Initially, I was quite a bit sad when they removed the arm. The left arm. They wanted me to still be able to write, so they took the left one.

I always was fond of it though. The elbow, the fingernails. One is often fond of their own left arm. Even, sometimes, they are fond of other people's left arms.

The doctor stood with his hands in his pockets, like he was prone to. He told me that, there would be the fantom pains, and of course, the prosthetic to get used to. I nodded solemnly and turned the volume down on the t.v.

"We took some pictures, of your arm, even. In case you'd want to remember," he told me. I shivered slightly.

"I already have pictures of me with my old arm. A lot."

"Well, you know. These ones are the last."

"I think that they would hurt more than help, at this point, Dr. Roberts," I told him. To this, he nodded solemnly. Then he pretended like he was getting paged, and took his leave.

I stared down at where I once had an arm, and I felt something of a mourning for it. More importantly though, how would I look without an arm? How would I do dishes? Text messaging? Tree climbing?

This would all have to be thought through. Yes. This was the beginning of my evil plan.

Only the beginning.