The Girl Who Killed The Bees

The Girl Who Killed The Bees

She was nine when she found the first hive,

buried deep in the brambles behind the shed.

A slow hum, low and golden,

rising like breath from the earth.

Her mother told her,

“Don’t ever touch them.”

So she did.

With a garden fork and a red rage

that had no name yet,

she cracked the hive open,

like a boiled egg.

Honey spilled like a secret.

They stung her,

as they should have.

That night she didn’t cry.

She counted the stings

and felt stronger.

She was eleven when she found another,

this one beneath the eaves,

buzzing soft against the wood,

making something that wasn’t hers.

She watched.

Then sprayed.

A sharp hiss,

a flutter-drop silence.

And again.

And again.

Every time she saw the yellow hum,

she brought it low.

“They aren’t pets,” she said once.

“They don’t feel things.

They work. Then they die.”

They called her clever at school.

Sharp.

Always quick with answers.

She wore clean uniforms and a blank face.

She was fifteen when the peaches stopped growing.

Seventeen when the clover turned white and brittle.

Nineteen when the orchard down the lane collapsed

into silence. No hum. No sting.

She walked through it all,

barefoot.

Nothing rose to meet her.

She wasn’t hated.

No one knew.

Not really.

They just said the bees had vanished.

Still, flowers never opened when she passed.

Fruit fell early from the tree.

Dogs turned away,

as if they heard some hum

still trapped inside her.

Now she’s twenty-three.

Works in pest control.

Smiles a lot.

Drives a clean white van.

Some say she’s kind,

efficient,

quiet.

But gardens near her house

never bloom.

And no one’s seen a bee

in three summers. Not one.

The girl that killed the bees

a dark cloud follows her

she pretends not to notice or care

She knows it’s dark round her aura

and she knows the curse follows her