I'm not really sure why I wrote this. I guess I was in a depressig mood. So enjoy my dark, one-sided Yuffentine...Don't own it.
He wasn't sure why he kept coming back to this one street corner, this one house. Vincent watched the couple through the windows for three nights.
On the first night, they had a silent dinner and argued soon after, about what Vincent wasn't sure, he could not hear them. The woman slept on the couch in the living room, a place usually taken by the husband after a fight. Vincent watched her fall asleep and made sure she was safe before leaving as dawn drew near.
On the second night, the husband rose his voice to be heard by Vincent at the corner, but it was inaudible to him. The man inside the house lifted his hand threateningly, and the woman cowered before him, and she suddenly looked so fragile to Vincent, something she certainly had never been. The husband struck her across the face and she brought her own fingers up to the stinging mark left there. Her husband turned and left her slouched in the living room, bruises quickly forming around her eye and cheekbone. Vincent clenched his fist over the gun at his belt. The woman was crying. She sat in an armchair until sleep claimed her, and Vincent's heart ached to see her so miserable. Nevertheless, he left her to flee from the sun.
The next night, the third, Vincent came to the house in the middle of another argument. A physical argument. The man was beating his wife, not just one hit like the previous evening. He punched her and slapped her and kicked her when she fell. He threw things at her as she tried to crawl away, towards the door. Vincent stepped forward as the man reached for a weapon, but reminded himself that this was not his battle; he shouldn't be there anyway. The woman through the window cried out as metal dug into her flesh: so loud and clear that the scream echoed in Vincent's ears; the agony and regret in that scream pierced through his cold soul and left him hollow. He looked away from the little house as more mistreatment took place only meters away from where he was standing in the dark. When no more shrieks rang out into the night, Vincent turned his eyes to the house again. The windows were dark; the husband was nowhere to be seen. Vincent watched intently for any signs of life coming from the living room window until a small, pale arm rose up and shone in the moonlight as it touched the glass of the front window, leaving blood streaks as it slipped downward. The woman was trying to stand up. Thin red rivers ran down her thin arm and glistened in the eerie light of midnight.
Vincent turned and walked away then. He had made up his mind once and for all. He would never return to this street corner, he would never spy on his failure again. Yuffie's choices were nothing that concerned him, she had told him so the night she said goodbye forever, and he knew it.