{"id":4365,"date":"2014-07-01T15:20:02","date_gmt":"2014-07-01T15:20:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.ucf.edu\/pegasus\/?p=4365&post_type=story"},"modified":"2020-06-29T16:34:59","modified_gmt":"2020-06-29T16:34:59","slug":"the-end-of-aaron","status":"publish","type":"story","link":"https:\/\/www.ucf.edu\/pegasus\/the-end-of-aaron\/","title":{"rendered":"“The End of Aaron,” a Short Story From The Heaven of Animals Anthology"},"content":{"rendered":"

Summer 2014<\/em><\/p>\n

[lead]Aaron calls to say we\u2019re running out of time, and I know that we\u2019re going to have to do it all over again, the collecting, the hiding, the waiting to come out of the dark.[\/lead]<\/p>\n

\u201cGrace,\u201d he says. \u201cWhere are you? Where are you right now?\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019s got that warble in his voice, like he\u2019s just swallowed a kazoo, that and the tone that means business, like in movies when the screen splits and we see the people on both ends of the line, the air traffic controller telling the twelve-year-old girl how to land the plane, or the hero asking the chief which color wire to cut.<\/p>\n

\u201cPublix,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m at Publix.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPerfect,\u201d Aaron says. \u201cI want you to get ten\u2014twenty\u2014gallons of water, eight rolls of duct tape, five pounds of jerky, and a pear.\u201d<\/p>\n

He still calls it duck<\/i> tape, like the bird. Last time I corrected him, he didn\u2019t talk to me for two days, so I let it go.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy the pear?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cI like pears,\u201d Aaron says, and it\u2019s like he\u2019s saying: Just because the world\u2019s ending, I can\u2019t get a pear, for God\u2019s sake?<\/i><\/p>\n

Except that, for Aaron, the world is always<\/i> ending. It\u2019s the third time this year, and it\u2019s only July. I\u2019m thinking last night\u2019s fireworks set him off, but there has to be more to it. Probably he\u2019s off his meds. Aaron loses it, and, nine out of ten times, it means he\u2019s gone off his meds.<\/p>\n

Used to be, he\u2019d warn me. \u201cI\u2019m just going to try,\u201d he\u2019d say. \u201cJust for a week or two.\u201d<\/p>\n

When I stopped supporting these experiments, he stopped telling me. Now, I have to guess, which isn\u2019t hard given the things that come out of his mouth. The trick is figuring out how long he\u2019s been off.<\/p>\n

First day, he\u2019ll feel nothing. By the end of the first week, he tends to claim a clarity and empathy he hasn\u2019t felt in years. \u201cI want to hump the world!\u201d he\u2019ll say, pulling me onto the bed.<\/p>\n

Then, week two will hit, and like clockwork, or something more precise and calculating than clockwork, Aaron will start in on that year\u2019s fear.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t always the end of the world. For a while, Aaron was afraid to leave the house. Those weeks were okay. We\u2019d lie in bed, snuggle, watch TV. One time, we watched Labyrinth<\/i> three times in a row. By the third viewing, Aaron was sobbing. I shook the pills into his palm and he drank them down.<\/p>\n

Then there was the year of the bees. Bumblebee or butterfly, it didn\u2019t matter. Aaron would see a bug and freak out. When he was a child, a bee sting put him in the hospital for two days. Now, everywhere he goes, there\u2019s an EpiPen in his pocket. Aaron gets stung, he has less than a minute to plunge the needle into his leg before his throat swells shut. It\u2019s a fear I respect, a fear that makes sense when you\u2019re all the time only seconds away from death.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s only been stung the one time, but twice he\u2019s put himself back in the hospital. \u201cI really thought there was a bee,\u201d he\u2019ll say, EpiPen empty in its little tan tube.<\/p>\n

