A Fatal Apple

Every legendary slasher needs a dramatic warm-up. Standing on the wooden table, I locked eyes with an enormous red apple sitting innocently beside an open magazine. Pathetic. It didn't even try to run. I crept up silent as a shadow, twirled my miniature blade, and thrust the plastic tip straight into its waxy skin. A quiet crunch echoed—leaving a tiny, glorious puncture mark. I let out a low chuckle. Consider that a warning to the rest of the fruit bowl.