A Cloying Story

I was walking home from work on a cold day. I was carrying a box full of jars of honey. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bees had worked to gather pollen and eat it and digest it and make it into honey and then I took it. I left what I thought would be enough for them to collectively survive the lean months.
The box was getting heavier, as I carried it, or maybe its weight was making me tired. In my heart, I knew I couldn't keep carrying it indefinitely.

I dropped it sooner than I had expected. At least some of the jars crunched with a sticky sort of cracking mix of the sound of breaking glass and spilling honey. It's the kind of sound that isn't made by either breaking glass, or spilling honey, alone; especially not inside a box.
It wasn't my fault, at least not entirely. I didnt' have the strength to carrying it all the way, that's true enough, but also, I stumbled on an unseen obstacle underfoot, which ironically had been blocked from my line of sight by the box itself.
As I tripped forward, the weight shifted in an unexpected way, and I tried to grab the box where it was weak and the brown corrugation ripped. Not much, not far, not long, but the short gash was enough to ensure that the circumstances, taken together, meant that the whole was out of my control.

It struck the ground, with a sound I've never heard before, and I stared at it, unbelieving.
Then I picked it up, without opening it. At times like these, it's best to get to safety, and then reevaluate to see what, if any, contents can be salvaged.

Maybe all the jars inside had already been smashed. That's what I would have preferred, all things considered. Even then, I would rather have not imagined a single jar of honey that could have been recovered, by better judgement.

I picked up the box again, and I carried it. Sticky golden honey leaked out of the corners of the box. It climbed down my hands and forearms, to my elbows, where it gathered with each successive step. Some weird effect of the honey's viscosity, complemented with the friction of my hand against the cardboard, made it feel like the honey was itself a living, wigglging thing.

As I trudged on towards home, more and more honey oozed out, making me sticky, dribbling to my elbows and my shirt and eventually, my pants and socks. I felt heavier than ever.

By the time I made it to my front door, there wasn't any question of taking the final steps home in such a condition.

I set the box down with a grunch. It was worse than I had realized.
Glass shard, ever so sharp and fine, had worked their way through the cardboard of the bottom of the box, and crisscrossed my palms, as I carried it. Blood was mixing with honey, all over me.
Worse, the honey had at some point become infested with the larvae of some unnamed parasite of bees, that I had to assume had doomed the entire brood. Thin, wheedeling maggots were writhing through the lot of it, seething in the honey and blood that covered me, in some places, as thick as the honey itself.