A woman of 63 years of age is standing by a counter in a kitchen. She leans mostly on her left leg because she her right hip has been messed up ever since her accident. Her hand hovers over the selection of knives, stopping at the largest one. Her eyes glimmer with hatred and lustful grief. She strokes the polished knife before picking it up. Her mouth slowly transcends into a foul smile. A long scar from the corner of her mouth to her right ear flickers into view. Her body shakes as she chuckles. Her powdered apron has an odd red stain by the pocket. The hand holding the glistening knife gradually rises. With a twitch in her face and a swift motion, she swings the weapon downward. The carrot never had a chance.
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