She could smell it. That sharp, familiar stench invading her senses as she stood looking down upon her victim. Her eyes welled up as she blinked away a tear, letting it stream down her warm cheek. This was the moment she had been dreading. Right fist clenched tight around the knife handle, knuckles white, she knew she had to be strong. The heat made her palms sweat and she could feel small beads of perspiration forming on her forehead.
Timing is everything she reminded herself, and there were only a few moments left to take action before everything she had so far accomplished went down the drain; the meticulous planning, the precise execution of every detail. This wasn’t her first. Still, she never enjoyed the ask. This one looked particularly young and fresh. Pale and round, firm flesh, skin practically translucent. It would likely be a messy job and she could foresee the intensity of the sting. Forcefully she reminded herself that it would all be worth it in the end— not only for her, but more importantly, for her family.
She still painfully recalled the time it had been necessary to put a whole load of them under her blade; the tears had streamed down her face for at least an hour afterwards. It was, after all, her own fault. She had signed up for this task— and what had to be done, had to be done. Onions were an indispensable ingredient in her famous casserole.