Bees

By Vanessa Salazar

I sit alone in a desolate room. It is cold and damp. It is filled with garbage: loose papers, scattered pencils and clothes. I don’t have the motivation to pick it up, move, or smile. It takes everything in me to breathe and complete my work on time. My room is covered in filth, but it still feels so empty. Why is it so empty? I stare at the ceiling and use all the strength in my body to look out the window. There’s a beehive outside, so close to me. I have always hated bees. They were both in-destructive and a workaholic. The worker bees worked so hard for their queen; their whole life revolved around her. Every breath, every step, every time they went outside, they did it for her. Despite the harsh weather, the many animals hoping to devour them, and the possibility of being poisoned by bug sprays, they still strived to complete their mission. How did they harbour so much devotion? Why did they care? One bee could live a life of freedom and let the others get the honey for them. How do they all entrust each other to help one singular queen bee? I must admit, I envy that passion. I am quickly losing motivation to live a life with meaning and let alone get out of my bed. However, despite their everlasting devotion, they also will surrender their life the minute a hand touches them. They grow fearful and sense danger. They sting their enemy despite knowing they’ll die. Why not fly instead? They could if they wanted to. They worked their whole lives, but one hand, one malevolent, grotesque hand, can make them give up. All of a sudden, all of their hard work is gone because their emotions got to them. What upsetting creatures. I decided I must kill that bee hive. I pray my mother does it, so I call her to come to my room.

 “Hi sweetie, how are you? Are you okay? We really need to get this room cleaned up,” my mother says in the gentlest tone she can muster.

“There’s bees near my window. I need you to kill it. I can’t do it on my own. I’m scared and not strong enough,” I say in an embarrassed tone. I never felt so ashamed.

“My poor baby. I can’t kill that beehive, though. Try to take it down by October. I believe in you, and I love you,” my mother said in an empathetic tone. She must be tired of me.

I make a loud sigh in the hopes that she will reconsider. But she leaves without another word. It hurts me, really. I look at the beehive in disgust. They will all most likely die from the harsh weather in December. There is no way they will survive. They are worthless creatures, after all.

Time passed so quickly, and it is now December. My numbness has gotten worse. I can not seem to remember the last time I smiled or did my school work with enjoyment. My room has gotten filthier and more crowded. I know the culprit for my declining state—the bees. Snowflakes are seen on my window, with adorable winter decorations on everyone’s house. Everyone seems so joyous for winter break. However, the thing that catches my eye is the beehive, still strong. Why are they still impenetrable, and I lay as fragile as glass? I fear for the day I shatter. Today was the first day I submitted something late for school. My teacher gave me a pained look. He was disappointed in me; it was as if I had disappointed the queen bee. I am worse than a worker bee. Most of my passion is gone. I should destroy the hive now. A bat, bug spray, my hand, anything to shoo it away.

But, I must admit, maybe I will miss them. They are a part of who I am now, after all. I like how they crawl on my window, their wings flapping in the wind. They try their best to make it in my room. It is something interesting, in a way. I feel anger when they are around, but I rather feel something rather than nothing at all. However, if I let them in, they will invade and tarnish my room some more. Their legs filled with honey would cause my workbooks and devices to be sticky and unusable. The wings will generate so much noise I would not be able to hear myself think. They would buzz and buzz and buzz until I went insane. I would be trapped in this room forever. I call for my mother again.

“Mom, please. I can’t do it alone. I can’t move, I can’t do it. I need you to help me, please. Let’s kill them together. Please,” I say. My voice grows raspy, and tears well up in my eyes. I am scared, and I need her help.

“I have already told you. I can not help you. Those bees are your problem, not mine. Kill them yourself or live with them. I love you, but there’s nothing I can do for you,” my mother’s voice is pained. She feels guilty and does not understand why I hate the bees. She does not understand that I can not kill them on my own.

It is now August 24th. I have decided there is no use fighting the bees. Killing them would mean losing a part of me. I no longer hate the bees. I no longer hate anything, really. The bees allow me to feel nothing, be nothing. But who knows? Maybe they will disappear someday. The thought provides me with a feeling of slight happiness. Maybe I could find myself again. But, I need my mother’s help. I call for her once more, but she does not respond. I give up.

Do not ignore cries for help. Help them find the support they need.