Honey Trap

Jealousy is an evil thing. It seeps deep into your skin and festers. No matter how much you scrub, clean, purify, it’s still there. Sitting. Waiting. Growing. 

I squeeze my eyes tight, this is neither the time, nor the place, yet the thoughts still intrude. I force a deep breath down through my lungs to the pit of my stomach. 

It was all because of the smell. Overly familiar, wafting towards me, enveloping me, slapping me right in the face. You see, it smelled like honey. And something else. Burnt wood.

Walking through the dry heat, I followed the path along the field. Golden ears of wheat, nudged by the breeze, were sending bees and insects into the air. Brown dust stirred from the ground with every step I took. An orange beetle landed on my arm, its tiny feet tickling the surface of my tanned skin. I flicked it off. It landed on the ground, on its shield, legs twitching in the air before it managed to right itself. It was already early August and the harvesting would soon begin.  

I had nowhere specific to be. Nobody needed me. Nobody would miss me. I could walk aimlessly through the fields all day if I wanted. Nobody would care.

At the end of the field a small copse had been allowed to take up space. Low coarse bushes. Rose hip, bursting with colour. Honeysuckle taking up residence on branches and tree trunks. A patch of dried grass on the verge of the copse provided a secluded spot to rest. It was quiet, except for the chattering black birds and bees humming around the honeysuckle. 

I made myself comfortable, the heat from the sun targeting me but I didn’t notice. Heat doesn’t bother me much anymore, not after everything that happened. I rolled up my wide trouser legs, exposing my skin to the sun. All the way up my thigh to the scar. I usually keep it hidden, out of sight. But for once I let it breathe. It has become part of me but I still haven’t become part of it.

A lop-sided heart, brown and bumpy, spreading across my upper thigh, large and unforgiving. Some days it feels tight. I run my index finger across the uneven skin, outlining the shape. The memories aren’t so vivid anymore, the pain not as searing. But the scar will never let me forget. 

It still smells like honey, or at least my mind thinks it does. The doctors kept it swathed in honey and bound in gauze for several weeks, after all. The best anti-bacterial remedy for burns they told me. Maybe that’s why I still associate it with the gooey substance. It took ages to heal. As if to remind me that my sister walked unscathed. They say I tried to kill her with a piece of burning wood, ignited by my jealousy. But how can they know? That was never the whole story.