The inside of the fruit is red, red, red; the bright and terrible sanguine of living blood. She knows that this color must also be staining her lips and her teeth, lending her pretty face an utterly incongruous savageness. Her mind reels with uncounted possibilities, unknown and unknowable; though whether through inability or unwillingness to understand, she will not, can not possibly inquire. What horrors could have happened to this stand of singular trees - what unnameable, unwholesome things might they be feeding on, deep in the mouldering earth, to embed in its fruit such a hellish pigment? She shudders at the sickening implications...
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What? They're delicious. You should try one, seriously.