Tabula Rasa

It was an unremarkable one. The market, not the bee. The bee itself was magnificent, fresh and radiant in both appearance and aura. Immediately I could tell that it wasn’t from around here - Vlostek bees are very specific. Their average wingspan is at least one centimetre larger than those found elsewhere on the planet. This bee, at first glance, I could tell had the smallest wingspan I had ever seen. And the colours. Allow me to describe its shades, constructed of hues not entirely yellow, mixed with a depth that was so much more than black. Canary, midnight. 06:04 on June 18th, 22:51 on December 11th. Shooting stars. An eclipse. It was astounding that something so small could so mightily stop me in my tracks. Safe in its transparent case, the colours were exemplified, tiny mirrors bouncing them beyond their brass corners. Intrigued, I lifted the box higher, and at the same time inspected its seller. “Oh, my.” They did not glance towards me. I tried once more, with a little extra gumption. “Oh. My!” Still, nothing. Their indifference baffled me. The way their mouth continually hung open by a couple of centimetres made bile bubble in my stomach. I wanted to ask about the bee’s previous owner, to know of its life before. Looking at their face, however, made me want to steal. So I stole. While pretending to look at the other trinkets the buffoon was selling, I slipped the box and its bee into the inside pocket of my coat. I hunched forward a little so the lump wasn’t too obvious against my chest. With a subtle, smug nod of the head I said, “Farewell.” I could feel my eyes glow with juvenile delinquency. Walking with haste through the unremarkable market, feeling alive in the throngs of aimless shoppers, I imagined the wings of my latent bee starting to slowly vibrate. I longed to take it from its prison and inspect it further. The tram ride home had never felt so laboured. “Alistair? Alistair, I’m back.” The house rattled in its own silence. He wasn’t home. As I gently laid down my keys in their pot, I saw a note. It was written on a post-it, slightly larger than the typical post-it found in most stationery shops, but its bottom edge curled skyward as they all do. Scrawled in his typical manner was an uncharming haiku that tipped my stomach. ‘Martha, smell is worse, I’ve had to call someone in. Please don’t be upset.’ Inclination drew my eyes to the furthest end of the corridor. The door, concealing the stairs that led to the basement, was ajar. My collection. As I drew closer to the stairs I heard metal clanging on concrete. Glass splintering. Gasp. Exclamation. Expletives. Someone turned as I reached the bottom step with a gentle creak. “What kind of sicko are you?” I dropped my prized possession as its minuscule wings fluttered into being. I knew there was something special about this one.