TORNADO IN MY MIND, MY MOUTH FULL OF BEES

I met him by the pool.

My legs hung in the cold water while the sun fried my back. I watched my toes.

“You’ll be all red tomorrow,” a voice from the water.

He startled me out of my cave, the shadow lingering in corners remained. I had nothing to say.

I smiled, the way I was used to, politely.

The tornado began to spin. Red winds seared the space between his words and my thoughts.

I scratched my hand. The tornado took me away and I slid into the water.

I thought ‘Here, I did as you asked. Can you leave me alone now?’

But his eyes shone brighter. I encouraged him.

In the water I felt closer to him.

I could feel the water connecting our bodies. I took one step back. I switched to automatic mode, slowly turned around and started swimming. With a smile.

I left him confused.

I politely left him to drown.

“Are you up for a drink?” He asks from the depths of my tornado.

I dived in. What to do? Do I want this?

I was speechless. My answer would have been “I don’t know”, if I had known how to answer.

Instead of opening my mouth, I let my hair get tangled by the struggle with the tornado.

“Come on, one beer,” his voice carried me. “It’s hot, it will be refreshing”. He approached me again. Again I felt the condensed water between our halfnaked bodies.

I agreed. Of course. It’s easy, and a ticket out of the pool. So, we sat, cold beers melting in front of us. I don’t like beer. I never loved beer. He talks, I let him talk. I nod, smile the way I know he would like it.

Every path the conversation takes us, I direct it back to him. People like to talk about themselves, and I like to ask questions. If I ask, others don’t.

He does ask me something at times. Then I tear off the top of my hideously and horribly crooked sand tower and make a nice little hut out of it. One tree, a garden with tomatoes, a wooden fence and two cats.

I wait for this moment to pass. I wait to drink that beer I don’t like. I wait for him to get bored. I wait for the sun to set and night to fall. I wait for him to get to know my hut, say thank you and leave.

I forcefully swallow the beer I don’t like; I plan how to leave after this. Although the sun has just risen, my time has passed. I will run as far as I can, lock myself in my home, darken the room, leave the world outside. Put my tornadoes to sleep, allow nature to breathe.

He drank his beer, finally, and asked me for my number. I feel as if my safety belt just broke. As though a swarm of bees just covered me. I wait for them to leave but I can’t breathe. And I’m not even sure they will want to leave on their own. If only there was someone there, if only someone existed, who could see them and know how to take them off without me being stung.

I politely mumble with my mouth full of bees, how we’ll see each other here again, how I have to go home now. I thank him for the beer that I didn’t finish, and with dignity and ease I take my swarm of bees home.

About The Author

The author is a 40-year-old woman from Eastern Europe. She survived years-long incest by her grandfather, in a family that knew about it but didn’t know how to protect her, in a society where incest is the biggest possible disappearing object.

She holds a master’s degree and is working in the corporate world. Writing is something she has been doing her whole life, a tool that has helped her survive.

This short story represents her relationship with men, with all the complexity of symptoms that arise because of the traumatic line of events.