golden sugar plums

At first, we thought the black liquid was oil, that we’d struck it rich and that we’d be able to retire and live in leisure. We actually started writing down all the ways we’d spend the money. Our first choice was a penthouse in New York City, to be constantly surrounded by the hustle and bustle of thousands of different lives. Our second choice was a beach house right along the water, to be able to walk the beach at night, the water lapping at our feet, reaching out to us. Our minds ran wild with dreams tainted with green, of the clothes we would buy, the newest technology we would hold in our aching hands, the things we would call ours, the happiness we would finally feel. Dreams of golden sugar plums danced in our self-absorbed heads.

But as we touched the oil in an attempt to bottle it up and bring it back with us, it lashed out, wrapping itself around our greedy fingers. We screamed, trying to wipe it off on our clothes, but it stuck to our skin like glue. The more we pulled away, the more it appeared, sneaking up our legs and winding itself around our waists. We tried to scream, but the black liquid began to slide up around our throats and necks. Choking, I managed to grab your hand, but you pulled away, somehow able to break the thick black liquid off yourself. I looked into your eyes, pleading for help, but all that looked back at me were eyes full of green. In a flash, I saw you a penthouse – our penthouse – and our beach house, laughing in money while I drowned.

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