A Hollow Comes Before the Sting

Alyson Grauer

I really don’t know what to do about all these wasps.

I’m sitting on my bed staring at the shimmering rainbow pulse of my room, my walls covered in wasps, shrouded in stingers still unused.

They’re huge. Each wasp is several inches long, metallic and iridescent like splashes of oil slick that have sprouted wings. They buzz about me, landing on my walls, my furniture, the backs of my hands. They hum, bump into things, and dance in drunken circles like boxers determined to stay in the ring. They follow me to work, they follow me home. The sights and sounds of my life have been completely consumed by the colors and shuddering shapes of these insects.

There are so many of them. In the beginning it was two or three, and now a hundred or more. I don’t know how to keep track of them all. I can’t take pictures of them, either. They always come out blurry, even the selfies.

I’m not sure what they want or why they’re here, but I do know when the first one arrived.

It started a little over a year ago, when I first got together with Brandon.

•   •   •

I hadn’t even meant for Brandon to happen in the first place.

I had just had my heart broken by someone else, and suddenly there was Brandon: stoic, steady, unpretentious Brandon.

I bumped into him on my way home from work. We talked a little, the usual friendly catch-up. Then he’d said he was going to the Long Bar down the street, and asked: did I want to join him?

I really didn’t. I wanted to mope and wallow and be maudlin. And although I knew Brandon through his best friend Angie, who was my roommate, I didn’t really know know him.

What I did want was to be utterly rid of my suffering, so I said yes to Brandon, and off we went for one drink.

 Brandon tried to cheer me up. He asked me about my classes, what I was reading, how I liked working at the bookstore downtown. He asked about my goals, my dreams. He wanted to know about my paintings, what I liked to paint, how long I’d been painting, the whole story.

Brandon was eager, and it felt so good to be listened to. Angie had been right about him; he was a really nice guy.

I drank and I talked, and I let it all happen.

•   •   •

I lay in bed the next morning with Brandon’s broad chest rising and falling softly beside me.

I’d only had one drink.

He’d been fine. A perfect gentleman. He hadn’t pressured me to have more than the one drink—and only two shots, I remembered suddenly. That’s not one drink, that’s three.

I hadn’t ever been attracted to him, to be honest. All the times Angie had talked about him like he was Superman, I’d figured he was her type. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined I’d actually sleep with him . . .

. . . except as I lay there, more memories filtered in with the morning sunlight: I had been the one to kiss him. I was hurting, and I wanted to know if it would make me feel better. But even if it had made me feel good, I shouldn’t have, not knowing that Angie had always had a thing for him.

Huge mistake. Something burned deep in my chest, a writhing sensation like fear, or maybe more like—

I found myself staring at a bug flying agitated loops overhead. I hadn’t noticed it a moment ago, but there it was, huge and black. A bee? A wasp.

The wasp dipped towards me and I gasped, recoiling into the blanket. It stopped, a perfectly balanced halt, hovering and humming above me as though on display in a museum case.

I breathed shallow through my open mouth, half-hidden by bedsheets. The wasp dangled, as though awaiting my permission like some sort of trained bird. My heart thudded in my chest as fearful adrenaline banished my hazy hangover.

“Babe?”

Brandon was awake.

Since when does he call me ‘babe’?

“You okay?”

“There’s a bug,” I said, unable to look at him.

“Where?” He sat up immediately, shrugging off the drowsiness.

“Right there.” I jerked my chin slightly upwards.

Brandon waved his hand through the air, feeling for the bug as though trying to find a light switch. I shrank back, certain he’d get stung.

It danced back out of his reach, nimbly.

“I don’t see it, Linna,” Brandon said, his eyes still roving the walls and ceiling. “Where?”

I watched the wasp land on my desk lamp across the room, its delicate wings catching the light like prisms.

“I think it’s gone,” I mumbled, even as I watched it crawl around on the lampshade.

“Oh,” said Brandon, sighing. “Good.”

He bent down, and before I could say, Soooo we should really talk about this, huh, he kissed me. It was so light and tender and full of gratitude.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he said.

