out for a second, reaching toward her foot, and behind toward the gun that had dropped to the floor. And then he stilled. A statue on the floor, stone cold.

Freedom. This was the only way in which she would obtain it.

Yet why did it feel so empty? The feeling that crept into her stomach, gripping at her skin from the inside until she had to keel over, landing to her knees. Valentine crawled forward, legs sliding from the blood stained rain that slid across the floor. Her hands slid toward his face, clutching to it, staring into his wide open eyes.

She screamed. A horrid, reaching screech that shattered through the human silence that stretched through the room, all the way to the people below.

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