It's only a stapler. They don't really need it, and I do.
That's what I tell myself as I look at it on my desk. A Swingline stapler, perfectly quiet, perfectly innocent, red as the nails of a dead hooker.
A red Swingline stapler. Mine. All mine.
I pick it up. In my hands it is heavy as a tombstone.
They can hide me down here in the basement with the roaches. They can stop paying me, show me their stupid surprised faces when I keep showing up.
But it's my stapler, with his weight and its satisfying ka-thunk, with the little barbs that fold up so nicely under the skin, such delicate little handles so perfect for lifting with needle-nose pliers until the skin parts and the Bob gasps with the tiny efficient pain. It's mine. And they'll never take it from me.
Prompt from Reddit's /r/writingprompts: Take something that seems innocent or harmless, and make it scary.