“No,” I exclaimed, then hurried to add, “I’ve got to run to work.”

“That’s okay! We can do dinner later.”

“Sure. Maybe.” I gave him a quick, apologetic smile, and then I was up, hurrying to get dressed and get out of my own apartment. I wished I could get out of my own skin, too, but I didn’t think that was likely. I silently thanked God or whoever that Angie wasn’t home. If she knew about this . . .

The wasp followed me out the front door. I hoped it would disappear, fly off into the trees or land on a flower somewhere, but I wasn’t holding my breath. Something told me it would be back.

I shooed Brandon off to his bus stop and ran for the train. On the train to work, I thought about how I was going to break it to him later that I wasn’t really looking for anything serious right now, and how much I hoped he’d understand.

Brandon had always been a nice guy. Of course he’d understand.

•   •   •

I spent all that day trying to sort through my thoughts. Guys did this kind of thing all the time, right? They’d have a drink with someone, kiss, fool around, whatever, and then go back to their regularly scheduled lives the next day. Easy peasy. Girls did it too, I was sure, though I hadn’t done it myself before. It was like wearing someone else’s shoes, only the shoes were emotionally biased. I had to be upfront with him.

Maybe I should ghost him. Maybe if I didn’t reply to any calls or texts, he’d get the message. He’d have to. I could block it out. I could ignore that feeling in my gut, in my chest.

I watched the first wasp land on the back of my hand while I rode the train home from work. Nobody around me seemed to notice, even when I jerked my hand back.

The wasp circled daintily and landed again on my thumb.

Something about the fact that it was invisible to other people made me feel better, though I wasn’t sure why. I lifted my hand slowly, feeling the lightness of it as it crawled across to the back of my hand. I turned my palm out as though I was admiring my nails.

The wasp glittered against my skin. It cleaned its little antennae, fluttering its wings prettily.

I had to admit it was beautiful. I knew from past experience that wasp stings could really hurt, but there was something absolutely mesmerizing about how lovely it was. I thought about what it would take to try and paint it on one of my canvases lying around at home. I ran through the process in my head of mixing oil paints to achieve the right balance and contrast, but even as I stared at it, my mind let go of the paint-mixing. Why try to paint it, when I could just look at it, shining on my hand like a wealthy woman’s jewels that I’d mysteriously inherited?

Dangerous maybe, but as long as it didn’t hurt me, it could stay.

I was already getting used to its quiet buzzing when I got home. I stepped into the apartment, and there was Angie, red as an upset toddler.

“What the fuck,” she said, breathlessly.

“Hi?” I said. My heart pounded. The wasp hummed into the air, darting around Angie’s head. I froze, hoping it wouldn’t sting her, hoping she couldn’t see it.

“What,” Angie repeated, “the fuck? Were you not going to tell me, Linna?” Angie hissed.

I shut the front door and stared at her, keys dangling from my hand. “Angie—”

“You’re dating Brandon?”

A cold, dull ache pooled at my feet, seeping upwards into my legs. The wasp began an intricate, agitated dance over Angie’s head. Either she really couldn’t see it or she was pointedly ignoring the dangerous stinger six inches from her face. I swallowed, hoping I looked calmer than I felt.

“Dating? No. Angie. This isn’t what it looks like.” I held her gaze, studying the furrow of her brow, the tremble in her chin. What else should I have said?

I didn’t mean to.

It was a mistake.

It was an accident.

It didn’t mean anything.

We were drunk.

I tried to keep my voice level. “I wasn’t planning this behind your back or anything like that. We went out for one drink, I didn’t—”

“Bullshit. He’s already told everyone you’re together. He’s my—Linna, you know how I feel—” Tears blazed to life in her eyes. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

That’s when I saw the second wasp, dancing with the first wasp in sharp, angled lunges in the air. They looked like fencers, swashbucklers in a silent movie as the yellowish overhead light of our dingy garden apartment cast strange shadows.

“What do you mean he’s told everyone?”

