She pulled out the hand and looked at it. The gun gleamed darkly in the sun, as if to encourage the light to run away from whatever evils the gun possessed. She sighed and thought again of him, and all of his abuse and anger. How lonely she felt. That was why she carried this bloody hand and this gun.

She turned, for a moment a broken housewife carrying a severed hand with a gun, but then she straightened her back. No, this time would be different. She was done with the cruel words, the disdainful looks. This time, she would be free.

She walked into the kitchen and watched him, silently. This time, it would be different…

... except the hand didn’t let go of the gun. Puzzled, she tugged on the barrel, but the hand clutched the gun as firmly as any live person would. Fear trickled into her stomach as she gripped the stump and pulled. Then his laughter broke through her confusion.

“Did you really think you came up with that idea on your own?” he said mockingly, as the hand pointed the gun in her direction.