[callout background=”#fcf1d8″]<\/span><\/p>\n

[blockquote source=”” cite=”” color=”#cd8f08″]This year, though, it\u2019s the apocalypse that\u2019s got Aaron in handcuffs. Not the Rapture or any trumped-up Mayan stuff, but what Aaron calls the real deal<\/i>. He doesn\u2019t know how the world will end, only that it will be bad. He doesn\u2019t know when, only that it will be soon.[\/blockquote]<\/p>\n

[\/callout]<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWon\u2019t be long now,\u201d he\u2019ll say, canning fruit or sharpening the blade of a knife. \u201cWon\u2019t be long at all.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I blame his parents. Not for the depression\u2014I mean, maybe that\u2019s their fault. Maybe there\u2019s something messed up with their genes. I don\u2019t know. I don\u2019t know how DNA works. I only know that his folks bought into the whole Y2K thing, and Aaron\u2019s never been the same since.<\/p>\n

Imagine it: You\u2019re eight years old, all of your friends are partying with their families or up late with other friends at New Year\u2019s Eve sleepovers, and, instead of watching the ball drop with your parents, you\u2019re huddled in the basement watching your mom cry. The basement is stocked with two years\u2019 worth of water, batteries, and green beans. Upstairs, a TV\u2019s been left on, and Dick Clark counts down. Downstairs, you shut your eyes and wait for the end of the world.<\/p>\n

You could say Aaron\u2019s been waiting ever since. I should know. I\u2019ve known Aaron most of his life. In kindergarten he pulled my pigtails, and by high school I was letting him pull down my pants. Neither of us were college material, so, after graduation, he got a job at Arby\u2019s and I got a job down the street at Payless shoes. Sometimes our lunch hours overlap, and we meet at McDonald\u2019s. He smells like old beef and I smell like feet, and we eat our McNuggets and pretend that we\u2019re better than this. Truth is, we\u2019re twenty and we live with our parents, but that\u2019s okay because we have each other, and I\u2019ve come to believe that each other is enough.<\/p>\n

Most nights I spend at Aaron\u2019s. His parents call me the daughter they never had, which is sweet but also kind of messed up since they must know I\u2019m sleeping with their son.<\/p>\n

At Publix, I get everything off of Aaron\u2019s list that will fit in the cart. I have a card from my parents to cover food, and, so long as I keep it under two hundred a month, Dad won\u2019t yell. Most meals, I pay for myself so I can stock up on weeks Aaron goes a little crazy. His therapist calls this enabling. I call it love. She says I\u2019m a problem, and I, for one, have agreed to disagree.<\/p>\n

At home, I pop the trunk. It\u2019s got a dozen gallons in it, and I grab the first two. I start up the front steps and almost kick over the jar. This I\u2019m used to. Every few months, we find one, a mason jar fat with amber, lid collared by a yellow bow\u2014a sort of thank-you for ignoring the bees.<\/p>\n

A while back, the woman next door set up a hive. Generally, the bees stay on her side of the fence, though, from Aaron\u2019s backyard, you can watch them rise, a fog of tiny helicopters circling the house. Aaron\u2019s mom called the county, but it turns out there\u2019s no law against keeping bees.<\/p>\n

She petitioned the homeowners association to dub the neighborhood bee-free, but the beekeeper threatened litigation. In the end, the HOA let the lady keep her bees, provided no one got stung, and, in two years, no one has. The women settled their differences, and now we get honey.<\/p>\n

Aaron meets me at the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cSweet!\u201d he says. He pulls the jar from my hand, leaving me to juggle the gallons.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s more in the trunk,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cThose can wait,\u201d Aaron says. \u201cGet the pear.\u201d<\/p>\n

I go back to the car, get the pear, and find Aaron in the basement. This is where he lives. The place is spotless, the way it gets his first week off meds. First he cleans everything, then he lets everything go to hell. The clothes he has on are the clothes he wore yesterday, and I wonder how long it\u2019s been since he slept.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, come on,\u201d Aaron says.<\/p>\n

