The Woman and the Python

For three years, the woman believed she had found a most unusual companion.
Saffron, a golden-hued python, had slithered into her life when it was just a few feet long. She raised it with patience and affection, convincing herself it was no different from a loyal dog or cat.

When friends visited, they stared in disbelief.
“Be careful,” her father warned, grimacing as the thick coils glided across the tiled floor. “It’s still a predator.”

But she only laughed, stroking the cool scales with confidence.
“Saffron is tame. It loves me. It would never harm me.”

And so the python became part of the household—curling in corners, resting near her feet, even climbing the couch to drape itself lazily across her shoulders.

The Odd Changes

Then, without warning, Saffron began to change.

It refused food. The plump rabbits she had always offered went untouched. Days passed, then weeks. Its belly shrank, and yet its eyes glowed with a strange intensity.

At night, the woman often felt movement. She would wake to find Saffron stretched out beside her on the bed—its head resting on her shoulder, its tail brushing against her ankles. A perfect line, as though deliberately matching her body’s length.

Other nights, it slid around her waist, coiling gently, almost like an embrace. Sometimes it lingered near her collarbone, its forked tongue flicking against her skin.

She laughed about it to her friends.
“It’s just giving me kisses,” she said.
But the laughter sounded hollow even to herself.

Because more and more often, she woke in the middle of the night gasping for air—its weight pressing heavily against her chest.