Abby hated insects — or bugs, it made no difference to her. Ever since she was little, she’d had panic attacks around anything that crawled or moved. Bees, especially, were her worst menace.
When she was twelve, one had stung her, and from that moment on she’d sworn to annihilate them.
In sixth grade, when her class picked bees and helped a local farm as their year-end project, Abby made sure her mom pulled her out of the program.
But those childhood days, with all their strange fears, were behind her now. She was twenty-one, and life had handed her bigger problems.
For several weeks, Abby had been running a fever — one that came and went without warning and left doctors puzzled. More recently, a small cyst had formed under her tongue. It wasn’t dangerous, just uncomfortable. After countless tests and examinations, no one could explain the fevers or the growing lump.
Eventually, her doctor scheduled a minor but invasive procedure to remove what he called “the persistent little mass.” Abby just called it bothersome — a strange, almost buzzing discomfort that wouldn’t let her rest also started to become present.
The morning of the procedure, Abby woke up with a strange taste in her mouth — faintly sweet, almost floral. It wasn’t unpleasant, just odd. She brushed her teeth twice, thinking maybe she had slept with her mouth open. There is a condition were the body will start producing a sweet taste; however her doctor had ruled our pseudomonas as her condition.
At the clinic, the nurse smiled politely as she prepped Abby for the minor surgery. » Don’t worry, it’s a simple removal. Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes» Abby nodded, feeling the familiar weight of anxiety coil in her stomach. But this time, it wasn’t fear of bugs. It was something deeper, instinctive. Like her body knew something her mind didn’t.
When the doctor made the first incision beneath her tongue, he froze. Abby felt the tension in his gloved fingers.
“Doctor?” she mumbled, barely audible.
He didn’t answer right away. He was too focused on the small opening, where instead of fluid or tissue, a golden substance had begun to ooze — viscous, slow, and unmistakably… honey.
The nurse gasped softly.
The room went quiet except for the faint buzzing sound that wasn’t coming from any machine.
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