The basement is two rooms. One\u2019s a bedroom. The other\u2019s been converted to a living-room-slash-kitchen. It\u2019s all belowground, setup intended for the Y2K end that never came.<\/p>\n

Aaron\u2019s on the bed, honey jar open between his knees. He balances a plate on top of the jar, and I drop the pear onto it. Aaron likes knives, keeps knives all over the house, and now he pulls one from his pocket, a Swiss Army deal, and unfolds a long blade from the handle. He splits the pear, picks the seeds from the middle, and hands me the plate. Then I watch as he lowers the blade past the open mouth and deep into the jar\u2019s gold, glorious middle.<\/p>\n

The knife rises, and it\u2019s gilded, honey-sheathed. I lift the plate and wait for the drizzle.<\/p>\n

Listen: If your honey comes in a bear-shaped bottle, you\u2019ve never had honey, and if you haven\u2019t had honey, you haven\u2019t lived. Real honey, honey fresh from the comb, is sweet, yes, but it also tastes like clover and sage, like cinnamon and lemon trees. I can\u2019t explain it except to say that, before you die, you owe it to yourself to take a taste.<\/p>\n

We eat the pears and make love, and, when we\u2019re done, I run back to the car and unload the gallons, the rolls of tape, the jerky in its fat, five-pound bag.<\/p>\n

I make half a dozen trips up and down the stairs, carrying water, and Aaron stocks the gallons in his pantry. What he\u2019s got is an old wardrobe, converted, crowded with shelves. Together, we cut a hole in the drywall just big enough to tuck the wardrobe in. You can hardly tell it\u2019s not a real pantry.<\/p>\n

When Aaron gets scared, we stock up. When he comes out of it, we eat whatever we stocked up on.<\/p>\n

I come down the stairs with the last gallon, and Aaron is crying.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s no room,\u201d he cries. The pantry is packed. \u201cThere\u2019s no more room!\u201d He screams it, then sobs.<\/p>\n

I touch his shoulder and he turns, wild-eyed, like a dog touched at the food bowl.<\/p>\n

I hold up the last gallon. \u201cWe can slide it under the bed,\u201d I say. \u201cWe can put it anywhere.\u201d I should know better. There\u2019s no use reasoning with Aaron when he gets this way, and, today, for whatever reason, he\u2019s decided the only food and water we can keep is what fits on the shelves.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake it away,\u201d he says. \u201cGive it to Mom and Dad. They\u2019re going to need it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Early on in his delusions, this was a sticking point for us.<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople will want in,\u201d Aaron will say, \u201cbut you\u2019ve got to be ready. You have to be prepared to tell them no.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEven our parents?\u201d I\u2019ll ask.<\/p>\n

And Aaron, without a trace of sympathy, will say, \u201cEven them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

It bothers me, I\u2019ll admit, imagining my mother and father wandering the bomb-scarred wasteland, scavenging for food while Aaron and I get fat on beef jerky and canned corn. But, then, the end isn\u2019t coming, and so my agreeing with Aaron isn\u2019t the biggest of concessions. Compromising your ethics is one thing. Compromising your hypothetical ethics is another. And so I say, \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

That okay,<\/i> it\u2019s like enabling<\/i>\u2014another word that, in my mouth, means love<\/i>.<\/p>\n

You want to know why I love Aaron. How,<\/i> you\u2019re wondering. How could she love a man who yells, who cries, who makes her carry jugs of water up and down the stairs?<\/i> But you\u2019re only seeing Aaron unwell. Aaron at his best is better than you or me, better than anyone I\u2019ve ever known. He\u2019s gentle. He\u2019s kind. But those are just words. Here\u2019s a story:<\/p>\n

I\u2019m twelve, and, one day, this girl, Mandy Templeton, she empties her carton of milk onto my tray and floods my lunch. \u201cWhat\u2019re you gonna do,\u201d she says, \u201ccry about it?\u201d I stand, and she pushes me. She calls me names.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re at that age where, at lunch, boys sit with boys and girls sit with girls, but Aaron hears this and stands and walks over. He taps Mandy Templeton on the shoulder, and, when she turns, he punches her, hard as he can, right in the mouth. She hits the ground, screaming, spitting blood.<\/p>\n

