It was nearly half a year ago now. Hunters rarely find companionship. Our lives are brutal, short, and often lead to the death of those we care for. It is easiest to remove oneself from the madness of love and focus on the purpose. Of course, that is the pretty lie we are told. Our bodies are weapons, finely honed, and meant for movement, pain, and they hunger as much as any monster does.
When two hunters mate, they do so with minimal speaking. There is no need for the rhetoric of common courtship. There is a need and there is a solution. She was not like the beast. She was softer, younger than I, and with the doe-eyed expression of inexperience. She did not know how to handle the hunger, only that she had it. It had been too long since her last kill and the fire burned in her veins.
We fucked on her mattress. It smelled like her shampoo and sweat and blood. There was no longer a bed frame after we had finished. She had screamed, cried out, dug gouges in my flesh with her nails. We both had bruises. Bite marks. The odd weapon wound. Sweat clung to our bodies after. I laid there, listening to her panting and almost admiring the glazed look in her visage.
Her eyes met mine and she smiled at me. It was with the blush of youth and tenderness. There was an instant discomfort in my instinct and I stood to leave. Her thin fingers clung to my wrist. She was terribly alone. Wouldn't I stay? My eyes must have betrayed my disgust at her need, for she withdrew without a need for me to speak to her.
Six months ago. I grimace to think of it now. For she died shortly after. Too young, too trusting. Our kind never does well with sweetness.