#aouhhhhh

You hold in your hands a thing that grants wishes. But only one kind. The wish to interrupt things. It interrupts the curve of a cranium’s bone. It interrupts blood vessels, diverting their flow to pump uselessly into air. It interrupts synapses, forcing hot lead alloy into the gaps they should fire through. Everyone makes that kind of wish, every now and again. We wish in rage, or panic, or fear, and then we regret. But the thing in your hand grants wishes so quickly. Almost at the speed of thought. And once they’re granted, they can’t be undone. It’s too much. It’s too much to ask you to wield. My anger is not for you. My anger is for those who would burden you with this.