Page 9 of What We Burn

It’s just pain. Sharp. Steady. Real.

I can take it.

With every line Margery lays in, a little of the filth that’s been building in me bleeds out—like maybe the needle scripts a story under my skin that can’t be erased by memory or regret. The machine’s buzz and Margery’s rhythmic wipe, wipe, wipe, and the antiseptic stink—these are sensory absolutes. I focus on the ceiling tile above me and relax into the bite.

“You know they’re all female, right?”

I cock an eyebrow and shift my eyes to Margery.

“The worker bees. The boys are drones, they’re useless. Can’t even feed themselves. When it gets to winter and the hive starts to reduce, the females kick them out and the useless bastards die.” She shakes her head in disgust as she continues to run the needle. “Their sole purpose is to nut in a queen bee. That’s it. They go for two seconds then explode. Poof! Seriously, that’s their entire utility. The girls build the hive. Feed the brood. Forage. Defend. They have to feed these suckers all day long.” She shakes her head.

“I know,” I mutter, staring back up at the ceiling.

Margery looks at me over the glasses and huffs.

The bees aren’t meant to represent us five guys. They’re for Fury. For the different parts of herself she gives each of us. The sage is the whole of her. The roots, the stem, and the delicate petals.

The needle moves and I close my eyes.

THREE

SAGE

Beep.

Something is⁠—

Beep.

What is that?

Beep.

My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds each. I try to open them and get halfway before the light drives me back—white, blinding, wrong. That’s not my ceiling. My ceiling has a water stain shaped like a rabbit. This is just . . . white.

Beep.

My mouth is so dry. My tongue, thick and gummy, sticks to the roof of my mouth like it’s been glued there. I try to swallow and⁠—

Oh.

Oh.

Pain.

Deep, burning, and alive.

Like something sharp and hot is lodged in my throat.

When my body tries to swallow around it, every muscle from my jaw to my collarbone seizes in revolt. I gag on nothing. My eyes fly open and stay open this time, because the pain won’t let them close.

White ceiling. Fluorescent tubes. A TV mounted in the corner. It’s turned off, its screen reflecting the room back at me in murky miniature. The girl trapped in it looks dead. Somebody should change the channel.

I try to laugh. My throat slams the door on it so hard my vision tunnels, and the joke dies where the sound should be.

Noted.

Beep.