The Dizygotic Killer

When I was fifteen years old, I moved to a new neighborhood. I remember being the new kid who transferred during the middle of the spring semester. I made new friends, joined a couple clubs, started playing on the varsity tennis team, and had my first kiss.

One night, I remember hearing about a neighbor who was poisoned. Apparently, she ate something bad. The police wouldn’t release much information on the case, but I did know that the lady had a daily routine—dropped off her kids at eight, yoga at ten and occasionally head to the market at one.

I heard that on that day, she purchased cookies and brownies from a local bake sale. To be fair, the local kids have a knack for sales. They could convince anyone. And sadly, this lady was one of them. The lady ate a bad brownie that made her drop to the floor, gasping for air. Locals claim they never saw anything like it.

I heard she was paralyzed from the waist down or something because her body didn't react to the “bad” stuff too well. Soon, the poison spread towards the rest of her body.

Word went around that a week later, the lady died in the hospital.

It’s a shame because I, for one, enjoy brownies. Imagine if I died from a bite of that sugary goodness.