Wasp and Hornet

She stares at the ceiling. The crack, the spider web, the way the light catches in it like something caught and dying. She pulls a short, deep breath and almost gags at the smell of blood, but forces it down.

Her hands press against her sister’s stomach—not to stop the bleeding, but to wear it. To rub that blood into her own face, her arms, her clothes. It clings to her skin, warm and sticky, and she shivers beneath it, every nerve screaming, but she holds back her tears while her sister whispers, “It burns.”

She shakes her head, pleading without words for her to stop talking. To stop looking at her with those worried eyes. Even now. Especially now.

Then she hears it—more gunshots, echoing down the corridor.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The shooter is still somewhere in the mall. Somewhere close. But this wing has gone quiet because everyone here must be dead. Has to be.

Footsteps drift toward them.

She lowers herself beside her sister, drenched in blood. “Shhh,” she whispers, barely a sound, and holds her breath until her chest aches.

The shooter’s boots scrape tile. He moves slowly, circling, searching. He is looking.

She keeps her eyes shut, lips parted, breath locked tight in her lungs.

Play dead. Play dead. I am dead.

He stops. She hears the shift of his weight, the soft mechanical whisper of the gun moving, the barrel angling toward her sister.

She should be hoping he doesn’t shoot her.

But she doesn’t.

She waits for the sound. The bang. The smoke. The end.

Instead, he walks away. His footsteps fade toward the bathroom.

She exhales—long, trembling—and stays still anyway.  Her sister’s pulse is there beneath her hand. Weak. Barely.

Above them, the spider creeps along its web, reaching for the wall as if nothing in this corridor has changed, as if the world is not splitting open at her feet.

Her bloody hands move, quiet and slow, and close around her sister’s neck.

That’s when memory shatters in a sharp wash of light. She slams the brake too fast.

No matter how high she turns the A/C, the car burns. The steering wheel sears her palms. The plastic water bottle on the passenger seat is warped, half-melted, as if the heat itself is trying to erase anything that proves she was here. The air in the cabin is heavy and close, thick in her lungs.

Her mouth tastes like blood.

It always does now.

She doesn’t know why.

“God damn it,” she mutters, swerving onto the shoulder of the empty, sun-scorched road. She shoves the door open and steps out, blinking against the light.

The road stretches in both directions, endless and blank, the sun above it burning everything down to bone.

She walks straight toward the bathroom, shielding her eyes from the white-hot glare. The rusted metal door creaks as it swings open, and the smell hits before the relief does—stale piss, bleach, and something sour beneath, as if the place has been closed around its own rot for years. But the air inside is cooler, and the sudden chill makes her skin twitch beneath her sweat-drenched grey top.

She steps over balled tissues and candy wrappers, glances at the stained mirror without really seeing herself, and heads into one of the stalls. She doesn’t stay long. Just enough to piss, breathe, blink, remind her body that it is still allowed to do ordinary things.

She comes out and washes her hands, letting the cold water do what it always does—scald her nerves into silence. Maybe erase a little. Maybe wash the taste of blood off her tongue, the one she can’t explain, not even months later. It’s always there, coppery, ghosted between her teeth.

She leans into the sink. The faucet runs.

That’s when she hears it.

Knock. Knock.

Sharp. Hollow. Then silence.

Another knock.

Closer.

She turns, blinking. Her pulse climbs her throat fast and raw. Her body tenses; her mind is already sprinting through old scripts—shooter, sick man with a knife and a smile, the world repeating itself in a different costume.

Then a final knock, softer this time, almost polite.

And a voice.

“Alyssa?”

She freezes.

Because that’s her name. Her real name. And that voice—it isn’t just familiar.

It’s hers.

“Does it burn to be out?” the voice comes again, soft now, almost curious.

Alyssa can’t breathe. As if holding her breath long enough might erase this too, might make the sound collapse back into her skull where it belongs.

“Brianna’s life isn’t what you imagined, right?” the voice continues, a quiet scoff threading through it, like it’s savoring a private joke. “No nights out. All that money passing through her hands, and still—none of it for herself.”

Her throat works. The words scrape their way out.

“Who are you?”

The knock comes again—sharp, loud, sudden. Too much like a gunshot. Her body jerks before she can stop it. She stumbles back a step, goosebumps rising along her arms even as sweat runs down her spine.

Her hands shake. Her jaw clenches.

But the voice stays easy, almost indulgent.

“You weren’t even mad about the money, were you? Not really.”

Silence swells like humidity in the room, pressing behind her eyes. She can’t speak. The mirror won’t hold her face steady; it fractures her into pieces.

“She got the job. The apartment. The clean bed. The life that didn’t reek of overdraft notices. And she still wouldn’t lend you fifty bucks.”

The voice lets that settle like ash after fire.

“Even that day. That fucking day. You asked her for hand cream, remember?”

Her stomach turns. She grips the sink harder. The metal is too cold now; it feels like it belongs to a different world than her skin.

“You stood there in the middle of the store, fingers cracked, your mouth so dry it hurt to talk, and she just—get your own.”

