Forever Mine

A cold rain tapped against the panes, sharp and hollow sounding in the gunmetal afternoon. Savannah traced the lines with luminous green eyes and turned to the man in the wingback chair. He read, his brow furrowed, from a thick, dusty book, its leather binding worn from years of study. She watched his hands; his fingers slid along the page as his eyes devoured each line. He seemed, as always, oblivious to anything but the book.

She couldn't count how many nights she had spent here, with him, with that book. She had tried to understand, tried to see what he saw, but the symbols meant nothing to her. Trying to remember a time when she was not her, in this room, was futile. Savannah had been here longer than memory. She made her way to the fireplace and stretched out before the dying embers, luxuriating in the heat along her side. An eternity of loneliness and boredom.

When he wasn't reading he was playing with his workbench, burning foul-smelling things, candles burning day and night. He spoke, but not to her, and the words were strange and meaningless. He only touched her once a year, and only to replace her necklace, offer an absent-minded caress, and tell her she was his forever.

When she dreamed, she was a young woman who took a man, her man, back to her apartment. As their clothes fell away he reached up and fastened a golden choker around her throat. "Forever mine, Savannah," he whispered, "forever mine."
Tonight he dropped the book, startling her. Savannah looked up, blinking, and watched him cross the room. He dropped to his knees beside her and stroked her fur.

"Forever mine," he whispered.