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Too flipping heartbreaking.
Every time I stop to think about it, my throat closes and I forget how to breathe. It’s this odd defensive thing where my body shuts down and falls into stabbing pain all over, from head to toe.
I just have to sit and wait it out.
Wait for my lungs to start working again and remind me I don’t have to lie down and die.
I still have a chance to make it better.
Right. Back to work then.
First, I work on planting new flowers even though it’s getting late in the season. Next year, they’ll come up nice for sure.
Archer stays busy with the new cameras he’s putting up around the place. I try to figure out ways to make the property more appealing for the bees without ruining its commercial curb appeal.
Of course, there aren’t many around here now.
Most of them escaped when their homes were hammered to pieces, but there are still a few around, and we’re going to bring them back.
The bees will prevail, and so will we.
And what if there’s that teensy-tiny chance it was a random attack? Hard to believe, yes, but we still have no proof.
Maybe the new cameras and large surveillance sign and a proper fence around future bee boxes will be enough to keep anyone else from attacking them.
Just in case, though, I wonder about putting more boxes closer to the forest. The attacker overlooked that one. Maybe they’d be safer with more natural camouflage, even with all this technology.
Plus, it would put them closer to the kudzu and black locust trees. Maybe the honey would turn even more purple.
I’m on my knees, replanting some of the disturbed flowers, when I see it. It’s a tiny thing, really, barely noticeable if I wasn’t brushing plants and leaves aside.
A gum wrapper.
It’s small and pink, with the words ‘berry bomb’ on the front in a goofy retro font.
My hands start shaking before I even pick it up.
My body does that thing where it forgets how to breathe.
God, there’s no mistaking the truth now.
I’ve seen this brand, this exact flavor of gum so many times I couldn’t miss it.
Fucking. Holden.
I always knew it was him.
No one else would’ve made the journey here from Springfield, and no one else is petty and spiteful enough to do something this vindictive.
Dad wouldn’t come in swinging a hammer, much less get his hands dirty with petty destruction. That’s not his style.
He’s already cut me off, taking the legal route.
But Holden is a spoiled child, no matter how much he pretends otherwise.
Here’s proof—and a warning that he throws a bigger temper tantrum than I thought.
God, whatelsewill he do with his temper?