The Apple

“You artist types can be so paranoid.”

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

“I love you. Why don’t you believe me?”

But I still stare at the red apple she holds. I think of forbidden fruit, of the tree of all knowledge of good and evil, of the way Snow White fell from the poisoned taste at her lips.

My muse, my love— surely she would not deceive me?

Margaret takes the slim knife from my fingertips and begins to quarter the apple, as efficiently as if she is a mother who has to divide all fruit for the brood she has. “You get so silly sometimes,” she says, a laugh at her lips, and I want to taste if the sound has any warmth to it. “You artist types can be so paranoid.”

The word paranoid raises the hairs on my arms, but I ignore it. Margaret takes a slice of the apple and puts it to my mouth. “You have work to do today, don’t you? You look so tired. Maybe you should lie down.”

I am biting into the apple and closing my eyes — ah, it is sweet — until I feel a sudden pain in my abdomen. The sound of wetness meets my ears as the knife slides out of me, blood skimming down Margaret’s pale arm.

“My, my, that’s a plot twist you didn’t see coming, did you?” she asks. “You should have thought of how things could go after you slept with the girl down the hill.”

My body shudders — the pain and the guilt alike — before I drop to the floor.

Margaret sighs. “Oh, what a mess.”

Before my eyes dim, I do wonder: will she get away with my murder? What would the better twist be?

But of course I won’t find out. Life isn’t a story — except for the endings. Those always get us all.