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You are used to this cycle, the full moon comes and stays in the sky like a blinding, white light of a reminder of what your life is like; more specifically, what the life of your lover is like. You've been through this countless times, the preparation and the endless amounts of soft caresses and melancholy kisses the day before, because neither of you know if he will come back for sure.
It's five o'clock in the morning, the rustic cabin in which you and Bill reside in for times like this; sleepy and dim from the not yet rising sun. Your back rests against the heavy wooden front door, one of his sweaters draped over your body as you clutch it close, knees up to your chest.
You never sleep when this happens, even though he tells you to. You close your eyes for a moment, trying not to panic, trying not to think about the worst. You remember the day before perfectly; his lips plush and soft against your cheek, warm breath against your skin as he whispered I love you's. His hands, rough and large and comforting as they had always been, held you close to his naturally heat filled figure until the first phase came.
You still feel the fear, the fear of seeing his face twist into one of knowing premonition. It all happens so fast; your hands separating and lingering at the fingertips for a split second before he slips out of the door, the sound of leaves crunching underneath his rapid, heavy foot steps as he sprints off towards the dark and ominous trees of the forest.
Your heart stops as you hear shuffling from outside, your eyes widening and a combination of fear and joy washing over you. You immediately jump up from your seated position on the cold hard wood floor, running to the sectioned window to peer outside into the darkness illuminated by the moons glow; to see if it's him.
You see it out in the near distance, a towering, limping silhouette of a man. Bill. You immediately run to the couch, grabbing a large fleece blanket and bunching it in your arms before you spring to the door and pull it open vigorously. The cool air of dusk hits your bare thighs, creating goosebumps, but you don't care; not one bit.
The dead leaves and frond from the pine trees crunch under your feet as you desperately move towards him, his blazing green eyes peering up from his hooded eyelids and looking at you as if you're a fresh body of water and he's been in the desert for days. He looks bruised, broken, torn. Yet all of his physical pain vanishes for a moment as you run to him.
"Bill, my god, you-you're bleeding." Your voice is breathless and strained as you struggle to sling the blanket over his naked body, covered by dirt and scrapes and crimson streaks along his pale skin. You have to fight the burning, almost unbearable urge to take him into your arms, to bury your face in the warmth of his chest and cry until you can't anymore.
