I didn’t know I was dreaming. There were no initial tells to let me know I was still in bed. As I walked down the hall, the sunlight streamed through open windows, the breeze played around my legs, and I saw my parents in the kitchen with all the lights on.
It’s a normal lazy morning. Dad is at the counter reading the paper, complaining he let his coffee sit too long and now it’s cold. Mom is ignoring the subtle hint to warm it for him and is fussing about the toaster burning the bread again. Yup. It’s a normal weekend morning at Keri’s house.
As long as you overlook the multitude of bees trying to get out of the overhead lights and enter the house. “Dad… the lights…” I’m mildly allergic to bees in the Waking. One bee sting may be worse than average. Was warned more than five in an hour’s time could put me in shock. A whole hive’s worth?
~whimper~
BANG! BANG! BANG! “Damn lights are flickering again, Hubby! When are you going to fix them?” Mom is banging on the brittle light cover. The bees are agitated by the effort. I’m standing in silent fear, shaking my head in a futile attempt to stop her.
“When do I get fresh coffee?” He taps on the mug and stares at Mom. Angry at his demand, she taps harder on the light fixture and shatters a pane. Bees pour into the kitchen like water. Some buzzed around Dad, some buzzed around Mom, but most came directly after me.
Before I could move, I was stung once on the scalp and once on the back of my neck. I ripped the stingers out while turning to run. Strangely, I was more upset two bees had committed suicide by stinging me than leaving my parents behind. But when I looked behind me, I saw they were continuing on as if there were no bees at all. They weren’t stung nor bothered. They were continuing their bickering over cold coffee and broken lights.
I still didn’t know I was dreaming
Somehow I managed to outrun the cloud of bees and ran into my room. I slammed the door behind me, knowing this would only buy me a few minutes of time. Time I meant to use to grab clothes and kick out the window screen to escape.
A solitary bee came through the air conditioning vent. I was too busy checking my scalp to notice. It landed on my right hand and stung me on my thumb before I could react.
I cried out, but I felt the bee, and by extension the hive, speaking to me. “You need this. Don’t pull it out.”
Oh hey. I’m dreaming.
“But it’s suicide for the bee!” She pulled herself away from her self-evisceration and rested on my outstretched finger.
“We are many. We have lost nothing. You are one. You have all to risk.” The bee’s hold on my finger weakened. Outside my door, the sound of the swarm ceased.
The bee venom raced through my veins, quickly overwhelming me and dropping me into deeper sleep.
When I woke up, at first I could only remember the panic of running and the sound of the swarm. Then I remembered the bees came from the attic and wondered if certain bastard spirits were trying to scare me. But as I wrote it out (and relived it in the telling), the full story unfolded.