lsama
They were rumpled, these sheets. He couldn't recall just how long he'd lain in bed, but he didn't care. That didn't matter at all to him. Overhead, he could hear the snow falling on the transparent glass of the roof. Too long, now, had she gone to take a bath.
At the sound of the door open, he lifted his vast, horned head, the lava crawl of his eyes flicked aside.
"That was a poor, premature idea," he told the still dripping-wet woman standing in the doorway, "as I was nowhere near done with you yet," he crooned, lips curling into a dire, wicked grin.
Willows, sweeping weeping, their limbs touching the floor. They looked like old aunts, reaching for children too terrified to come near. They reminded him of things he'd left behind, little lives, little lies, left lingering in the lost yesterdays he'd put behind him.
At the end of the day, however, it was their sad, sorrowful branches he settled beneath.
These teeth are remarkably sharp, bright. They are little stars in a black sky, sharps in a mouth meant for devouring flesh.
These teeth have served him well for as long as he can remember, and without them, life seems unbearable.
As the Beast wretched his head back, drawing flesh from bone, stripping it clean, he realized that his teeth were, in fact, his life.