And even though she\u2019s a girl and Aaron\u2019s a boy and the rules of chivalry sort of demand things like this not be done, because Aaron\u2019s so small, always getting picked on and never\u2014I mean never<\/i>\u2014standing up for himself, and because Mandy\u2019s known by students and teachers alike for her cruelty, Aaron gets ten days expulsion, and that\u2019s it.<\/p>\n

Mandy\u2019s teeth never looked right afterward, and no one ever messed with Aaron again.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s another story:<\/p>\n

Junior year, Aaron takes me to prom. We dance. We kiss. That\u2019s all we\u2019ve ever done. The dance is over, and, instead of driving me home, Aaron surprises me with a hotel room.<\/p>\n

We undress and get into bed. Then, just as we\u2019re about to get started, I say, \u201cWait. I can\u2019t. I\u2019m not ready.\u201d And, Aaron, he smiles. He strokes my cheek. He says, \u201cSure, Grace, okay,\u201d and takes me home. No fight, no fuss, not one word meant to make me feel bad.<\/p>\n

Most high school guys don\u2019t work that way, but Aaron\u2019s always worked that way. And if the trade-off is that, a few weeks a year, he goes cuckoo, then that\u2019s a trade-off I\u2019m willing to take.<\/p>\n

Aaron\u2019s therapist calls him a wounded bird,<\/i> but, I ask you, who wouldn\u2019t care for a wounded bird? What kind of person sees a bird with a broken wing, cat on the horizon, and walks on by?<\/p>\n

And so I buy the water. I tape the windows. I hunker down with Aaron, and, when I can, I get him to take his medication, knowing that, in a few days, it will kick back in and the man I love will come bubbling up from the ocean floor. He\u2019ll break the surface. Exhausted, he\u2019ll rest his head on my shoulder and say that I deserve better, and I\u2019ll tell him to shut up, and I\u2019ll rub his back and he\u2019ll sleep and I\u2019ll watch.<\/p>\n

I carry the extra gallon upstairs. It\u2019s Thursday, our shared day off, but Aaron\u2019s parents are at work. I wonder whether they\u2019ve noticed the change. Most episodes, they don\u2019t. When it comes to Aaron\u2019s parents and Aaron\u2019s illness, check the sand. That\u2019s where you\u2019ll find their heads.<\/p>\n

I head back downstairs, and Aaron\u2019s still trying to make room for the jug. Finally, he gives up. He pulls the honey jar down from the high shelf, uncaps it, and sticks a finger in. He puts the finger into his mouth. He does this a few more times. He doesn\u2019t offer me any, and I don\u2019t ask. Off his meds, Aaron can be thoughtless, but I try not to make him feel bad. Guilt\u2019s not a motivator when he\u2019s like this. Guilt only makes things worse.<\/p>\n

He fastens the lid and returns the jar to its place on the shelf. He lies down on the bed, and I lie next to him. The sheets are musty, unwashed.<\/p>\n

[callout background=”#fcf1d8″][blockquote source=”” cite=”” color=”#cd8f08″]\u201cIt\u2019s going to be tonight,\u201d he says. He shudders. There\u2019s a pillow under his head, and he pulls it up and over his face.[\/blockquote][\/callout]<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you know?\u201d I say. I may as well be asking a toddler how the spaghetti sauce got all over the walls, but I have to try.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can feel it,\u201d Aaron says, voice thin through the pillow. \u201cIt\u2019s here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does it happen?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

Aaron is quiet so long, I nudge him just to make sure he hasn\u2019t smothered himself. When he jumps, I realize I\u2019ve woken him. He throws the pillow across the room. It hits the TV and falls to the floor.<\/p>\n

