Dear Readers,

It has been a while, it seems. This is very short, I know. It was something that very randomly came to me while I was at my horrible job and I decided to see how far I could take the concept of home. Some people say that a certain sensation makes them feel like they are "back in the womb." I only disagree because anything squishy, warm and gooey that attaches to your bellybutton could make you truly feel back in the womb. Heh. Yeah... that was me trying to be funny.

Anyways. I do not own Hellboy or Liz Sherman for that matter. They belong to Mike Mignola. And Dark Horse comics. And whomever made the films, as wonderful as they are. Let's root for number three!!

Your Obidient Servant
R.W.

There are some things that give the feeling of being back in the womb

There are some things that give the feeling of being back in the womb. That feeling of utter safety and security and warmth and life. The event that causes this sensation to trigger is different for every individual, naturally; as every individual is different. Fire is my own, personal trigger.

Raw flame dancing across my skin is almost hypnotizing. It feels like an added coating of me. Just the feel of the heat sends familiar tingles all across my thick skin, yet I can never remember even a thought of where I came.

The most breathtaking display of this enchanting element is my angel; my beautiful, blue-fire angel. She's nothing much to anyone but me. To everyone else, she is just a pale-skinned girl, looking far too thin and far too dark. She is what makes me feel at home. She is what brings me that feeling of ease; that feeling of home.

I always let out the smallest noise—far too small for a man of my size—when that red flame flicks out to tease the pad of my finger. I gasp when that orange tendril of warmth curls around my hand like a pleasant weight in my palm. I hold my breath when that blue fire wraps around my being, dancing across my hide in a soothing, almost teasing manner. I close my eyes and hold her body tight when that white heat races through my veins. It sparks sentiments that I have never felt before, save for when I'm with her.

Her wings of inferno blaze wildly in the darkness, in the light, in my dreams, and behind my ever-red lids. The song her inner fire sings can only be heard by my ears; and it is a beautiful melody I shall never tire of.

She is my safety, security, warmth and life. She is beauty in a fair casing, topped with a curtain of black. Her brown eyes hold a hint of that burn, continuously flickering in and out of sight. Those small, slender hands posses more power than any being could dream of. Her meager frame isn't as frail as it seems. That trickle of fire, persistently smoldering just beneath the surface, is what gives her all the power in my world. I could have nothing but my angel and be in heaven. So long as that fire is alight, I shall protect her with every fiber of my being, every ounce of my strength, every filament of my existence. Without her, I am nothing; I remain but a figment of society's imagination.

Home is where the heart is, they say. My heart lies deep within my blue-fire angel. It is nestled, entrenched between the licking flames of her core, forever hidden from the world.

Her fire is my home.