When I told my mother I had swallowed a bee, she laughed.

That was not the reaction I expected and I felt betrayed by how she was taking such a serious matter so lightly. No really, I insisted, I was in the garden and it flew into my mouth and I was so surprised that I just swallowed it.

She could sense how distressed I was and reluctantly agreed to take a look at the scene of the crime. She examined it, then cocked her head and brought her ear close to my open lips. Do you hear that? she asked. I shook my head. Sounds almost like… buzzing.

I blanched and my mother laughed again. You’ll have to drink lots of water to drown it, otherwise it could lay eggs inside your stomach. I sprinted to the tap and gulped down mouthful after mouthful until I physically couldn’t drink any more; my skin stretched tightly over my stomach like a swollen egg sac.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what my mother had said. If I put my hands on my belly, I could feel the bee bouncing off the inner walls of my stomach, probing the boundaries of its new home. At night, when I was incredibly quiet and still, I could hear, in between the heavy thuds of my heartbeat, a barely audible buzzing.

I spent an inordinate amount of time in the backyard after I had swallowed it. I would lie for hours on the lawn, open mouthed in front of the flowers trying to coax the bee out of my throat. I tried dandelions and daisies and daffodils to no avail. I climbed into the rose bush once. The thorns tore at my skin and I ripped a hole in my favourite skirt but still the bee didn’t appear.

Once the roses had withered and died it became clear to me that I had swallowed a queen. Bees didn’t live too long, and yet this one persisted; the buzzing growing louder with each night that passed. I researched as much as I could about bees. I learned about their eating habits, their daily routines and, most importantly, their lifespans. I manage now to laugh at my naivety; it wasn’t getting stronger. It was reproducing.

I imagined the colony of bees multiplying within the warm, dark cavern of my abdomen. Tiny larvae hatched into a perpetual night, harvesting food from the chewed up remains of my breakfasts, honeycomb forming in the lining of my stomach. If I could cut myself open and taste the honey they had made, would it be sweet?

I became increasingly ill. My parents were convinced that it was due to the weather but I knew it was the bees. They were beginning to overwhelm me. They stole my food and my energy for themselves leaving me in this sickened state.

My mother had always been a firm believer in a teaspoon of honey for a sore throat and I was inclined to agree. I loved feeling it slowly ooze down my raw throat, covering it in a soothing golden film. But this time, as I raised the spoon to my lips, I felt a tickle in my oesophagus. They were trying to crawl out.

Pure terror tore through my veins and I dropped the spoon like it had suddenly caught on fire. I ran to the toilet and stuck my finger down my throat, encouraging a flood of bile to bubble up from my stomach but still no bees. I sank to the floor, sobbing. The saltiness of my tears mixed with the hint of honey left on my lips, creating a bittersweet bundle of panic that lodged in my throat, blocking the bees from escaping.

Queen bees live for 1 to 2 years said the smiley presenter, his grin distorting the faint reflection of my face in the screen. And once she dies, the drones leave the hive and search for a new one. This is called swarming. I watched in horror as they showed a clip of bees flooding from their hive, amassing into a writhing cloud. A living organism of its own.

That was going to happen to me. The bees were going to escape; tunnelling through my flesh and out into the fresh air, shards of my ribs left behind like broken pieces of a hive. I had to do something; I couldn’t be complicit in my own death, especially considering it was now only 1 to 2 years away.

I had to starve them out.

So I stopped eating. It was as simple as that. I started by cutting off my sugar; anything even slightly reminiscent of honey was banned. Then carbohydrates. They supplied the bees with too much energy; energy that they could store and rely on while I withered away. Everything else followed after that: fruits and vegetables. Fish and eggs and milk. All just a distant memory for my growling stomach. The pain was how I knew it was working; the bees were stinging me in revenge for their starvation.

Life became a watercolour; a hazy swirl of abstract shapes and lines. I was so light I practically floated through school, gripping the sides of my desk until my knuckles went white. I was comforted by the fact that every time the wind blew through me, the bees could feel it too. If I felt weak, the bees would surely be only just hanging on to survival.

As disgusted as I was by it, I became addicted to beekeeping videos. It motivated me when I began to give up; this is what will become of me if I let it. All this suffering is for survival. I would fall asleep to loops of swarming colonies, the buzzing on the screen drowning out the buzzing inside.

I planned to just starve the bees for a couple of weeks. To try it. But it was never enough. Contrary to what I had thought, the buzzing grew louder; the bees pulsating closer to the surface of my skin. I had to do more, eat less. I started making excuses not to eat in front of my parents; I was sick, I was tired, I really had to do my homework. I knew they were suspicious but I couldn’t explain to them what was happening. They wouldn’t believe me. My parents are fond of incredulity.

And until I collapsed, everything was going quite well.

I sit in the blue plastic chair at the doctor’s office. My parents are arguing with someone, somewhere. I’m bored. I test my sight against the eye chart across the room: E, H, J, X, C. After the third row the letters all melt into a million little bees so I give up. Out the window I can see flower buds clinging tightly to branches, a few have already burst open. A particularly harsh buzz begins to thrum in my stomach and I avert my eyes from the tantalising blooms.

I look down at my arms wrapped around my legs; a tangle of gaunt, skinny limbs covered in little brown dots. If I could connect the freckles on my arms would they make a honeycombed pattern of my life for the bees to crawl in and out of? Crystallising my blood. Making a scarlet honey to eat in the winter. When I have atrophied.

My parents cry. They show me pamphlets and slideshows, they threaten to send me away, but none of it gets rid of the bees. Sometimes, if I am very still, I can see them writhing beneath my spiderweb skin stretched tight between my ribs. I overheard my parents talking about how they were taking me to a hospital tomorrow. I can’t let that happen. They will force feed me, they will nourish the bees. They will kill me.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. My bones jut angrily under my skin like stingers about to burst through. The black circles under my eyes are empty honeycomb cells. Standing exhausts me. The bees sting relentlessly at my stomach; they can sense my intentions. I take my shirt off; greeted by the sight of razor sharp ribs. I am nothing but bones now. Bones and bees.

My father is banging on the door, my mother is crying again. She begs me to let them in, but I assure her that everything is going to be okay. I hold the knife, glistening like honey caught in the sunlight, over my stomach. Examining where to make the first incision. I place the blade against my skin as the buzzing rises to a horrific climax, drowning out my mother’s sobs. It’s okay, I tell her.

Once I’ve cut them out, everything will be okay.