Alyssa turns toward the stall. “Shut up.”

“Not even the cheap kind, Alyssa. Not even a travel size. What did she buy instead? New perfume? Dinner for her fiancé you never met?”

“I said shut up!” she screams, voice bouncing off tile, off mirror, off metal.

The voice doesn’t flinch.

“But she looked at you with pity,” it says softly. “That was the part that burned, wasn’t it? You were supposed to be twins. Equals. Mirror halves. And she saw you as less.”

Alyssa’s breath breaks apart in her throat.

“So when she whispered it burns on that mall floor,” the voice continues, calm as a lullaby, “you didn’t hold her hand. You pressed your fingers against her throat.”

Silence.

Then one last knock—deliberate, soft, intimate.

“Tell me it wasn’t a relief.”

Alyssa breaks. It comes out of her like something torn loose—an ugly sound, half sob, half choke—and she lunges for the stall door. Her hands slip on the metal, slick with sweat. She yanks it open hard enough that it bangs against the divider and rattles back.

There is nothing there.

No shoes. No shadow. No shape waiting to step forward.

Just the road outside, bleaching under the sun. Heat shimmers in the distance, bending the air into something liquid. Wind pushes through the open doorway, dry and hot, carrying dust and the faint smell of asphalt. Her car sits exactly where she left it, dull and silent, its windows reflecting the sky like blind eyes.

For one stupid second, she almost steps out.

Her foot touches the concrete and she hisses, jerks back. The ground is too hot. It burns straight through the thin sole of her shoe, up her leg, a sharp, punishing pain that snaps something animal inside her. The heat presses at her skin, relentless, suffocating, as if the world itself is telling her no.

She stumbles back into the bathroom, gasping. The door swings shut behind her with a hollow clang.

The air inside feels colder now. Wrongly cold. Her skin prickles beneath her clothes, sweat drying too fast, leaving her shivering. She braces herself against the sink, shoulders heaving, and for a moment there is only the sound of her own breathing—ragged, broken, too loud in the small room.

Then the voice comes back.

Relaxed. Almost amused.

“God,” it says softly. “You were so good at it.”

Her stomach drops.

“At lying still. At slowing your breath. You matched her body so perfectly, Alyssa. You even practiced bleeding right.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Stop.”

“Do you remember how heavy she felt?” the voice continues, unhurried. “How her blood kept sticking your shirt to the floor? You were afraid someone would notice you were breathing faster than her.”

Her hands fly to her ears, but it doesn’t help.

“And when they were gone,” the voice says, gentler now, almost curious, “when the noise finally moved away… you felt it. That little flutter under your fingers.”

Her knees weaken. She slides down the wall, back scraping tile, until she’s crouched on the floor, arms wrapped around herself.

“That pulse,” the voice says. “So small. So stubborn.”

“I didn’t know,” Alyssa sobs. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t.”

“You knew enough,” the voice replies calmly. “You knew she was alive.”

Alyssa shakes her head violently, tears streaking down her face, salt and copper flooding her mouth. The taste of blood blooms again, sharp and familiar, like it has soaked into her tongue for good.

“I didn’t know what she was doing,” she cries. “I didn’t know she was paying everything. The loans. The cards. The mess they left behind. I thought she was just—just better than me. I thought she didn’t care.”

The voice lets her talk. Lets her unravel.

“I didn’t know he left,” Alyssa whispers. “I didn’t know there was no fiancé. There was just a ring. Just a story she kept telling because it hurt less than the truth.” Her chest spasms. “I thought she chose that life. I thought she chose it over me.”

A pause. Not silence—attention.

“And when you felt her heart,” the voice says, measured and precise, “you chose too.”

Alyssa’s hands curl into fists, nails biting into her palms. “I was scared,” she says, almost pleading. “I didn’t want to die there. I didn’t want to be nothing.”

“I know,” the voice says. “That’s why you pressed harder.”

The bathroom seems to tilt. The walls feel too close, the ceiling too low. Her reflection stares at her from the mirror—red-eyed, wrecked, unfamiliar. For a second, she almost expects it to speak back without the stall, without the door, without any boundary at all.

“She took everything for you,” the voice goes on. “And when there was finally nothing left to give… you finished it.”

Alyssa lets out a sound that isn’t a word and folds forward, forehead hitting the tile. The cold seeps into her skin, grounding and punishing at the same time.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers again, but the words feel thin now. 

Alyssa drags herself upright, breath hitching, legs shaking so hard she almost falls. Her reflection wavers in the mirror, a stranger’s face swimming in cracked glass and fluorescent light. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing tears and something darker she pretends is only mascara.

“No,” she says, louder now, as if volume can turn truth into smoke. “No. This isn’t on me.”

Her heart pounds like it’s trying to escape her ribs.

“It was him,” she insists, turning toward the stall, toward the empty space. “The shooter started it. He did this. He killed everyone. If he never walked in there, none of this would’ve happened.”

The words come faster, desperate.

“And them,” she adds, jaw tightening. “Our father. His debts. His gambling. His fucking lies. He ruined everything. He buried us before we were even grown. I was just trying to survive what he left behind.”

