Not mine.
Power. Sophie-Anne is all about power.
Thunderstorms are powerful, and she loves them. She loves to stand in the middle of them. She loves to be in the middle of everything, says sweet Hadley so often- fondly, faintly, fearfully, angrily.
The rain pelts her delicate skin and raises no dots of violated flesh as she becomes as cold as the environment around her. The lightening poses no risk- she wants so badly to be struck to see what she could feel. Perhaps the electricity will jolt life into her magic veins once more…
She laughs in a way bordering hysteria at the idea, like she could be, for a few moments, some Frankenstein creature. Electrocuted to life.
Like the eye of the storm, she becomes serene and steps back closer to cover as she considers the potential damage to her new favorite dress- a rare Vivianne Westwood design consisting largely of tulle and ornamentation.
Char marks could add character, she decides.
Or she could go up in fashionable flame.
What a lovely way to go. Final death by flammable fashion.
Without a glance to watchful eyes in the illuminated windows behind her, nor the shadows in all direction, she stands with her lovely arms extended at her sides and tilts her head back to cry to the sky in a primal, powerful way.
She is a creature of the darkness. She is a creature of dark and terrifying power. Thunder, lightening, her own being. They're all so similar.
She snickers as she considers the perceived purity of the very substance stinging her skin. Cleansing, purifying, holy and baptizing. Powerful, destructive, giving of life and so quick to take it too. Much like her ownself. She holds in her blood the power to give eternal life, and to also take it with a few swift draws of sweet, mortal blood.
Thunder cracks in the angry night sky and she feeds from the rage of the unpredicted weather.
She is a thunderstorm.