Bee Sting by Ashlie Allen

typewriter
We are quiet, motionless and sad faced at home. Sometimes I smile just to startle you. I wonder if you still love me or if I am a particle you depend on to avoid the throb of loneliness.

We once argued, both of us so angry murderous thoughts surrounded our minds. You smacked me until I stumbled backwards against the wall, my eyes malicious with hurt and resentment. When the shock was over, I giggled and staggered towards you. “Do that more often. I love the devilish feeling it provokes.”

Sometimes we go a month without speaking. Body language is the only way to understand what we’re feeling. Last night you writhed in the chair, like your muscles were aching. I came and rubbed your shoulders, delighted by the exhausted sigh that slipped from your mouth. I thought about asking if it felt good, then remembered you hate me and wouldn’t admit I sometimes give you pleasure.

My hair, black and to the back of my knees keeps us warm at night. I toss it across your legs, regardless if you pull it during spooky dreams. I stare until I fall asleep, my eyes always focusing on your pale face. I still admire our bond, no matter if I want to hurt you.

I pace through the hallway when I have anxiety attacks. When my chest starts cramping with panic, I dig my nails into my skin, hurl over and sigh like I’m having an intense spiritual experience. It amuses me how dark my mental health. I tell myself it’ll never reach deadly levels, but I’m just killing time until the day comes when I don’t care what happens next.

A bottle of gin always sets on the coffee table. Most of the time it’s empty a week before I’m convinced another bottle is exactly what I need. I stare at you while drinking it, curious if you notice the depression in my eyes. They are maroon when I look in the mirror. I know better than to blame it on the alcohol. You don’t worry that I’m dying.

The last conversation we had was about bees. “I’m allergic to them.” You said. “It is better I stay inside all summer. I’d hate to die in the heat and turn black from decay.” “I’d still be your friend.” I said. The devastated look on your face hinted you wished I wasn’t just a friend. Once, a long time ago I wished that too. Now all I want is to keep what remains of my composure.

I often light candles and sit in front of them, legs stretched out ahead so there is a ghostly shadow spreading down the hallway. My esteem gets very low when I’m lonely. I imagine I’m the devil and can charm humans with my sensuous, evil nature. The relaxing scent convinces you to come up stairs tonight. There, we exchange a mournful stare as I dip my fingers into the scalding wax. Of course, the burning sensation tortures me, but I know you don’t pity me enough to make me stop. I smear the wax across my lips, excited as a tear slithers down my jaw. For a moment, there is horror in your eyes. I feel like screaming after you vanish within the shadow of my legs. “But it does hurt a lot.” I moan to myself. “I’ve been weeping every night. There’s no compassion left.”

I stopped covering you with my hair after that night. I rest in the closet now, no longer concerned for your coldness. Sometimes the silence is interrupted by the sound of my name. “Akito.” Though my pulse quickens at the sound, there is no delight at the thought you might be calling for me. Imagining us face to face makes me shudder. I am the corpse rotting in the sun. Your bitterness has stung me.

There are no lights on when I arrive down stairs this evening. Usually I’d find you sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. I switch them on, a tiny gasp escaping my lips at sight of the empty table. My new bottle of strawberry gin is tipped over, spilling across the counter. I wipe up the mess, sucking the liquid out of the paper towel as I explore the rest of the house. Maybe hollering for you is a good idea. Maybe I’m too afraid you’ll answer.

I take a seat in your favorite chair, tapping my fingers on the arms, wondering if I’m really all alone. The scent of hazelnuts and cinnamon overwhelm me, not because they are strong, but they remind me of your skin. I used to rub the spice and nut on every inch of you, delighted by the auburn shade they turned your complexion. Every time we kissed my lips would tingle. I ate the remaining crumbs from your hands.

As I begin to sweat from the exhaustion of despair, I feel a sudden pressure against my scalp, and with it I dreadfully moan. “I am not surprised,” I whisper. “though I am afraid.” “Shut up.” My face is gripped and forced to turn towards yours. The instant we make eye contact I start to cry and shake. “Why are you so heartless to me?” I ask, having difficulty looking at you in my weakness. “Remember slapping me where you touch? Did I ever defend myself? Will I ever?” “No because you’re stupid.” I snigger at that. “I am just very sad, my dear, not dense.” I am confused as you lift my hands and examine them. My hair, falling into my face covers the redness that exists because I miss you. I wince when you massage my blisters from the hot candle wax. “Why soothe me?” I snivel. “There’s no care inside for me. You despise my presence.” Though I feel beastly, I do not protest when you sit on my lap, cradle my jaws and rest your skull against mine. “Are we still friends?” You ask. “Yes, until I decide to take my life.” I don’t care when the silence returns, having heard us communicate one last time. That’s what I wanted before I burned in what I burned myself with, flames and candle wax.

Ashlie Allen

Banner Image: By Decatur Wine & Spirits (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

2 thoughts on “Bee Sting by Ashlie Allen

  1. Hi Ashlie, this story has dark relatable thoughts and situations.
    You write with a lot of style and menace.
    Great to see you back.
    Hugh

    Like

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