“He posted about it. He told everyone. You guys took a selfie at the bar and he posted it with a stupid caption about you being the best surprise he’s had in a long time.”

Disbelief splashed over me like cold water. Angie’s tears caught the light as she shook her head. “Angie, I swear, I didn’t plan this. We’re not—it wasn’t—it was one night. We went out last night, it just happened.” I sucked in a breath.

“I can’t believe you thought this would be okay,” she seethed, revulsion on every inch of her face. “He’s my best friend, we’ve been friends for years. You know damn well how sensitive he is. I’ve told you time and time again how badly he’s been burned in the past. How he always falls hard and doesn’t understand when things don’t go right for him.”

I frowned. “You’ve mentioned that he had some bad breakups before, but you—”

“Oh no, I definitely did.” Her tears were drying already, her expression shifting into that of an angry cat looking to claw something. “I’ve told you about Sarah, Mina, and Tiffany. And I told you that I’d personally destroy the next person who broke his heart. But I never thought that person would be you,” she added sourly.

“You want to destroy me? Angie, listen.” My voice cracked. “We went out for one drink last night, and—”

“Whatever, Linna.” Angie looked exhausted. “You’ve clearly already made a choice. It’s fine. You’re both adults. But I don’t want to hear about it, not ever. I don’t want to see you guys together, I don’t want to hear your bullshit problems, I don’t want to be around it. Don’t come to me about anything, understand?”

I felt the air press out of my lungs. What the hell was happening?

“Angie, it’s not like this suddenly means I don’t care about you. You’re still my roommate, my fr—”

She was out of the room before I had even finished the sentence, leaving me and the wasps where we were. A third wasp appeared in a slow, regal lap around the room, ignoring the first two in its orbit.

Give her time, she’ll come around, I told myself.

There was a hollow feeling in my chest, small for now, but oh-so-deep.

•   •   •

Texts came flooding in, and messages online from everyone who had seen Brandon’s post. It was like an avalanche. I grew colder and colder with each message I read.

It was too late now to tell Brandon, No. I didn’t tell him the next morning, Thanks, but no. I didn’t tell Angie, This was all a misunderstanding. And after he posted it online, I definitely couldn’t say, Take it down. This isn’t happening.

It was too late for all that, or so I thought. So instead, I tried to be happy.

Brandon was a good guy. I’d always got along fine with him. I hadn’t ever considered whether or not I was attracted to him, but I certainly thought he was a nice person. So I laughed at Brandon’s jokes, I ate his cooking, I wore his sweatshirt when it was cold. I gave it a shot.

This is going really well, I thought. He’s such a nice guy.

While Brandon and I went on dates almost every night, I felt the gut-wrenching pain of losing my friendship with Angie. If Brandon felt his friendship with Angie suffered, he never mentioned it to me, which made me feel almost worse to realize that Angie’s love for him was one-sided.

I didn’t exactly choose this with Brandon, but so what? He swept me off my feet. He treats me well, and we get along, and I haven’t done anything wrong.

I sat on the patio listening to the birds one night while Brandon was at work. The wasps loitered close by, one on the back of my hand, the other two pollinating some wildflowers growing through the cracks in the concrete near my feet.

Looking up wasps online to try and identify them had been a nightmare. So many different types. None of the bugs on Wikipedia looked big enough, opalescent enough to be mine. I read about several different kinds, learning how they build their hives, how they’re active during the day, and they only sting if provoked. I read about wasps being herbivores and carnivores, wasps that are social and wasps that are solitary. I read about pollination and their place in the insect food chain. It’s not like wasps are all bad, anyway. Some are good.

Mine are good.

I held up my hand and studied the wasp. This was the third one. The first one had been black-rainbow like oil, the second a bright indigo blue with sheens of yellow and green, and this third one was a burnished bronze-gold laced with pinks and oranges and blues from different angles.

Each one was more beautiful than the last. From their size and the look of their stingers, I figured they were probably quite deadly. But they didn’t seem angry, nor did they seem to want to hurt me. Like stray cats, they gathered near me and went about their own business as though I were a wasp myself. Maybe if I wished hard enough, I could turn myself into one of them and disappear into the flowers.

