The Grape

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A grape rolled down off the table, as I laid there, in her blood, crying or maybe laughing, can’t really be sure. That grape splashed down and skipped along, leaving a weird little pattern along the way. I silently wondered to myself if I picked that grape up and ate it, if I digested that little blood coated grape, would forensics ever figure out what caused that pattern? I think they would. I think they would see the shattered glass from where the bullet went through the bowl of grapes. They would see the grapes, upon the table, and they would know that a grape had made that pattern. They probably wouldn’t know that I ate a blood covered grape because who the hell eats blood covered grapes anyway? Nobody, that’s who! I could eat all the grapes though. I could eat them all and eat the vines, and I could clean up all the shattered glass, and then forensics would never know that a grape made that weird pattern on the floor. I could see them having a sandwich or pouring a cup of coffee back at the police station and musing to each other about what might have caused that blood pattern. They would likely just dismiss it as a small bouncy ball, even though it didn’t bounce enough, and it’s too flat. They would dismiss it because that’s what people do. It didn’t matter enough, so they would find an answer that’s close enough to the truth and move on, but sometimes one grape can mean everything. I cleaned up the blood, the body, the glass, the bullets, and all but one grape. I wiped the blood off that grape and left it on the floor. Now someone would know that she’s dead. She would never leave anything on that floor…

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