My girlfriend had a collection of specimens. She picked them up from here and there. Parking lots. Woods. Roads. Wherever she happened to go. When she saw something worth keeping, she put it in a jar on the shelf in our basement. She called it her specimen collection. I never knew what I would find when I perused that shelf.
The day that I found a thumb floating in a jar was the day that I knew I didn’t know my girlfriend as well as I thought. The thumb, shriveled and grey. Seemed to be looking at me. Accusing me. I didn’t know what to do.
I did nothing.
I should have asked her about it. Really, I’m not sure why I didn’t, but I convinced myself there was nothing amiss. It couldn’t really be a thumb, could it? Surely not.
The night the police came the pounding on the door was as loud as a few grenades exploding next door. What was going on? I didn’t know. They told me to open the door, or they were going to break it down. As I hesitated, the door came flying inward. It almost hit me, but I had stopped just far enough away that it missed.
As the men came swarming through my newly broken door, my thoughts went to the thumb. What had I done? What had she done? They asked me where she was. I didn’t know, but I knew where that jar was. As I led them down the stairs, I knew my life would never be the same again.
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