100-word horror.
Manu Forti 🤚
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I love human hands. I can watch them for hours—playing the piano, painting, writing, typing, hammering… and throttling. That’s why I watched them, completely fascinated by their beauty. My other senses faded away for five minutes. When they returned, everything was silent. She lay sprawled on the floor, face purple, eyes bulging. Ugly as hell. But the imprint of those hands was etched in my mind, like the marble hands of David—a beautifully prominent vein running along its dorsum. When the police questioned me, I described Davis’s right hand, except for the tattoo atop the keloid scar.