Primitive Love: The Tale of a Caveman and Modern Woman

As the early morning light filters through the dense forest, memories flood my mind with bittersweet intensity. I can still feel the warmth of my mother's embrace, wrapped in furs as she lovingly held me close. My older sister grinds grain against a rock, the sound blending with the laughter of the other boys and men as they practiced with spears and hammer-stones. But that was long ago, a time when I was not alone. I wipe away tears that blur my vision, realizing how long it has been since I felt the comfort of another's presence. Many cold seasons have passed, and I have grown into a man, hardened by the harsh wilderness I now call home. Yet, the memories of the woman who birthed and cared for me still haunt me, aching with longing and loss. A sudden pop from the fire pit snaps me back to the present, and I turn to check the cooking meat. The scent of roasted meat wafts through the air, making my mouth water with hunger. I devour the warm, succulent strips of meat quickly, savoring their taste, and add more to the spit. I take a swig from a water flask made from the stomach of an antelope I had hunted down the previous summer, the memory of the kill still vivid in my mind. The primal instincts of survival have become my constant companions in this unforgiving wilderness, where every bite of food and sip of water is earned through sheer determination and skill. As I sit by the fire, surrounded by the sounds of the wild and the solitude of my solitary existence, I can't help but reflect on the memories that flood my mind. The comfort of my mother's embrace, the camaraderie of my tribe, and the simple joys of a warm meal and drink. Yet, I am determined to persevere, to survive and thrive in this unforgiving world, driven by the memories of my past and the harsh realities of my present. With slightly renewed energy, I rise to my feet and head back down the path toward the steppes to retrieve my spear. With the thought of more cooked meat waiting for me, I run lightly toward the pit trap but stop abruptly before I reach the edge. There is an odd sound coming from the hole—high pitched and terrifying. I freeze as I try to understand it. At first I think it is another antelope—a straggler who fell after I left—but the noise is not that of a beast. It is like nothing I have ever heard before. I move a little closer, and the sound becomes louder and somewhat frightening. I take a step back away from the hole, intending to turn and flee, when something about the sound triggers another memory. Flames are all around us, the heat licking my skin and the smell of burning hair in my nose. There is a young girl—I recall her from a neighboring tribe—trapped between the wall of flame and her terrified mother. Before the mother can try to reach for the child, flames encompass them both. The forest is too dry from the drought, and the flames are spreading too quickly. The mother cries out in fear and hopelessness. A moment later, there is only the sound of the crackling fire as it covers the trees. I shake my head to make the images go away, and I hear the sound again. I’m sure it is not an animal, and my heart beats faster as I take a few steps closer to verify my suspicions. There is movement inside the hole, a flash of pale skin and what looks to be slender fingers poking out of the hole and then disappearing again. I peer over the side, and I see it. Not it—her. I see her. At the bottom of the pit, there is a young woman not far from my own age, with shining brown hair that flows over her shoulders and down her back. She sits on the ground and leans back on her hands, staring up with wide eyes that go even wider as they meet mine. I feel a tightening in my groin at the very sight of her, and my tongue darts out over my lips. Though I recognize her femininity immediately, the strange coverings on her body do not show her to be female. In fact, they are the strangest furs I have ever seen. I can’t determine what kind of leather might have been used to make them, and the color of the clothing around her torso is like that of the setting sun—deep purple and bright pink. On her legs is even stranger stuff—dark blue and wrapped so closely around her, I can see the outlines of her thigh muscles and calves. She wears coverings on her feet as well, and there are cords wrapped around holes in the material. Like the rest of her coverings, I can’t figure out what it is either. My eyes move back to hers, and I tilt my head to one side to get a better look at her. She opens her mouth and screams. I have to take a step back from the shrill sound. It hurts my ears. I narrow my eyes and grunt sharply, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, she gets even louder. I can’t allow her to continue, or she is going to attract attention—possibly from predatory animals. Deciding to ignore her strange appearance, I step to the edge of the pit and jump down. Her cries grow more piercing, and the sound is starting to hurt my head. I move toward her, and she propels herself backwards on her feet and hands until she hits the dirt side, sending dust all over her. She yells out again, stands, and tries to claw her way to the top of the hole. She’s too small to be successful, and her fingers only barely reach the edge. Her shoulders rise and fall as her hands slide down the dirt walls. Her sounds stop, and nothing but her breath can be heard as she turns slowly and her wide eyes travel over me. I move closer and look down at her. I feel the corner of my mouth turn up. Though clearly an adult, not a child, she is a tiny thing. Her head barely comes to my chest. It’s her hair that intrigues me though—it’s very straight, and it shines in the sunlight. I reach my hand up to my shoulder and grab at my own hair, which is rough, tangled, and full of dust and leaves. I had cut it down with a flint knife at the end of the last summer, but it was now near my shoulders again. I take a step closer and reach out with my other hand to touch the smooth locks around her head to see how different it feels. Again, she begins to cry out, and I am tired of the noisy sounds. It’s dangerous to be making so much noise, and it really does make the sides of my head hurt. I close the gap between our bodies quickly and cover her mouth with my hand to silence her. I’m surprised when she doesn’t acquiesce but begins to frantically struggle against me instead. She grasps at my arm, and her nails dig into my flesh as she tries to pull my hand away. She kicks at me, and the strange coverings on her feet scrape at the skin of my leg. She is still screaming, but the sound is muffled underneath my hand. I still can’t properly feel the texture of her hair, so I further restrain her by pushing my body against hers, holding her up against the wall. With the increased leverage, she can’t move as much, and I slowly drag my hand down the length of her hair. It’s so, so soft! I have never felt anything like it. It runs all the way from her head to her waist in long, straight strands that do not bunch up together like mine do, but lie next to each other in beautiful lines. The color isn’t unusual—just a shiny, light brown—but the feel of it on my palm is glorious. I look to her face, and her eyes are closed tightly. Oddly enough, her eyelids are blue, and there is pink and brown coloring running up to her eyebrows. There is also a dark blue, almost black line right around her eyes—both above and below. I move my hand up and gently touch her eyelid with the tip of my finger. The bright blue color comes off of her skin and onto mine. I look at my finger a moment before trying to wipe the color back onto the skin between her eyebrow and eyelid. She bites my hand, and I jump back, surprised at the sudden pain and not the least bit pleased.