She laughed (or was it a cackle?) as she pulled the scissors (or was it a knife?) out of the drawer. She took his hand and carefully, delicately, gently sliced it off. She could hear his cries (or were they screams?), could see the pain (or was it fear?) in his eyes, but that didn’t stop her.
She took her scissors (her knife?) and gleefully cut away at him – removing his other hand, his feet, his arms, his legs. His cries (his screams?) deepened into panic, faded into silence. She continued excising (or was it butchering?) until he was entirely in pieces. She looked at what remained, staring into her own face, mirroring her own smile.
She swept the floor, removing the shreds of photograph (the body?), eliminating all evidence of what had transpired.
She reframed the photo, herself alone.