Hive

Today’s prompt: “Staying as close as possible to the tactile, be your character having a skin allergy.”

When the tree branch with the wasp nest fell near you, you panicked. Maybe if you hadn’t frozen. Maybe if you’d run immediately. Maybe, maybe … of what worth is a maybe? You ran, but too late.

A flush of red hives furrows your skin like tiny volcanic molehills, like fiery ants crawling under your skin. Itch and Burn are coupling like rabbits, fucking like there’s no tomorrow and sending litters of miserable bastard children coursing through your body in a high tide of pain. You frantically search your arms and legs for stingers, brushing gently against the firm red blisters, but it’s no good. It’s too late. Your body is on fire. Your entire being swells.

And you don’t have an EpiPen. You used your last one when that bee stung you in July. You didn’t replace it right away. EpiPens are expensive. You can buy a lot of groceries for what it takes to buy an EpiPen. If you go to the right neighborhood mechanic, you can get your old beater fixed up for what it takes to buy an EpiPen. Your family needs that money. You took a risk.

The ambulance doesn’t arrive fast enough. With your dying breath, you curse Heather Bresch.