Aaron pulls the remote from his pocket and turns the TV on. According to the news, there\u2019s been a strike in Pakistan. Something to do with American missiles. Something to do with the threat of nuclear armament. The anchors theorize. Which countries have the bomb? Which don\u2019t? Tune in at ten to find out<\/i>\u2014that sort of thing. It\u2019s nothing you don\u2019t see every few days, but it\u2019s all the evidence Aaron needs.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf there\u2019s a detonation, even a hundred miles away, the fallout alone will keep us underground for ten years,\u201d Aaron says.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s a lot of bottled water,<\/i> I want to say. Instead, I tell him that it\u2019s all right, that no bombs are falling, that I\u2019m here.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know where Aaron gets his information. Maybe he makes stuff up. Maybe he\u2019s trying to scare me, or maybe he believes what he says. Some of it he gets online. I know from his laptop\u2019s browser history, which is mostly war and death.<\/p>\n

\u201cI love you,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

Aaron changes the channel. More Middle East, more death.<\/p>\n

The pill bottle is on the dresser by the bed. I reach it and uncap it. The next part, I have to be careful.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow about some medicine, sweetie,\u201d I say, and Aaron knocks the bottle from my hand.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m on my hands and knees, picking up the little white pills, when Aaron says the country\u2019s started testing new poisons on its own people. \u201cThey drive them out to New Mexico and gas them,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure that\u2019s not true,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

The first pill\u2019s the hardest, but it\u2019s only the beginning. They\u2019re antipsychotics, not miracle drugs, and sometimes it\u2019s a week before they kick in. Even if I can get this one into him, I have a long road ahead of me.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s totally true,\u201d Aaron says. \u201cI saw footage.\u201d<\/p>\n

I let it go. I pick up the last pill.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll make it worth your while,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

I stand, hands on my hips. Aaron pops the pill.<\/p>\n

Do I feel bad? Bad for using my wiles to get a pill into Aaron\u2019s gut? I do not.<\/p>\n

After, I brush my teeth over the kitchen sink. When I move back to the bed, Aaron\u2019s already asleep.<\/p>\n

[divider][\/divider]<\/p>\n

It\u2019s almost midnight when he wakes. I\u2019m watching a TV movie, and Aaron puts a hand on my leg.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot now, sweetie,\u201d I say. I\u2019m tired. I\u2019m worried. I turn the TV off.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor me?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

I tell him to take another pill and we\u2019ll talk.<\/p>\n

He takes the pill and pulls down his pants.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m in no mood, but a deal\u2019s a deal, and it turns out to take almost no time at all.<\/p>\n

\u201cI love you,\u201d he says, and, from our bed, I hear him move to the pantry, hear the honey jar lid come unscrewed followed by a quiet, occasional slurping.<\/p>\n

\u201cWake me up for the end of the world,\u201d I say, and Aaron says, \u201cDon\u2019t worry, I will,\u201d no trace of irony, sarcasm, any of it.<\/p>\n

He\u2019ll laugh when I tell him. When he\u2019s well, we\u2019ll have dinner someplace nice. We\u2019ll celebrate another episode overcome. I\u2019ll repeat the things he said, and he\u2019ll shake his head, embarrassed, but also amazed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he\u2019ll say. \u201cI don\u2019t know what gets into me.\u201d And he\u2019ll reach across the table and take my hand and squeeze.<\/p>\n

The TV comes on and Aaron turns the volume down low. I feel a hand on the back of my head, and I hope it\u2019s not the one covered in honey. He smooths my hair, and I think how this is maybe going to be an easy one. In March, Aaron and I spent an afternoon under the bed. In May, he stayed in the basement, lights off, for a week. I\u2019d leave for work and come home to cups brimming with piss. At the end of the week, it took a day\u2019s worth of laxatives to empty him out.<\/p>\n

