Day 5

I woke before my alarm again. I have started wondering if I even need it anymore. My body feels like it wakes with the sun now, waking when it feels it’s warmth creeping in through the windows. That thought would have sounded ridiculous only a few days ago. The sun has always been a symbol of comfort for Mother and I, something predictable, something we relied on. Now it feels so uncertain when the sun will rise, how hot it will be and what time of day it will decide to take a break from punishing me.

I find myself waiting for the sun. Not excited for it’s arrival. Not hopeful it will be kinder to us than it has been recently. The first thing I did this morning was check the windows. I do not recall when this became part of my routine, it feels like it has always been a part of my morning tasks. I used to wake up and think about breakfast, a soothing hot shower loosening my tight muscles from hard work. I used to wake up and be excited to tend to the hive, now it feels like a chore I have to endure.

I checked the locks, the curtains, the sky. I hate admitting this is what it has come to, it makes me feel incredibly foolish. Mother would be telling me I am worrying far too much. Hell, when I was younger she told me my mind worked harder than the bees. Making connections that were never there. I think she was right. I knew she was right, I just hated the thought of missing something. Overlooking anything that could harm us, harm our home or our safety. I tell myself it is preparation, not fear.

Mother was waking up when I entered her room. She looked drained. The first thing she did after fully coming to her senses after a few moments was brush her hair and changed into one of the floral dresses she wore when we would go for picnics in the fields. It made her feel like she was reliving those days of when she could move around, go outside and touch the grass and feel the breeze on her skin.

Mother broke the moment with, “You’re staring dear, is everything okay?”

I smiled, feeling a sense of warmth inside of me, “Sorry, you just look beautiful today.”

She looked down at herself, gripping the frayed end of her dress, “I feel like I haven’t worn this in years…”

Pausing for a moment to relive those memories for a short while longer, I soon replied, “I know, but I think you chose the perfect time to put it on again.”

I sat beside her for a while. We talked about nothing, really. It was nice to talk about nothing. It filled the time with calmness, a break from all of the madness around us. Everything felt normal for once. Those conversations have always been my favorite. It is like watching a movie, taking you to another place for a short period of time, letting you escape reality and live in another world so you can avoid all of the baggage that comes with reality.

We spoke about various things during our time together this morning, but any time I mentioned Father, she would avoid sounding interested. She always does this. She hates digging up memory graves. I don’t blame her really, it feels better off without him now. Now that is just the two of us. Even though she forgives him, she definitely has a lot of understanding for what he did. I think she is not angry, I think she is just disappointed, maybe in herself. She does not reveal much when we talk about Father, but you can tell she wishes things were different. It is heartbreaking seeing someone so caring have to carry such heavy weights. It is like watching a child drag 100lb weights behind them while running a marathon. So much effort, so much passion in everything she does, but no matter how much she tries, she is always weighed down by the past.

I was washing the dishes from breakfast when I noticed the back door was open, just ajar. I froze in place, distinctively remembering me locking every entrance possible last night. I wanted to approach the door and close it, as any normal person would, but it felt like shackles were tightened to my legs, blocking my ability to do anything apart from stand there and observe. Relaxing my muscles seemed to loosen those shackles, I think I am just overstimulated, on edge waiting for something terrible to happen. Eventually, I forced myself towards the door, closing and locking it. I found myself checking the lock, not twice, not three times but four. I laughed to myself. Loudly asking myself, “What are you doing…”

The empty kitchen gave no answer to my question. I took the initiative to give myself some normality, do some things that would bring me back to my old ways. I had to remember the world is still the world. The bees were my first priority, I felt guilty before even reaching them, like a child that smashed a window from playing soccer near the greenhouse, about to approach their Father knowing what was to come.

The humming had changed since last, it was deeper, fuller. There was a slight vibration in the ground from their hum. It was like the bees were stomping their feet at me, expressing their suffering from my neglect. I remember Mothers words before opening the hive, “They do not care for yesterday or tomorrow, only for what needs doing today.”

I admire that mindset bees pursue. I wish I worked that way. I think I would get so much more done with my precious time, instead of over complicating every step of my life. I noticed the bees ability to leave seemed non-existent. The heat must be affecting them. Maybe I have missed something? Or maybe there is something wrong with the hive.

