When I brought Tom to my house, he was cold and dead, but to me he was brimming with potential.  I wanted to help him find himself, to be all he could be. Or maybe I wanted to remind myself of the glories of perfection.  I’m not sure it matters.

I started as I do with most like Tom who come through my door: I gave him a bath.  It would be at least 36 hours before we were finished with the first stage.  I let him soak until he became buoyant, at one with the sea salt and aromatherapy I had filled the tub with.  He already looked more alive.

I patted him dry and gave him a massage.  I wanted Tom to relax before what had to happen next.  I rubbed him everywhere and tried to fill him with everything warm, good, and wholesome that I could muster.

I whispered to him.  “I see greatness in you, Tom.”

I laid him on the rack and began to tie his arms behind him, back exposed.  He became tense. “I think you’re ready.”

Then came the heat, the cleansing heat. The air rippled when I opened the door to the chamber.  Before long, his back began to blister.

I guided him out of the chamber.

“You’re not done yet,” I said to him.  There was a hint of glee to my voice that I was unable to restrain. I flipped him over, exposing his front, and eased him back in. This time, I granted him a gentler warmth.  I wasn’t sure how long it would take; the heat works on each one differently.

I left him there for four hours.  When I came to get him, his skin was glistening and burnished.  I took his temperature.  I gently stroked at his leg, and found it yielding.  He had finally had enough.  I took him away from the heat, to transition somewhere cool and dark.   It was time to find out what he was really made of.

“Turkey time!” I cried triumphantly.  And we had the best Thanksgiving.