Warmth

You sigh as you watch the tea kettle spew its steam into the already humid air in the kitchen. It's cold. Middle of summer, 83 degrees, but it's cold.

Ever since she gave you this body, ever since she ripped you out of what you once were and stuffed you into this pathetically indestructible form, bound you, trapped you, it's been so fucking cold. You miss it dearly. The pain.

Certainly you can still feel something approximating pain, of a sort, but... Something's missing. That spark, that heat, that BURN. It's gone. You don't know if you'll ever get it back.

You sigh deeply and hold your hand over the top of the kettle, trying to drink the heat radiating off it. Not the same. Not enough. You grasp the body of the kettle firmly between your hands. Instantly, your palms are screaming at you, "STOP! PUT IT BACK!" But your claustrophobic, caged soul is answering back, quietly, calmly. "More." You lift the kettle off of the burner and raise it over your head. Your palms sizzle, starting to blacken as you begin to tip the spout down toward your f-

"PUT THAT DOWN!"

Your witch has just burst into the room. You've never heard that harshness in her voice. Usually so sweet, so apologetic, so caring. You have no choice but to do as she says, lowering the kettle back onto the stove. She's already started apologizing for yelling, but you don't hear her. You gaze out the window at the setting sun, wishing you could take it, and hold it, and eat it, and be whole.