The figure that lay there was softly singing a collection of mindless words, tuneless and nothing more than a whisper. Mary moved to the small pedestal sink and placed the severed hand in the basin, along with the small saw, washing her bloodied hand and drying it on a small, soiled towel that hung from a rusted nail above the basin. The water falling from the tap was foul and polluted and it replaced the blood, tissue, and bone on her hands and on the saw with dirt, rather than removing the mess. The figure giggled and prodded the stump where its hand had been removed, watching the small jets of blood leap into the air, captivated as if by a firefly. Mary collected the dismembered hand and walked to a small table located near the main operating table, where she laid it with the palm facing up. The fingers still wriggled and grasped at imagined things and the figure on the operating table glanced at its detached hand and smiled, believing it to be waving at its former owner.