I didn’t mind the wasps so bad. There was something kind of comforting about them, colors shifting, stingers ready. They seemed calm, almost drowsy near me, and I kind of liked that.

My wasps didn’t seem to be mean, at any rate. They were starting to feel reassuring. Strengthening.

Good. They felt good.

•   •   •

A year.

A whole fucking year went by.

I let Angie ignore me, except for the days when she needed to vent to me about her own life, lacing her complaints with snide remarks about loyalty and honesty. She was baiting me, of course, but I never took the bait.

“Well, Brandon’s very nice,” my mom had said carefully over the phone. “And he seems to really like you. Does he take good care of you, Linna?”

“Yes,” I had replied, and watched as a new wasp appeared on the wall next to my desk. Mom asked that about everyone I dated. “He does.”

“Well, that’s important, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” I said, watching the newest wasp join the rest of the swarm on the ceiling. “It is.”

The wasps kept coming as I let Brandon take me out, cook for me, give me free tickets to his music gigs and improv shows. I let Brandon hold me, kiss me, call me his. It was so easy. He was good to me, which made it even easier. I let myself go, disappearing into the ease of it as the habits grew stronger and more comfortable. I didn’t protest. I just . . . let it all happen.

It was comfortable, easy, simple. Exactly how people said real love was supposed to be.

At first, I wanted to fix things with Angie. It was torture to have to come home to our small apartment every day and have her avoid me like I was a plague rat. I gave her space in return, but I tried really hard to show her I still cared. I bought her flowers, a balloon, and a new record for her record player for her birthday, and she never said a word about it. It was like I’d never been her friend at all—a cool, distant roommate. Barely acquaintances. It stung, honestly, and even as I started to get used to the new normal, I felt the burn of it underneath like an old bruise.

One night, I came into the kitchen for a beer while she was cooking her dinner. We weren’t on speaking terms, so I was surprised when she said my name. She looked at me so seriously I thought there might be a patching-over on the horizon. Instead, she told me she thought I should move out, so I could have more space for my relationship. I was gutted, but she had made up her mind.

So I went and got a place with a coworker from the bookstore instead. I don’t know what the rest of our school friends thought of it all, and I never asked. I assumed they sided with Angie, so I kind of disappeared off the map. I didn’t want to make any more waves than I already had.

By fall, our routine was set in stone: stable, sturdy, and so uncomplicated. Me and Brandon, doing things normal couples did, looking totally happy and fine from the outside. Me and the wasps, buzzing along, mindlessly pollinating without anybody ever batting an eye at them. Brandon bought me things without asking: clothes, shoes, and a gift card to the fancy salon down the street because he thought I’d like to have highlights—you know, as a treat.

I don’t even remember the first time Brandon said he loved me.

What I do remember is that I said it back without looking at him, without thinking about it, and he didn’t question it.

Date after date, night after night, semester after birthday after holiday.

And through it all, the wasps came.

The more I let go, the more beautiful the insects were, humming and buzzing quietly about me like a shroud, trailing behind me like banners when I moved.

 I grew hard on the outside and hollow on the inside, but I felt so empty sometimes I might as well have been made of paper. The wasps were mine, and I was theirs: a nest, a hive. No matter where I went, they followed. Wasps crawled along the ceiling and walls of his apartment, my apartment, the train I rode to and from work. I didn’t feel like reading anything on my own bookshelf; Brandon had tons of things he wanted me to borrow. I didn’t feel like painting anymore lately; I had my wasps. They were beautiful, they made me feel safe, and everything was perfectly normal.

A whole year.

And then I snapped.

•   •   •

All it takes is one spark, and a little bit of paper burns so fast.

Last night, I was working on a sudoku at the kitchen counter in Brandon’s kitchen while he cooked. He’d made his own pasta, bought new spices and brioche bread and was even making a sauce from scratch. He always cooked with such care, such love, and it was always incredibly delicious. I usually enjoyed his cooking. It was the main thing I usually enjoyed, because the sex wasn’t even good. At least, not for me.

