Tattersail

he counted them carefully, starting with the smallest. it was hard to gauge this, so he refused to trust his eyes, which had lent themselves to so much mischief in the past, and felt the tops of each and every head. he wasn't selecting for the best, the softest or the ripest because he knew they would all get it. not one would be spared.
his knives were set out on the table. a board had been put down to avoid knicking the countertop. "i should have grabbed more towels", he thought for a moment as the enjoyment of his task would be soon shadowed by the sticky mess and hours of scrubbing every ridge of the linoleum floor. perhaps, then he could just get a hammer, and with one quick strike do the task instead of all that slicing. the slower it goes, the more mess it makes. his mind quickly darted back to the kitchen covered in bits and fluids. never clean. never clean.
fuck.
he had lost count in the excitement and decided to get a black garbage bag. if he tore the sides carefully, it would make a nice plastic sheet to keep the mess from getting everywhere. if he could only just do what needed to be done without counting, without cleaning, without worry of the flies and the screams and how he could never put them back together.
maybe he should have just bought some fruit salad instead.