that he was still asleep beneath the canopy of the forest, staring up at the pinpricks of stars through the occasional gaps in the treeline, and condemned to live as a monster for the remainder of his time on the Earth.
And then, inevitably, his thoughts revolved, each and every last time, to Preston.
Once his closest friend in the world, whom he'd left behind to live the days of the fate that he himself should be leading, were it not for his salvation at the hands of his beloved Victoria.
What had become of him in the days since Terry's abandonment?
What would he be doing right now, he wondered?
But of course this was a ridiculous question. Terry knew exactly what Preston would be doing right now, as it had been the same thing he'd spent so many years doing himself, and the same thing, in many ways, which he was doing in this very moment.
Looking up at the moon, and begging that great white satellite for answers.
But of course, this was an absurd, narcissistic comparison.
To think that his own, selfish rumination, his thoughts of having abandoned his friend, came anywhere near to approaching the torments of his former friend beneath the penetrating rays of the full moon was nothing but self-righteous pity. It was a half-assed means of justifying his actions to himself- it was okay for him to be freed of that old life as long as he felt bad for leaving Preston. His remorse at his actions, this mindset told him, were just as hard on him as what Preston himself was now going through. His suffering at abandoning Preston was the same as the suffering he'd be experiencing if he'd stuck around, and that made his leaving okay.
And of course it was total bullshit...
Just rationalization. Just a means of justifying that which he knew to be indefensible.
How could he have left his dearest friend in the world behind?
How could he have taken the prize for himself, when both of them had so desperately sought the same thing, and prior to Terry's selfish departure, had worked together to mitigate the suffering of their lonely and difficult forest-bound lives?
How the hell was Terry ever going to make it up to him?
Victoria stirred from sleep, inhaling a massive breath, but silently, as though even when stirring from unconsciousness she was acutely aware of the comfort of others, and feared awakening Terry if she issued too loud a noise.
But Terry wasn't beside her in bed.
His corner of the sheets was overturned, the blankets askew and tangled, and a cool spread of perspiration where the shape of his body should have been now adorning the bedspread. She ran the palm of her hand through the vacant spot, so cold that a body might reasonably not have lain there beside her for several past hours.
She rubbed her eyes, bleary as they still were with sleep, and looked dazedly about the room, only to find Terry right where she expected him to be, because that was generally where she found him on nights when the heat of his body was no longer with her. Standing naked at the window, staring absently out through the panes of glass at the looming full moon up ahead, thinking God knew what with that clearly troubled head of his.
She waited a moment before introducing her awoken self to him, studying the man staring there, and, despite her concern for him, admiring his moonlit body. His physique was an intense, powerful, and muscular one, chiseled pecs, six pack abdominals, clearly defined Adonis muscles, carved into his body and pointing like an arrow to the immense, lethal penis he brandished below the waist. Her present view, however, was of his backside, no less desirable of a sight, by any means. The musculature of his sweat-soaked back strobed and heaved in the dimness of the moonlight, and she stared for a long, lustful moment at the sculpted cheeks of his ass, oblivious as they were to the fact that they were being watched.
She couldn't help herself. She was becoming moist with arousal, ripped straight from sleep and plunged
And then, inevitably, his thoughts revolved, each and every last time, to Preston.
Once his closest friend in the world, whom he'd left behind to live the days of the fate that he himself should be leading, were it not for his salvation at the hands of his beloved Victoria.
What had become of him in the days since Terry's abandonment?
What would he be doing right now, he wondered?
But of course this was a ridiculous question. Terry knew exactly what Preston would be doing right now, as it had been the same thing he'd spent so many years doing himself, and the same thing, in many ways, which he was doing in this very moment.
Looking up at the moon, and begging that great white satellite for answers.
But of course, this was an absurd, narcissistic comparison.
To think that his own, selfish rumination, his thoughts of having abandoned his friend, came anywhere near to approaching the torments of his former friend beneath the penetrating rays of the full moon was nothing but self-righteous pity. It was a half-assed means of justifying his actions to himself- it was okay for him to be freed of that old life as long as he felt bad for leaving Preston. His remorse at his actions, this mindset told him, were just as hard on him as what Preston himself was now going through. His suffering at abandoning Preston was the same as the suffering he'd be experiencing if he'd stuck around, and that made his leaving okay.
And of course it was total bullshit...
Just rationalization. Just a means of justifying that which he knew to be indefensible.
How could he have left his dearest friend in the world behind?
How could he have taken the prize for himself, when both of them had so desperately sought the same thing, and prior to Terry's selfish departure, had worked together to mitigate the suffering of their lonely and difficult forest-bound lives?
How the hell was Terry ever going to make it up to him?
Victoria stirred from sleep, inhaling a massive breath, but silently, as though even when stirring from unconsciousness she was acutely aware of the comfort of others, and feared awakening Terry if she issued too loud a noise.
But Terry wasn't beside her in bed.
His corner of the sheets was overturned, the blankets askew and tangled, and a cool spread of perspiration where the shape of his body should have been now adorning the bedspread. She ran the palm of her hand through the vacant spot, so cold that a body might reasonably not have lain there beside her for several past hours.
She rubbed her eyes, bleary as they still were with sleep, and looked dazedly about the room, only to find Terry right where she expected him to be, because that was generally where she found him on nights when the heat of his body was no longer with her. Standing naked at the window, staring absently out through the panes of glass at the looming full moon up ahead, thinking God knew what with that clearly troubled head of his.
She waited a moment before introducing her awoken self to him, studying the man staring there, and, despite her concern for him, admiring his moonlit body. His physique was an intense, powerful, and muscular one, chiseled pecs, six pack abdominals, clearly defined Adonis muscles, carved into his body and pointing like an arrow to the immense, lethal penis he brandished below the waist. Her present view, however, was of his backside, no less desirable of a sight, by any means. The musculature of his sweat-soaked back strobed and heaved in the dimness of the moonlight, and she stared for a long, lustful moment at the sculpted cheeks of his ass, oblivious as they were to the fact that they were being watched.
She couldn't help herself. She was becoming moist with arousal, ripped straight from sleep and plunged
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