“What do you think, should I study cooking in France or Italy?” he mused, while the sauce hissed and sizzled in the pan.

“Both,” I said, chewing on a mechanical pencil. My wasps shimmied down my arms and onto the countertop, crawling, exploring. “Probably both, if you want to be really good, right?”

Brandon laughed. “That’s a good point. Both, then. Probably Paris first, though. We could get a little place and you can put your French to good use while I learn real techniques.”

“Well, it’ll definitely have to be little,” I said, “if it’s in Paris. It’s really expensive.”

“That’s true, too,” Brandon agreed. “But a small place is fine. I don’t need much. Just you.”

I didn’t say anything then, letting his words disappear slowly in the air, as though written in sand on a beach and rinsed gradually into nothingness by the surf. Several wasps took to the air, dancing to the music from Brandon’s phone. I couldn’t remember the name of the band, but it was some group he’d taken me to a concert for. I didn’t use to like going to concerts unless I already knew the band playing, but Brandon had talked me into it easily enough, and it had been an okay show.

“It’s such a relief, you know?” Brandon went on, eventually.

I didn’t answer. This sudoku was bothering me. I watched as several crawling wasps moved through my hand, through my pencil like ghosts, inspecting the paper underneath their little feet. I felt some of them crawling over my shoulders, one or two perched on my braid, playing with my hair.

“To have everything you know you really need in life. And to know that, like, you can really be happy from now on.” He laughed softly. “Like, it’s so easy, you know? I have everything I need.”

I have everything.

Something clicked in the back of my mind.

It was, after all, Brandon’s apartment and Brandon’s kitchen. It was Brandon’s menu choices day in and day out. Brandon’s sweatshirt currently keeping me warm. Brandon’s favorite band playing on his phone. Brandon’s sudoku book. Brandon’s hopes and dreams. Brandon’s favorite hairstyle on me, because he bought me that gift card for really expensive blonde highlights that I hadn’t even asked for, but I went and got anyway because he said they would be so beautiful on me.

Wasps were everywhere, filling my vision, outlining the walls and the ceiling lamp and the refrigerator and the cabinets. Even Brandon was gone, replaced by a mass of insects in the shape of his body. They pulsed, flashing like warning flares until I had to shut my eyes against them.

He’d been talking about culinary school on and off for months, but I had tuned it out. Why hadn’t I realized he was including me in the plans like this, like we were going to be together when he went, like we were going to be—

My wasps clustered on my shoulders and arms, crawling over each other like dragon scales of bright rainbow shards. My skin tingled, my scalp prickling as they fluttered into the air, humming familiar chords.

“I’m just so glad you picked me,” the Brandon-shaped mass of wasps said.

I got down from the kitchen stool and stared at him. But I didn’t, I wanted to say out loud. There was a sudden warmth that shifted in the hollow of my chest at the thought. I didn’t pick you. I didn’t ask for this.

The buzzing of the wasps hummed against my bones.

Please don’t say it.

“Anyway, I know I’m getting all mushy,” Brandon said sheepishly, and passed me the plate. The wasps fluttered, peeling away from him as he moved. “Dinner’s ready.”

As usual, it looked like a gourmet meal, beautifully plated and handcrafted.

He had drawn a heart on the pasta using the homemade sauce.

I wanted to explode. I wanted to slap it out of his hand onto the floor and leave forever.

Instead, I calmly went and got a glass of water. The wasps stayed right where they were, scattered around the room, holding their collective breath, watching my every move. I moved through them as though they were nothing but fog, and returned to my seat at the counter.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said.

“Aw, anytime, babe. You know I love cooking for you.”

“I know.”

The wasps formed a shroud across my shoulders, eager to be close to me.

•   •   •

Did you know that, deep down, you are capable of such great lies?

