They're cold and hard and so clumsy. These things that hang at the ends of my arms. A gift some called it, a burden to the one who carries it. How I loath the one responsible for this. It's not about saving the world, I'm too cold to feel anything as compassionate and selfless as that. It's about revenge. I should have died, and I would have been glad to, at least then I would still be with her. They'll pay, for taking my arms, my legs, and my death away. They threw mine out, obviously they were insufficient tools for my life. By now they have rotted to nothingness, gone forever. They were calloused from years of hard work with the nails trimmed short. They used to burn with freezing in the snow, and sweat with the heat of summer. But those are lost things, a part of a past I am forgetting.
These hands do not belong to me. They are not hands designed for loving, caring, or helping. They're weapons, deadly accurate killing machines. I use them, but I do not like them. Once I could feel the things beneath my fingers, knew what it was to touch soft skin, silky hair, now all I feel is a sensation that I even have hands. Metal fingers, five are machine gun barrels the others are darts. Two hands, one is full of bullets, the other hides a fatal blade.
These hands are cold and hard, but I don't have to use them the way they were meant to be used. They'll be weapons I use for the world. They don't have to belong to the monster who made them, I can make them mine, I can use them to destroy the one who built them.