In the morning, I\u2019ll call Arby\u2019s. Aaron\u2019s boss knows the drill and, to date, has been surprisingly accommodating. Aaron has five days paid vacation left for the year, but I\u2019m hoping to get him back to work in a day, hoping one of these years, by the end of the year, Aaron will have some days left and we\u2019ll go somewhere the way people go places when they\u2019re young and in love.<\/p>\n

\u201cAaron,\u201d I say. \u201cI need you to take your medicine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will,\u201d he says, but his hand stops smoothing my hair.<\/p>\n

\u201cPromise,\u201d I say. \u201cPromise me that in twelve hours you\u2019ll take another pill.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI promise,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s what I know: I know that, one of these times, it\u2019s not going to be so easy. One of these days, no matter what I do, I won\u2019t be able to get Aaron back on his meds. What I don\u2019t know is what comes next. This is my<\/i> fear, the fear of the unknown.<\/p>\n

And, in this way, maybe Aaron and I aren\u2019t so different\u2014two people afraid of things beyond our control. Except that, in the end, I have a pretty good idea whose nightmare is destined to come true.<\/p>\n

The mercury\u2019s rising, ice caps flattening into the sea. We\u2019ve got dams collapsing and power plants blowing sky-high, plus enough bombs to make the earth\u2019s surface match the surface of the moon.<\/p>\n

The end of the world? It could happen. No one\u2019s denying that.<\/p>\n

But it\u2019s the end of Aaron that scares me.<\/p>\n

[divider][\/divider]<\/p>\n

I wake. I turn to put my arm around Aaron, but all I get is pillow. The TV\u2019s off, the room dark. It\u2019s still dark outside. I check under the bed. I check the cabinet below the kitchen sink. I check upstairs, then I go back to bed.<\/p>\n

But I can\u2019t sleep. Aaron doesn\u2019t leave the basement, not when he\u2019s like this. This is new, and new is scary, and, after a few minutes, I rise and turn on the lights. I move to his side of the bed. There\u2019s a sock on his dresser, weirdly out of place. Beneath the sock, I find the pills, chalky, deformed, and I wonder how long each stayed tucked under his tongue before I looked away. This worries me, but not as much as what I see next, which is the honey jar empty, licked clean.<\/p>\n

I tell myself no way could he be where I think he is, but, nights like this, I know better than to underestimate Aaron, and I don\u2019t even bother to tie my shoes.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m up the stairs in seconds, out the door and running through the yard in a T-shirt and panties. My laces strike my ankles like the tongues of snakes. There\u2019s a half-moon, and it slicks the driveway in a wet, ivory shine. The garage door is up and the lawn mower\u2019s been pulled out. Gardening tools scatter the driveway like a tornado came and hit just the garage. I run faster, into the neighbor\u2019s yard.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never seen her backyard, only the bees that rise from it. The perimeter is a fence of wood planks too high to climb, but an open gate tells me which way Aaron went. I pass through the gate and a floodlight flicks on.<\/p>\n

And there, in the lamplight, is Aaron. And there is the hive. It\u2019s just a white box, a white, wooden box half a coffin in length.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t see any bees.<\/p>\n

No, what I see is Aaron with a rake in his hands. He\u2019s standing as far back from the box as he can, reaching with the rake in what I can only guess is an attempt to pry open the lid. The rake quivers in his hands and the wide metal fan combs the hive.<\/p>\n

Also, he\u2019s got an EpiPen in each leg. They bob from his thighs like banderillas from the back of a bull.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know what a jarful of honey and two shots of adrenaline do to a man, but Aaron doesn\u2019t look good. He shakes, almost convulsing, back heaving with every breath.<\/p>\n

I could call 911. I could run back to the house and pick up the phone, but by then it would be too late.<\/p>\n

\u201cAaron,\u201d I say, and he jumps.<\/p>\n

[callout background=”#fcf1d8″][blockquote source=”” cite=”” color=”#cd8f08″]\u201cStay back!\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s not safe!\u201d He turns, and his face glistens, soaked, like ten years\u2019 worth of tears just poured out of his eyes.[\/blockquote][\/callout]<\/p>\n