Not just little surfacey things, like when you lie about why you’re late to something, what you bought or didn’t buy, who you saw or didn’t see. I mean really, truly lie to yourself, and lie so dearly and so powerfully that you yourself forget what truth feels like. When you lie like that to yourself, even running your fingers along a piece of fabric will yield falsehoods. The fabric might be silk or denim, linen or velvet, and it all feels like the exact same thing. You can call it whatever you want . . . but what you’ve named it is not what it is, no matter how many times you wash it, dry it, press it underneath the iron of your thoughts, and steam the wrinkles away with hot determination.

You can call anything ‘true love,’ you know. If you say it enough times, you’ll believe it yourself.

But the truth always comes back. It’s up to you what to do with it once it does: bury it and start the dance again, or burn it, and let the heat of it raise you into the sky so you can soar.

•   •   •

That was last night.

I can’t keep this up for much longer. This hollow feeling in my chest keeps expanding. I’m scared it won’t stop until I’m nothing but shell, nothing but husk: paper-thin and ready to burn.

“Why are you here?” I ask the wasps, voice shaking. “What am I supposed to do?”

The wasps stop humming, but their shimmer and shine ripples across the room like light over waves.

“He’s going to propose if I don’t do something soon.”

Do something soon, the wasps reply.

Their voices are like the thrumming bass of a giant speaker pressed against my spine.

“What do I do?” I beg. “I’ve let it go for so long. Why did I do it? Why do I keep doing this?”

You keep doing this, the wasps say, wings buzzing.

“How do I stop?”

Stop, the wasps sing.

“But how,” I exclaim. “What do I do?”

The wasps screech, louder than any cicadas. They quiver against each other, all over the walls. The room spins around me, the floor is soft and unsteady as mud beneath me.

You do you, they hiss, fading to pianissimo.

What do I want?

I want to tell Brandon how I don’t remember what it feels like to paint. I haven’t painted since before we got together; his passions took precedence while wasps filled my vision. I want to tell him how I only read books borrowed from his own shelf these days. I work in a bookstore for crying out loud, and I haven’t read anything but his books! I want to tell him I don’t love that band the same way he does, if I even like them at all. I want to dye my hair whatever color I feel like. I want to throw away his sweatshirt. 

My hollowness has filled me to the brim, and the spark has devoured my paper-thin shell. There’s nowhere left to hide. I have to tell him the truth.

“It’s going to hurt him,” I say, slowly. “Did I stay because I didn’t want to hurt him?”

Hurt him.

“Angie’ll be even madder I’ve hurt him now than when I hurt her by going out with him in the first place.”

First place.

“But I guess she’s already given up on me. Shit.” I whisper. “I’m so stupid. It’s such a waste of time.”

It’s time.

My wasps ripple again, refracting too many colors to name. In a surge of determination, I reach for my phone, opening the text messages before I can stop to second-guess myself.

The air rings with the sound of the wasps as I type.

Hey. Are you at home tonight, or are you working?

Brandon replies quickly: Hey! I’m home. I thought you were working? Wanna come over? Did you eat already? I can cook!

The wasps hum, encouraging. I text: I called off. Need to tell you something. No food, already ate. I’ll be there soon.

You got it, babe!

Habit’s grip on me is strong, so strong that I hesitate.

But my beautiful, dangerous wasps take flight, swirling in tiny cyclones. I pull my sneakers on and shove my arms into a jacket like it’s armor. I am equal parts determined and frightened. I won’t be the hollow hive anymore. It’s going to sting at first, but I’ll finally get to fly.

The night air is crisp and cool, jolting me awake as I walk for the bus to Brandon’s place.

My wasps fan out like rainbow-tinted wings behind me in the dark.

Alyson Grauer (she/her) is a professional renaissance woman. As a writer, her short fiction has been published in Apparition Lit, Cast of Wonders, Tales from the Archives, and in various anthologies. Her first novel, On the Isle of Sound and Wonder, is a steampunk retelling of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Her voice can be heard on podcasts and audio dramas, and she can often be found performing at renaissance faires around the country. See more at dreamstobecome.com or check out her cosplays on Twitter, Tiktok, and Instagram @dreamstobecome.

“A Hollow Comes Before the Sting” by Alyson Grauer © 2023