Hissss

I'm hungry—in fact, I'm starving. It doesn't matter that it's winter. My stomach twists and aches, demanding food. Somewhere nearby, something smells warm, rich, and alive. I can almost taste it.

It's hot, and I'm ready to feed. All year round, I eat on cue whenever food is placed in front of me. I know the routine. I know when to wake, when to move, and when to wait. My body has always understood the rhythm of the seasons.

But something feels out of place.

I move toward the cold, searching for a change, yet nothing ever comes. Everything remains the same. The cold area is still cold, and the hot area is still hot. There is no gradual shift, no warning, no quiet preparation. My body knows there should be a slowdown, a time when the world becomes still and food becomes scarce. Instead, the conditions are perfect for a good feed.

The warmth presses against my scales. I curl up beneath it, letting the heat sink into me. I sleep, but my sleep is restless. Strange sensations crawl through my body. I dream of darkness, of earth, of a long silence beneath the ground.

When I wake, nothing has changed.

Why is my home still so warm? My instincts tell me to retreat, but my hunger tells me to search. I circle my enclosure, sliding along the edges and testing every corner. There must be something I have missed.

Then I feel movement above me.

One hand appears, then another.

Okay, I'm going on an adventure.

The hands lift me carefully, but I don't trust them. They are large and unfamiliar, even though I know them. I twist slightly, trying to understand what is happening. The air touches my body, and oh goodness, it's cold. The chill moves across my scales and settles deep inside me.

I find my way through a T-shirt, pressing myself against the fabric. Ahh, that feels better. The warmth returns, soft and familiar. I hold still, hoping the hands will understand that I want to go back.

But they keep moving.

Why is it so cold out there? My home is warm where I sleep. My home is safe. I know every part of it: the warm place, the cool place, the corners where I hide, and the spot where food usually appears. Outside, everything smells wrong. The air is too open. There is nowhere to disappear.

Oh dear, here comes the hand again.

I am lifted from the fabric and lowered toward something hard. My body tenses. The surface beneath me is cold, rough, and unfamiliar. My stomach presses against it as I begin to move.

Oh my goodness, what's this?

I'm on the cold ground.

This is terrible.

I flatten myself and remain still. Perhaps if I don't move, the cold will pass. Perhaps the warmth will return. I listen to the sounds around me: distant footsteps, a low humming noise, and the soft movement of the hands nearby. Everything is too large. Everything is too bright.

Then I smell something.

My head lifts before I can stop it.

Wait—what's that?

The scent travels through the air, curling around me. It is warm and sharp and unmistakable. Food.

Oh, that's so good.

I begin to move toward it. My hunger overwhelms the cold. Each motion brings the smell closer, and my body follows without hesitation. I forget the strange ground beneath me. I forget the hands. I forget the season.

Food.

But then… no.

I'm freezing now.

The cold has reached every part of me. My body slows. My movements become clumsy. The smell that drew me out doesn't seem so good anymore. It is still there, hovering just beyond my reach, but I cannot convince myself to continue.

Ugh.

The food is dangled toward me continuously. It moves back and forth, teasing me, promising warmth and nourishment. I watch it, but I cannot move.

I can't. I just can't.

Why doesn't he understand? I don't want this right now. My body won't be able to handle it. I need warmth. I need stillness. I need to return to the place where I sleep.

The hand moves closer.

I recoil.

The food moves closer too, but the cold is stronger now. My muscles feel heavy, and my instincts are louder than my hunger. Something inside me is telling me to stop. To wait. To disappear.

Finally, he gets the message.

The hands lift me again. I cling to the fabric, desperate for the warmth it provides. As I am carried back, the cold air fades behind me. The familiar heat surrounds my body, and I begin to recover.

I return to my home and curl up again.

For a while, I do not move.

The warmth sinks into me slowly. My breathing steadies. The trembling fades. I close my eyes and try to forget the cold ground, the bright air, and the food swinging just beyond my reach.

But I cannot forget the smell.

Moments later, I think about the rat dangling in front of me. I remember the shape of it, the scent of it, and the way my hunger pulled me forward even when the cold told me to stay still.

I move around my home, searching.

Maybe he will come back.

I wait near the place where the hands usually appear. I lift my head whenever I hear a sound. I move from the warmth to the cooler side and back again, unable to settle. I want the rat now.

But I also want to sleep.

I'm confused.

I don't remember it being so cold the last time I got out. I don't remember the warmth returning so quickly, either. The world outside feels different, but my home feels exactly the same. The light changes, yet the temperature does not. The days pass, but nothing follows the pattern it should.

Everything feels out of season.

I circle my enclosure again. The glass reflects my movements back at me, making it seem as though another creature is watching from the other side. I stop, and the reflection stops. I move, and it moves too.

For a moment, I wonder whether it understands what is happening.

Maybe this is normal.

Maybe it isn't.

Some primal knowledge deep inside me says that everything is out of season. The warning is old, older than the hands, older than the glass, older than the warm place where I sleep. It stirs beneath my skin, telling me that something is wrong.

I curl into myself and wait.

Outside, the world continues to change without changing at all.

And somewhere beyond the warmth, somewhere in the cold, the smell of food still lingers.