Posted: May 13, 2014 in Flash Fiction, Horror, Superheroes

He tried to touch her only once after the “accident.” His new hands were state of the art, but not the kind of things made for foreplay. She slapped him and stormed out, saying she wasn’t going to be part of his freakshow. Luckily, his new hands were definitely the kind of things that could crush beer cans. He spent the night in the garage, drunk, and by the last few in the case he had convinced himself there was guilt in her eyes when she had slammed the door. She was staying at her penthouse and his hands made it easy to circumvent the security system. He and machines understood one another even better now. Soft sounds from the bedroom confirmed his suspicions. One punch smashed the door to splinters and he stood there in shock. She was on the bed with her legs in the air, Gorelock’s hulking, mutated form pounding into her. His old hands, the real flesh and blood ones, hung on a chain around Gorelock’s neck. Decision made, he ran at them, grasping the chain, strangling the man, if you could still call him that. By morning his old hands were burning in the fireplace. His new ones were red with blood.


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