I\u2019m a few yards away, and I take a step closer. I don\u2019t want to scare him. I don\u2019t want him making any sudden moves.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wanted to surprise you,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m surprised,\u201d I say. \u201cPlease, sweetie. Come back to bed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not tired,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

His arms tremble and the rake scrapes the box. From somewhere, a bee rises and swims, lazy, in the air around us.<\/p>\n

\u201cAaron,\u201d I say. \u201cI want you to put the rake down. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Perhaps they\u2019re sleeping, I think. Perhaps, at night, the bees go to bed and don\u2019t fly and don\u2019t sting. God, I want to believe it.<\/p>\n

I take another step forward, and Aaron shrieks.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop!\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

I hold up my hands like a bank teller on the wrong end of a gun.<\/p>\n

\u201cI just want to help you, Aaron,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

Somewhere in the beekeeper\u2019s house, a light comes on.<\/p>\n

\u201cI ate all the honey,\u201d he says, fresh tears fattening his cheeks.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t care about that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s not fair. You didn\u2019t get any.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI did,\u201d I say. \u201cRemember the pear? I had some. I\u2019m fine. The rest was for you.\u201d I take another step. \u201cI don\u2019t even like honey all that much.\u201d<\/p>\n

The rake slaps the hive and rattles the lid.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t lie<\/i> to me. You love honey. I know it.\u201d<\/p>\n

A bee lands on the rake, then lifts back into the sky. Another circles Aaron\u2019s head.<\/p>\n

I take another step. I\u2019m close. If I lunged, I could grab the rake, but I don\u2019t know about Aaron. He\u2019s little, and I\u2019m thinking I could take him down, but I worry what it will mean if I\u2019m wrong.<\/p>\n

A window opens above us and a head pokes out.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou kids crazy?\u201d the woman calls. \u201cGet away from there! Get away from there right now!\u201d<\/p>\n

A hum has started up in the box, and that can\u2019t be good. It sounds the way a button sounds when it\u2019s come loose from your shirt in the dryer, only multiplied by, like, a thousand.<\/p>\n

\u201cCall 911!\u201d I yell, and the window slams shut.<\/p>\n

\u201cAaron,\u201d I say. \u201cAaron, I want you to put the rake down and come inside.\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019s looking right at me, but it\u2019s like he can\u2019t hear me, can\u2019t hear past the grim determination to do the thing he set out to do.<\/p>\n

He looks at the hive, and a bee lands on his shoulder.<\/p>\n

My own tears are coming now. I\u2019m no crier, but I can\u2019t help it. Because it\u2019s my fault. Because I shouldn\u2019t have slept except when he slept. Because, finding him missing, I can\u2019t believe I went back to bed. Those five minutes,<\/i> I think. In those five minutes, I might have found him, stopped him before he left the garage.<\/p>\n

\u201cOnce the bombs fall, there won\u2019t be any honey,\u201d Aaron says, his voice garbled and faraway-seeming. There are bees in his hair, bees covering the lid of the box, a patina of bees with fat abdomens and bright wings. Their wings shine like diamonds in the security lights, and I give up the hope that Aaron hasn\u2019t been stung.<\/p>\n

When we were kids, our moms took us to play at a park with monkey bars and swings and a slide. On one side of the playground, a red pipe rose like a snorkel from the earth. It connected belowground to another pipe that rose from the other end of the park. Each pipe was fitted with a megaphone the shape and size of a showerhead and perforated by the same tiny, black holes. I\u2019d stand at one end and Aaron would stand at the other, and, across the playground, we would throw our voices at each other. Our words came out cavernous, like shouts from behind closed doors. We giggled. We practiced cursing. We told dirty jokes. And, one day, Aaron said, \u201cI love you.\u201d I laughed, and Aaron said, \u201cI do, Grace. I love you.\u201d We were ten years old, and we\u2019ve said it ever since.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s for you,\u201d he says now, and his voice arrives like an echo, like it used to when he told me he loved me before either of us knew what loving the other meant or what it would mean.<\/p>\n

