Zaire Laurel // D11 // [FIN]

Zaire Laurel

Bubbles swirl at the bottom of the industrial sink, my hands growing colder the longer I hold them beneath the faucet. I reach again for the bar of soap scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing - "Get out! Just get the fuck out of my house!" - I raise my head at the sound of my sister's voice and peer through the empty window frame.

Even from this distance I can see the beginning of a bruise forming on her cheek. She is holding one of our smokers in one hand, little Olivia in the other, and though she is small and teary-eyed, she looks threatening. The big guy that cautiously slides past her out of the door with a gash on his forehead thinks so too. He has his hands up in surrender though that doesn't stop my sister from throwing the smoker at him as he scurries away, throwing curses over his shoulder as he goes.

I set the bar of soap back on the edge of the sink, rinse the suit, wring it out, and glance out the window again. Emerald sits with her head in her hands on the steps while Livi sits happily squealing in the mud nearby. I sigh and hang the suit up above the sink before grabbing my cap off the nail in the door frame and making my way to the house. Slowly, hands in my pockets, eyes focused on the grass beneath my feet. "Uncle Zaire!" Livi exclaims, greeting me by squeezing at my knees with a smile. I sneak a glance from beneath the visor of my cap to see Emmie smiling and standing with her arms folded.

"Up, up, up, up," Livi insists, refusing to let me go until I have agreed to scoop her up onto my shoulders. I chuckle as she gives an excited, "Weee!"

"I thought you were going to Mr. Fritter's," Emmie says. I scoop up the smoker as I make my way toward the house with Livi swaying back and forth on my shoulders, her muddy feet on my chest and arms circled as far around my head as she can manage. "I did. Everything's fine over there," I say, handing her the smoker and swinging Livi off of my shoulders. Emmie shoos her into the house and with a bit of prodding, she scurries off inside.

"I made Challah and sweet potato soup for dinner," Emmie says, the fake smile slowly falling from her face.

I kick at the bottom stair leading to the house as Emmie sits back down with a heavy sigh. "We might be able to get two extractions this year," I say to fill the dead air between us. She nods.

Silence.

"Did you add more supers today?" I nod.

Silence.

When I glance up again she is staring off into the sunset. The bruise on her cheek is growing more prominent now. Our shared fair skin doesn't help her hide the bruises. I can remember the bruises on my face always standing at attention like that, too. I see wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, though she is not a day over 21. Tired. Maybe even more tired than me though I have been busy checking hives all day. I don't have the heart to tell her that I need help in a few days with extraction.

"I miss Mom," she whispers.

I pretend I didn't hear her.

---

My father beat me until Mom stepped in to stop it and then he beat her until her eyes swelled shut and she coughed up blood. My sister was the only one who was safe from those rages he had. But even she wasn't safe, not really. Our household - our family - was governed by a man who didn't deserve to have a family. He was the King and we were his servants and toys. Mom owned the apiary. It was her family's business; my father didn't know a single thing about bees or beekeeping. Still he insisted on trying.

He once made me sit outside for a whole week to watch for swarm behavior. In the middle of August. Mom tried to explain to him that swarming doesn't happen then but he wouldn't hear it. Once he made me extract frames without a smoker or fume board or bee suit in the middle of June. I don't even remember what happened. I woke up 3 days later with Mom hovering over me. I felt like an old, creaky radiator. I was sure I was giving off enough heat to warm our house even in the dead of winter. Emmie told me years later she thought I wouldn't wake up. Some days I wish I had.

But Mom was so much different. She was the Queen. The rightful ruler and the only one that matters in an apiary. It took her 16 years to remember that there is no King Bee. It took her 16 years to take her hive back from the hornet that had invaded.

I was 12 years old when Mom killed Dad. I hadn't known she had killed him until I was 16 years old and the Peacekeepers came to arrest her. Apparently she hadn't hid the body well enough and they had found the remains with clear enough evidence that she had done. But those 4 years me and Emmie and Mom spent without the shackles of Dad weighing us down were the best 4 years of my entire life.

Mom taught us everything we needed to know about bees. What Dad had taught me to hate, Mom reversed and taught me to love. I changed my last name to match her maiden name and though my sister is the owner of Laurel Bees & Things, I no longer dread or despise the family business. I don't fear bees; I respect them. Honey isn't just some terribly annoying sticky liquid; it is sweet, savory and tasty in every recipe. Chores weren't chores anymore. I think I smiled for the first time in my life when I helped Mom run the honey stand the following fall.

Without Dad in our lives we all seemed to thrive. That is until Mom was taken away.

Bees without a queen make a new one.

Kids without a Mom? We're lost.

---

A soft hum fills my ears. It's warm, inviting. Reminds me of warm tea settling in my stomach during the winter or cuddling beneath a blanket in front of the woodstove when I was younger. Home. That soft hum is home.

The see of flowers and grass swishes around me in the wind. My sister always told me that it was Mother Nature sighing when the wind gushed for a moment and all the grass swayed. Mom always said that when it rained it was not the tears of Mother Nature; it was only her watering her garden. Dad always said that the cold air - the kind that makes your breath fog - was nearly as disappointing as his son. Nearly.

From where I stand in the field, the beehives look like a small, deserted town. But I know better. All those little towers down there at the bottom of the hill are the busiest places in all of Panem. That town down there is filled with thousands of occupants, all of them working together as one big organism.

When I was younger I theorized that the bees were actually slaves, not loyal workers. Everything around me worked that way. The people of the Districts were slaves to the Capitol; I was a slave to my father. I didn't know anything different. But Mom was always assuring me that it was all willful. Each little bee, though they did work for their queen, was working because they wanted to. Because their leader was worthy of lifelong respect. And because they seemed to be born with this innate knowledge that they were each important parts of something bigger than just themselves.

Beekeeping sounds beautiful when put into those terms. Maybe it even makes my life sound like it's beautiful by association. Like I'm a part of something bigger because I am the beekeeper. Because I share the golden, gooey product that comes from the Utopian society that is the bees.

And then the Peacekeepers come to collect, demand steeper quotas be met next harvest season, and leave. And I remember I am a human. One that society would rather watch die on screen than toss me even a sliver of praise or gratitude.

Not that I want anything from them. Except maybe Mom.

As the sun continues to set behind the endless waves of grass and flowers, I sink to the ground. The thick summer air begins to cool, the wind begins to die down, and the soft hum of the bees starts to lessen as they retreat to their hives for the night. I sigh. I reach into my pocket, pulling out the worn photograph of Mom, Emmie, and I that I swiped from Emmie's collection of Mom's things.

Sometimes I forget she isn't coming back. Sometimes I think she is just checking the bees or bottling honey, just like she always used to. I can picture her blonde hair twisted up in a bun on the top of her head and her bright blue eyes inviting me to help. My sister was blessed with those same eyes; but neither of us looks much like Mom. Our dark hair, our height, my dark eyes - all characteristics of Dad.

Looking at this photo reminds me of everything terrible and everything wonderful about myself and about my life.

I think I'll keep it.