I spent more time with them today, so much more in fact I did nothing else but tend to their needs. I sat with them, I cleaned their area, I checked every frame twice. They must think I've abandoned them. Seeing their keeper get sloppy. Lose sight on their goal and what is important to them. For the first time in days, I felt like I was doing something good, something useful. It filled me with a sense of oneness I had not felt in a long time.

Once I went back inside, I once again, checked on Mother. She was in deep thought, staring towards the window. The curtains were still closed. I forgot to open them, or at least, I was afraid to. For her sake.

She turned to me and asked, “Son, why are the curtains closed?”

I had no answer ready for her, I just said plainly, “Well, the heat Mother…”

She looked at me again, not angrily or accusingly, just looking, “You used to open them every morning, even on the hottest of days.”

“I know Mother, but this is different. I cannot risk hurting you. I have to be careful, for your sake.”

A silence filled the room. Mother seemed bothered, or, concerned should I say. After what felt like hours, she broke the silence, “Are you scared of something?”

The question caught me off guard, “No Mother.” The answer came too quickly to sound natural.

Mother noticed my hesitance. She saw whatever was going on inside of my eyes, she could see something was not right. She sat upright this time, locking eyesight with me, “You keep looking around like you are waiting for something to happen. You look so tired and I am worried about you.”

My chest tightened. It felt similar to how I was questioned as a child, accusatory, “I am just being careful, okay?”

“Careful?”

“Yes.”

She studied my face, “You have always been protective dear.” As her face changed slightly.

Replying bluntly, “Someone has to be.”

Her expression changed again. It was not sadness, but worry, “Son…”

I hated that tone, the way she wanted to lecture me as if I didn’t know. She grabbed my hands, the coldness radiating from her fingers intense. She pulled herself closer to my face, staring into my eyes further, “You do not have to carry everything alone like I do.”

The same message as before, the same words, but this time it hurt me more because I knew she was right. After she slowly drifted off into her slumber, I went back outside. I sat beneath the same tree that protected me as a child, the tree that watched me grow into the man I am now. It was comforting knowing my friend had witnessed everything, from the day I was brought home from birth, to where I am today. I listened to the fields, the humming was everywhere, not just near the hive. Everywhere. I could see the sun setting over the hills in the distance, but the heat remained. The world looked peaceful, too peaceful. Even more things were missing from it’s usual noise, it was as if everything was asleep.

I thought about Mother's words again. Maybe I was carrying too much. Maybe I was searching for something that was not there, but then I thought about the church, the fire, the radio, the deer, the heat, the missing birds. Too many things had happened. Too many things. I do not think I am imagining everything. I cannot. Because if I am wrong... If I am wrong, then what have I been protecting Mother from? Tonight, before I sleep, I will check the doors again. Only once. I promise myself, Only once.

Day 6

Last night, sleep was a stranger to me. It feels like something that happens by accident now, like I fall into it instead of choosing it. I woke several times during the night, each time being convinced by the sounds down the hall that Mother was awake, not shifting or coughing, something more restless than that. It was like she was trying to get up but her legs soon telling her they were not capable of carrying her weight.

When I checked on her this morning, she was already awake. Staring into the empty room, holding her poorly knitted blanket that nestled her bed each and every day. I was used to seeing her lying down, unable to move as much as a few feet at a time.

I asked her if she was alright, only to find she was waiting for me to wake. She had been eagerly waiting for my arrival. It felt strange, but I refused to question it. I made breakfast, like I always do. The same as always, eggs on toast. Though, neither of us really ate much of it. It had seemed we both had lost our appetite, probably exhausted by the weather and the madness surrounding us.

I could feel the suns blaze, beaming through the windows, like bolts of lightning. The light, it was too sharp again. It made everything over exposed, revealing every dark part of the room. Mother asked me to sit with her for a while, I took the opportunity to ease my mind for a while with her. Think about good memories we share together.

For a while, she did not speak. She just looked at me. Not in the usual way, like she does when she is drifting in and out of pain or tiredness. This felt different. It was as if she was studying me, weighing up my expressions and concluding my thoughts for me. Eventually, she spoke, “Do you remember when you used to sit by the hive, for hours and hours? How you would escape into your own little world with the little creatures?”

I nodded, smiling at the memory that glazed my mind. She smiled faintly, “You used to come back home, covered in dust and wax. You would tell me stories of what they were doing and what little projects you saw them working on.”