The first sting is in my side. I see the bee caught in my shirt. It wriggles, trying to get free.<\/p>\n

\u201cAll of the honey,\u201d he says. \u201cFor you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I leap. I knock Aaron to the ground and pry the rake from his hands. I fling it like a javelin across the yard, far from the hive, and I sit on Aaron\u2019s chest, hands pinning his wrists to the lawn.<\/p>\n

A door opens, and a storm trooper steps out. Or that\u2019s what it looks like, our neighbor dressed in white, some kind of beekeeper\u2019s suit and what looks like a watering can at her side.<\/p>\n

Her face is hidden behind something like a mask made for fencing, but, when she speaks, her words pierce the mask, clear and unfiltered.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what you kids are up to,\u201d she says, \u201cbut, for the love of God, please don\u2019t move.\u201d<\/p>\n

They say that, with enough adrenaline, you can do anything. You hear stories of men wrestling torn arms back from alligators and mothers lifting cars off their kids. I\u2019m on top of Aaron, but I see too late that the weight of my body is nothing compared to what courses through his veins, and I see that I\u2019ve failed him again.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease,\u201d I say, and then I\u2019m in the air. I\u2019m flying. I\u2019m falling. I\u2019m tumbling, and I hit something, hard. The hive comes apart, the buzz turns to roar, and the moon, like magic, goes out of the sky.<\/p>\n

I hear grunting and turn to see Aaron dragging himself toward me on his elbows. He\u2019s like a soldier passing beneath barbed wire. The woman in the bee suit stands over him, pumping a thin fog from her can into the air.<\/p>\n

I feel a sting, then another. My legs are lightning, and, soon, I can\u2019t even look at Aaron, who\u2019s no longer crawling, but rolling, a man on fire.<\/p>\n

I look up, into the night, into the heart of the pulsing, vibrating ceiling above.<\/p>\n

And then the swarm descends, looking, for all the world, like the end of the world.<\/p>\n

FROM THE HEAVEN OF ANIMALS<\/em> BY DAVID JAMES POISSANT. COMPILATION \u00a9\u00a02014 BY DAVID JAMES POISSANT. REPRINTED BY PERMISSION OF SIMON & SCHUSTER, INC.<\/span><\/p>\n

[callout background=”#fcf1d8″]David James Poissant<\/strong> is an assistant professor of creative writing in the Department of English<\/a>. This short story appears in the collection The Heaven of Animals<\/em>, which was published by Simon & Schuster. His writing has appeared in The Atlantic<\/em>, Playboy<\/em>, The Southern Review<\/em>, Ploughshares<\/em>, Glimmer Train<\/em> and in the New Stories from the South<\/em> and Best New American Voices<\/em> anthologies. Poissant is a winner of the Playboy College Fiction Contest, the RopeWalk Press Editor\u2019s Fiction Chapbook Prize, the George Garrett Fiction Prize and the Matt Clark Editors\u2019 Choice Prize, as well as awards from The Atlantic<\/em> and Chicago Tribune<\/em>. He is currently at work on a novel to be published by Simon & Schuster.[\/callout]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":4584,"template":"","categories":[],"tags":[341],"class_list":["post-4365","story","type-story","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","tag-college-of-arts-and-humanities","issues-14","issues-summer-2014"],"yoast_head":"\n"The End of Aaron," a short story by David James Poissant<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Read a short story excerpted from A Heaven of Animals by UCF's David James Poissant, Assistant Professor of Creative Writing - Pegasus magazine Summer 2014\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.ucf.edu\/pegasus\/the-end-of-aaron\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\""The End of Aaron," a Short Story From The Heaven of Animals Anthology\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Read a short story excerpted from A Heaven of Animals by UCF's David James Poissant, Assistant Professor of Creative Writing - 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