--- Not exactly 100% correct, but generally the idea of it. ---
23. My Hands.
They were shaking. Usually they were steady and sure, but right now, they shook. They shook as I shed my silent tears. They shook as I aimed the gun at the horrible man in front of me.
Killer. Murderer. He deserved to die. I had never felt such hate towards one person. It was blinding; deafening. It blocked out everything around me. Just me, him, and my shaking gun.
"Don't shoot!" A voice, maybe the only voice that could reach me right now, shouted. I did not lower my trembling gun; I clutched it even tighter. I did not take my eyes off the man; I glared at him through my tears.
I felt pressure on the gun, but I resisted. "Winry, put the gun down." The voice was more urgent, more insistent. I didn't care. "Don't do this. Your hands weren't meant for this."
"He killed my parents!" I spat, never looking away.
The voice continued on as if I hadn't spoken. "Your hands delivered a baby in Rush Valley. Your hands make prosthetics for people who have no limbs." His voice got quieter. "Your hands gave me hope when I had none. Your hands were made to create, not destroy."
My eyes widened, and I looked away from the man and up at the voice. I let the gun fall into his hands. "Ed," I said, and my voice cracked. I began to sob loudly now, the trembling spreading to my whole body. I clutched at his jacket and bowed my head, crying hard and loud. He put his hands on my arms, holding me. They were comforting and steady, tethering to the ground and to my sanity.
My hands. Ed would always remind me of what they've done… and what they wouldn't do.