I remembered that. I remembered it clearly. “I still do that Mother.”

“No.” She replied gently, “No you don’t.” Her words made me stop. I tried to explain, but she lifted her hand slightly, asking me not to interrupt her shortness of breath. She wasn’t commanding, just asking.

“You’ve been looking at them,” she whispered, “But you haven’t been with them dear.”

I felt a large ball in my throat. The kind that appears when emotions flood your veins but you cannot afford to reveal how you feel. Stumbling on my words, “I-I check on them every day. I make sure they are safe Mother.”

Mother nodded slowly, conjuring up words in her mind and carefully selecting the right ones to pick, “I know you think you do. And that is what worries me.”

Her words sat thick in the air for a while. Longer than it should have, but it carried weight with it. She turned her head towards the window again. The light was harsh, too bright for her teary eyes to face.

“I think-I think you have been trying to protect things that don’t need protecting in the way you think dear.”

I looked at her, wanting to tell her she was wrong. I wanted to tell her everything I have seen. The fields, the church, the fire, the deer. I wanted to tell her, but I had to be careful. I could not ruin her last moments, not like this. She was looking at me as if she already knew what I wanted to say, as if she knew exactly how I felt.

“You have always been like this, ever since you were small.” That word. Small. It brought back something I did not ask for. Father’s voice, the sudden changes in behavior that shadowed his movements. The way the house used to feel before things happened. Before things broke. Mother watched my face change dramatically, adding to her sentence, “I am not blaming you dear. I am not angry. I just think… you carry too much for someone like you. You carry things that are not yours to carry.”

My mouth was too dry to speak. I stood up without thought, not really knowing where my legs would land me. The room feeling smaller than it ever did. Smaller than it did when Father was inside it. The humming sounded closer, closing in on the small walls around me. I told Mother I was tired, I told her I needed rest.

She did not argue, or beg me to stay. I think that made everything worse, I felt let go. She nodded slowly, “I am tired. But I am not confused.” It was the first time she said anything like that. No weakness or fragileness in her voice, just certainty. I left the room, finding space to think. The house was louder than it had been in days. I stood near the kitchen window for some time, peering through the gaps in the curtains, waiting for something to happen. Everything was normal, everything was how it once was. It bothered me much more than everything that had been happening. Unpredictability is a fear of mine. One minute everything seems perfect, the next, proving the complete opposite. I guess thats why I always veered towards nature, it was unpredictable, sure, but at least it had reason. At least there was always an explanation to what was going on. I haven’t felt that sort of unpredictability in a long time.

Mother called my name from her room. I did not go quickly, I took a moment to gather myself. When I finally returned to her, she was lying down again. Eyes open, she starred at me and said, “Please don’t be afraid of me.”

I told her I was not. I told her there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to fear outside of her mind. She closed her eyes after that. I stayed by her side for a while, holding her veiny hand that felt cold and weak. I remember sitting there, thinking this could be the last time I hold Mother. The last time I get to say anything to her before she is gone. I held her hand tightly.

The humming is still here tonight, louder than it always has been. It is hard to ignore. Maybe that is why I do not sleep well. I think I need to check on the bees tomorrow. I have not been out there properly in a while. They will understand, they always do.

Day 7

The sun rose before I did again. I have stopped setting my alarm, there is no point to that anymore. Time feels like a pool now, whirling together, mornings into evenings, every moment stretched like spaghetti on a plate.

I woke up sweating, sheets sticking to my skin. The heat is truly unbearable now. It feels as though the walls themselves have absorbed the sun, holding onto it, releasing it throughout the night. There is no escape.

The first thing I noticed was the humming. It was everywhere. Not just in the fields, but the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It felt like the world had become one giant hive, vibrating with something I could not quite understand. It was inside my head, loud humming, it was inside me. Something was coming.

I checked on Mother before anything else. She was awake, lying still in her bed. She looked smaller. It was like the world was taking pieces of her, moment by moment. Little by little, small parts of her, dissipating into the air until the only parts that mattered remained, her kindness, her warmth, her love.

She smiled while looking at me, even now, after everything, she smiled.

“Good morning dear.”

I sat beside her, “Good morning Mother.” For a while, neither of us spoke, sitting in the unsettling silence. Everything felt so heavy, like there was something watching from the corner of the room. Eventually, she reached for my hand, trembling, gripping my fingers with a loose grip.

