Amery’s hand shook violently and the jar of honey slid from his fingers, crashing on the floor, the thick goo immediately spreading across the tile in a slow moving glacier, taking slivers of glass with it.
“Crap,” he said. He slid down with his back to the counter, taking stock of the mess, half of him wanting to lick the substance off the floor and the other half wanting to curl into a ball and sleep until the feeling of impending death melted nicely into blackness. He reached out to get the jar but his shaking hands jerked at the wrong time and the cut glass sliced his thumb, blood suddenly mingling with the honey. He closed his eyes, sweat pouring off him and soaking his clothes and matting his hair to his forehead. He couldn’t tell the difference between the warmth of the sweat and the warmth of the blood. He leaned over and let his body fall gently to the side. He wanted to sleep.