The Honeys

by Ryan La Sala

Death isn’t the end of a life, but the division of it. When someone dies, their soul scatters into all the things they’ve ever given away. Love. Bruises. Gifts. You struggle to piece together what’s left—even the things that hurt—just to feel haunted.

Needing things, she once told me, means you can be controlled. And I never want that. To be controlled. To need things. To need anyone other than myself. That was her way. She was strong alone yet never alone. I resented her for it.

“We don’t ask each other for help,” she goes on. “Because we help each other without asking. Do you get what I mean, Mars? We don’t make people ask if we know what they need. We just give it.”

This doesn’t scare me. I don’t fear the dark. I know the dark, and it knows me. Within it, I’m safe from the sun’s lovely illusions. I know what I’ve always known: The monsters worth fearing are the ones that are dangerous enough to hide in daylight.

I know what survivors of all kinds know. When there’s a real threat, you cannot waste time denying it if you intend to live through it.