Without even drying her hands she turned and walked out of the kitchen door, heading towards the mailbox.

He stood, the 911 operator bleating in his ear, unable to process what was happening. He hung up the phone and slowly, like a man who has had far too much to drink or has just received news far too horrid to bear, he started to follow her.

She opened the mailbox and without missing a beat she pulled the arm-hand-gun out of the mailbox and looked up and down their suburban street; no one was watching. She held the edge of the stump with her left hand and forced her right hand into the severed arm as if it were a glove.

His wife was not his wife any more. The person that stood before him was apparently a man, in his mid-twenties, shaved head, tattoos and a gun in his hand. He didn’t feel anything after the third bullet hit him, but he lived just long enough to hear all six leave the gun.

Down the street she ran, into the alley at the end and once out of sight she ripped the ‘glove’ off ; it was done.