“You look tired,” she pushed out of her throat.

“I am alright.” She stared at me, the way she used to when I would wake from a nightmare. “You always say that.”

I looked away, looking towards the window, the sunlight burning through the gaps in the curtains. “The sun is getting worse.” Mother keeping her mouth closed, “The fields are dying, the animals are nowhere to be seen. The churched burned. People are gone Mother. Something is happening Mother…” My voice becoming louder at every sentence, “I am trying to protect us…”

She squeezed my hand tighter, “Son… I know you are.” Her voice was quiet but sure. It bothered me. She should be afraid, she should understand.

“You do not believe me.” She looked towards the window, then back to me, “No. I believe you believe that.”

The room felt smaller than yesterday.

“You think I’m crazy Mother.”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep questioning me?” Her eyes filling with sadness. She was not looking at her protector, she was looking at her Son. The same boy that would hide behind her when Father came home angry. The same boy who used to sit beside the hive because they were easier to understand than people.

She replied bluntly, “Because I am worried about you dear.”

I looked into her teary eyes, “I am keeping you safe.”

She nodded, softly muttering, “I know you are trying to. You have spent your whole life protecting things, haven’t you?”

I did not answer.

“You protected your Brother.”

“You protected me.”

The room filled with silence with every hum in the atmosphere disappearing into a cold stillness.

“You have been protecting everything but yourself dear.”

The memories flooding my mind, the shouting, the bottles, the fear, the crash, the smoke, the hospital. The waiting and the anger after. The helplessness ever since.

“I couldn’t save him.” The words leaving my mouth before thinking.

Mother’s face changing, not to confusion but to recognition, “Oh… my dear…” gripping my hand even tighter. I hated that, her pity. The room started spinning like a whirlpool. Sunlight pouring through the curtains, burning everything it touched. Everything disintegrating into a void of darkness, even my Mother. Grabbing her hand tighter than she could ever.

She was scared, not of the sun, not of the madness filling the earth outside but of me. “Please don’t be afraid of me Son.” I froze, remembering those exact words she uttered yesterday.

I understand now, she was not telling me she was afraid. She was asking me not to become something I could not come back from. I was already too far away. I do not remember much after that moment.

Only fragments remained, her voice, my hands shaking, her telling me she loved me, the curtains swaying, the humming. I remember telling her everything will be okay. I remember telling her there is nothing to fear anymore, I remember telling her she did not have to suffer any longer. I remember holding her for as long as my tired arms would allow. I remember promising her my protection. I always kept my promises to Mother.

The room is quiet now. I am lying beside her in the same bed she has spent so many months trapped in. The same bed I thought I would watch her peacefully leave this world. I am holding her hand. The house feels empty, the fields too. I think this is what happens when everything you love leaves you. The world becomes too large, too distant.

The bottle sat beside me, empty. I could feel my heartbeat slowing beneath Mother's blanket. It is unnatural, feeling everything finally become quiet after so much noise.

I do not want to wait for the sun any longer. I do not want to wait for whatever comes next. I am tired, so so tired. I just want to rest. I want to rest like Mother did for such a long time.

The humming has stopped. I expected fear, I expected pain. I expected the world to end. Something is wrong, something is just, different. The room is cooler, like an extra body has left the room. I slowly opened my eyes, the sunlight is no longer burning. It is a soft blue, flowing through the sky. The curtains are swaying in the breeze coming through the crack in the window.

I caught myself staring at the sky, waiting for it all to turn back to what I am so accustomed to. I heard something off in the distance. Birds, birds flocking across the open sky. Something I have not heard in what feels like years. The fields watching them bless the skies. The fields are still there, trees standing exactly where they have always stood. The world turning like a record on a player.

I close my eyes, taking in everything I so desperately have been trying to protect and wish back into my life. I cannot move, nor speak. Another faint sound residing in the trees in the fields, it was a gentle hum. This time, lighter and much more gentle. It felt so familiar to what I am used to. It was the bees. For the first time in days, everything was peaceful. Not because the world stopped dooming me, but because my mind did.

I think about Mother’s words. The bees do not sting because they hate you. They sting because they are afraid of losing the only thing they know.

I finally understand, I finally understand what she meant. Bees only know how to protect the hive. They never know when they are the thing destroying it.