That Stung

To everyone else,

I was the lunatic.

My friends and family

watched in awe

as I sprinted toward the water,

arms flailing,

screaming till my chest hurt,

churning up sand and debris

in dense clouds behind me.

The confusion and panic

left in my wake

echoed in their questions,

"What's happening?"

"Is she crazy?"

"Someone help her!"

"Mad, what's going on?!"

Every inquiry or plea

going ignored.

I bolted down the dock,

risking the splinters and duck shit,

using the slickness of the algae

and dampness of the wood

as momentum.

Just a few feet deep,

my body hit the water

like a meteorite.

The splash was dramatic

and unexpected,

even under the surface of the water

I could hear the commotion

running down the dock after me.

Seconds later,

hands reaching under,

grabbing at my arms and legs,

pulling me out.

My salty tears mixed with the

freshness of the lake water

as I choked out an explanation.

"B- bees," I stammered, "Ch- chasing me."

"Bees?" My mother parroted,

looking at my father.

But the question only hung in the air

a moment.

There they were.

A squad of angry, fuzzy little

ground bees,

some still buzzing close to my head

while the bravest of the troops

now drowned in the water

I had just emerged from.

"Bees," I repeated, "all over me, chased me,

everything hurts."

11 stings later,

wrapped in a towel on the boat,

sipping on a Capri-Sun,

I cursed the berry bushes that had

lured me to my doom.