Your fingers don't look like fingers anymore. In their place I see something  lethal, with a trigger attached to it. You pull it. The roots of my inner most being implode. As that caves in so does my ratiocination. Everything is succumb to the sound of the shot. But my body. It's paralyzed. Numb to anything real but the trickle of tears that run down my face. I fall into cardiac tamponade. Asphyxiated in my very own skin, where your shrapnel likes to call home.