Bessa

Bessa From Across The Sea (1 of 2 )

Grey clouds forecast their predictability that something menacing is coming.

The Savage left me a humble breakfast of fried meat on the table before he went to the backyard to stack the logs he chopped from yesterday. A festering heaviness keeps growing behind the cartridge of his rib cage, expanding with each breath he takes. It's hard to swallow down my food.

I never thought I would feel my mate's grief internally for the loss of his heart.

By the time he enters through the back door, it's midday, and I'm done cleaning the entire house. Even the ceilings are without the touch of her breath anymore.

Greif reflects in the dullness of his greens.

Bundles of dried grass are carried inside by him, one after the other until he goes out to finally come back carrying several long poles and planks of wood that have been stripped of their bark. He's very particular in how he places everything on the floor before he goes into the kitchen.

"What's that for?" Looking at the tall grass that reminds me of the reeds that would grow close to the river banks. Our grandmothers would teach us how to tightly weave a basket so no water would escape.

"Your bed, it's going to get cold soon, and I don't want you sleeping on the floor." He's not looking at me while saying this; he's staring at the inside of the empty cupboards.

His eyes close, mine don't. I can't help the glide of my vision to his neck, to his shoulder that flexes with the movement of his bunching muscles.

"I don't mind the floor." My own sound seems breathy to me; I'm not able to pull my eyes away from him, the exertion of the day clings to his body. Making the inked flesh shine.

The scent of him,

leaking,

saturating,

consuming,

the inside shell of the house.

A creeping warmth infiltrates the space between my legs.

"I don't want you on the floor. This won't be as comfortable as a real bed, but it's better than what you're on right now." He turns his body around to face me. His loincloth has dropped down low on his hip, the line of hair just touches the material my vision is focused on.

The scorch of heat trails it's licking breath down my spine to rest comfortably deep in my abdomen.

The silk over my nose provides no protection from his scent. My increased breathing is making the fabric damp at my mouth.

I shake with my weakness...

"Are you hungry?" His voice seems distance, muffled...the beating of my heart consumes the channel of my ears.

"Yes." Trying to say words through the sharp protruding canines is almost impossible. It's with great relief he can't see my face.

The lenght of his torso is studied upwards. The ink hides the canvas of his skin, so many animals in displays of showing teeth that I can't stop myself from staring. Until my eyes find and focus on the scar in the hollow of his neck...all my warmth leaves me.

"Was she with you when you got all those tattoos?"

"Not at first, but towards the end, she was there after it was done waiting for me." He turns himself away from me, and I see the barren flesh of his flank devoid of color, it's a healing scab where tissue is mending. The claws of the bear coming into my focus, the nails look to be piercing through his skin. It seems to be the most exceptional piece on his body.