• Trepidation, painful agitation in the presence or anticipation of danger, more commonly known as fear. A haunting sense, one that we dread to feel, and in dreading acquire; thus obtaining the horror we prayed wouldn't come through fearing its arrival. Fear builds upon itself, and the monument constructed upon my soul is both large and extravagant. The foundation for my horror was made deep and strong when I was but a child. Great walls and massive rooms were carved within my very brain to house this fear. My fear can no longer be relieved, for its home has become a fortress. A fortress that I dare not lay siege to, for its roots lie deep within my very heart, and it has become a part of me. I can no more eradicate my fear then tear out my beating heart. This fear I speak of can be tied to a single item. An item that is all together insignificant and overlooked within this universe. Yet this single household item's wail has so gripped my heart that I dare not touch it, think of it, or merely breathe its air. Its howl has become a part of me, and has granted me my fragile mentality. I fear the shriek of a kettle, the teapot.

    Our teapot looked normal, it was made of metal and shaped like a sphere cut in half with a spout and a handle coming off in the appropriate spots. Yet I swear it was possessed by demons, demons that would cry out in a multitude of voices when the water boiled. Perhaps it was poor souls locked within hell crying for to scalding waters and pleading for mercy, but I still believe its demons. The kettle sounds triumphant when it cries, not wretched and pitiful like the souls chained within the devil's abyss. Since my first rational thoughts I have feared the devilish shriek of the kettle.

    My mother always enjoyed a cup of tea in the morning, and having a child didn't stop her from setting the kettle on the stove (within reach of the more daring I might add). Sometimes she would use the device to boil water for other things, but I swear to you every day that teapot would shriek! I grew up with that monstrous howl in my ears. My mother would sit me in a highchair, an inescapable prison, while she set the kettle on the stove. I would sit in that trap, blanket clutched tightly in one hand and juice cup in the other, while staring in fear at that metal contraption. My own reflection would always look back at me, distorted, almost grotesque, as the eyes filled horror. It was trepidation about the kettle's shriek. Waiting for that inevitable moment when it would let loose its cry of hysterics, it was the quiet before the storm. Perhaps I stared in order to try and predict the noise, but that was impossible, for demons are clever. Every time that device let loose its wretched cry I would be thrown into shock and rendered helpless. When the initial shock passed my fear would fully grab hold of me and I would scream in horror within my highchair, trying in vain to block the noise with my own wails. Blanket and juice would fall from my hands as I clutched my ears frantic to block out the sound. It never helped, the teapot's fearsome cry was always greater then my own, and it didn't need to take breath.

    Now this was a daily occurrence for me, and I don't understand why my mother did nothing. Surely she understood my horror, but she would only smile, thinking I was trying to get attention like any child. Worse yet, sometimes she was amused with my shrieking and would laugh at my terror stricken face. I have often wondered if my mother is an accomplice of the demon within the teapot, but it is difficult to come to terms with. Since she allowed my screaming to persist I would wail with everything I had. Once I passed out from an extremely long and exhausting squall. My mother grew worried after that incident and would not tolerate my screaming. Since she was worried she would silence me with a hard glare whenever the kettle rang out. If I dared scream she would clamp a hand over my mouth and the teapot would continue to cry out triumphantly. So I adapted, and learned to cover my head with my blanket, and so endure this torture.

    I grew up, as all people do, but the fear never left. Now sixteen I consider myself responsible and able, but the kettle never leaves my mind. It is always there, always waiting for me. My mother leaves it out on the stove, always there when she needs it. I've never had the heart to tell her how I fear the contraption. I feel if I did she would ridicule me, but perhaps…just perhaps she would understand. However, I convinced myself I could solve the problem on my own at first. At age sixteen I should have the courage to face this shrieking beast. So one day I seized my chance to face it (normally I left the house and walked the dog as soon as the kettle mounted the stove). If this fear could not be overcome, my life was forfeit.

    My mother was in the back of the house and the kettle sat upon the stove, warming up for its shriek. I stood before the kettle, eye to eye. I saw myself in that metal, all my fear and trepidation, over so small a thing. Why did I hate…and then my thoughts were interrupted by the overpowering screech of the teapot. Then I remembered, it was the anticipation, the never knowing when it was going to blow. Now it was my turn to strike, and though my stare wavered and my lip trembled I was set on defeating with it. "SHUT UP!!!" I cried with every breath within my being, and for once my shout deafened the teapot. Then I lashed out at the metal object while my nerve still held and knocked it down from its high place. My hand still bears the mark of its searing kiss, and my arm highlights its power held within. For the boiling water poured forth and covered my arm. While the water poured forth the kettle's scream was replaced by own, now terror filled and horrified. Still it hissed and steamed, using my very flesh as something to burn. I could see the demons smiling, and yet I couldn't see past my tears. Then, I fainted.

    I awoke within a hospital bed, my mother by my side a worried frown creasing her brow. She questioned me, but I remained mute. Mute because the sound of my own voice would make me remember the kettle. I screamed while it burned, and the sound of my voice would increase my fear again. Its cry was my own…So as my mother looked on in worry I giggled and smiled. A small twitch betrayed the slight insanity that had taken hold of my mind. For I felt like the demon of the teapot was within me now, and I sang under my breath still giggling softly like a loon. "I'm a little teapot short and stout, here is my handle here is my spout, when I get all steamed up hear me shout, tip me over and pour me out."