Her breath catches. She swallows hard.

“And Brianna—” her voice breaks, then sharpens like glass. “She knew. She always knew more than me. She chose to carry it. She chose to play saint and let me rot. She never told me. She never gave me a chance.”

She laughs once, hollow. “So don’t say it was me. Don’t.”

The bathroom hums softly, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The voice says nothing. It lets the silence stretch, lets Alyssa fill it with heat and excuses and the frantic need to be forgivable.

She paces once, then again, palms pressed to her temples.

“I was angry,” she admits, quieter now. “I was tired. I felt small next to her.”

Still no answer.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “But when I felt her heart,” she says, eyes closing, “I didn’t pull away.”

The silence doesn’t move.

“I knew she was alive,” Alyssa continues, the words shaking free now. “I knew. And I still—”

She presses her lips together, sobs, then forces herself to finish.

“I still chose me.”

At last, the voice speaks—soft, almost kind.

“I know.”

The voice shifts again.

Not sharp. Not mocking. Gentle now, persuasive, almost tired, like it has been waiting a very long time to be heard.

“You don’t have to carry this anymore,” it says. 

Alyssa lets out a sound that might be a laugh, might be a sob. It tears out of her chest and leaves her hollow. “No,” she says, shaking her head so hard her vision blurs. “No. I can fix this. I can—” Her hands lift, useless, clawing at the air as if it might take the weight from her. “I can make it right. I can pay the debts. I can disappear. I can tell them everything. I can—”

“You can’t,” the voice answers softly, without anger, without judgment.

Her chest tightens, breath shortening into shallow, panicked pulls. She grips the sink until her knuckles ache, until the cold metal feels like the only thing anchoring her to the world.

“I’ll go to the police,” she says quickly, desperately. “I’ll confess. I’ll take whatever they give me. I’ll do the time. I’ll do all of it. I just—” Her throat closes. The rest barely makes it out. “I don’t want to be nothing.”

The voice is patient, almost kind.

“Then stop being,” it murmurs. “This is the only way you get rest.”

Alyssa’s head jerks side to side. Tears spill freely now, streaking her cheeks, dripping onto her hands. “No,” she whispers, then louder, breaking. “No. I want to live. I want to feel something that isn’t this. I want to wake up and not taste blood in my mouth. I want to see the sun and not feel like it’s trying to burn me alive. I want to remember who I was before all of this.”

Her knees give way. She sinks, sliding down the wall until she’s crouched on the cold tile, arms wrapped around herself as if she might fall apart without them. The room feels like it’s shrinking, the walls leaning inward, the ceiling pressing lower. The fluorescent light flickers, stuttering in time with her heart.

The voice grows louder.

Not shouting—pressing. Filling the space, the silence, her thoughts.

“You are already gone,” it says. “You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

Her breath stutters. Each inhale feels thinner, as if the air itself is running out. The sound of the voice echoes off every surface, inside her skull, behind her eyes, in the hollow places where hope used to live.

“I can change,” she whispers. “I swear I can. I’ll be better. I’ll be different.”

The voice does not argue. It does not reassure.

It only repeats, closer now, everywhere:

“Stop.”

Her hands tremble uncontrollably. Her body feels heavy, as if gravity itself has increased, pinning her to the floor. The colder the room feels, the louder the voice becomes, wrapping around her thoughts, tightening like a net she cannot cut through.

She wants to live more than she ever has in her life.

And that wanting hurts more than anything else ever has.

The door stays closed.

For a long time, nothing moves.

The bathroom hums with electricity and heat, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly, flickering once, then settling into a dull, steady glow. The faucet drips. Once. Twice. Each sound stretches, echoes, dissolves into the stale air. The mirror is cracked now, fractured into uneven pieces that catch and scatter the light, reflecting parts of the room but never the whole of it.

The voice has gone quiet—not because it is gone, but because it no longer needs to speak. The pressure it leaves behind is everywhere, heavy and absolute, like gravity finally asserting itself. The air feels thicker, harder to move through, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Outside, heat presses against the building, against the metal door, against warped concrete. Cicadas scream from somewhere unseen, sharp and relentless, drilling into the afternoon. The road shimmers, bending at the edges, turning the horizon into a mirage that promises nothing.

Then, from beneath the bathroom door, something stirs.

A wasp crawls out first, dragging itself into the light. Its wings twitch, translucent and veined, catching the sun like broken glass. It pauses on the threshold, adjusting to the heat, to the brightness, to the open world waiting for it.

Moments later, a hornet follows—larger, heavier. Its presence feels deliberate, almost ceremonial, as it steps into the sunlight beside the wasp. Its wings beat once, twice, a low angry vibration that cuts through the cicadas’ chorus. The heat doesn’t slow it. If anything, it seems to welcome it.

The wasp lifts first, vanishing into the air, swallowed by light and heat.

The hornet follows, rising higher, its shadow briefly skimming the ground before it disappears too, leaving nothing behind but the empty doorway and the sound of wings fading into the afternoon.