Mary absolutely adored turtles.
Her shelves were filled with stuffed turtle plushies, and books about turtles. Posters of different kinds of turtle species adorned the walls of her room.
She had always wanted a turtle as a pet, but was constantly told that she wasn't old enough.
She liked to catch turtles down by the rivers and lakes that surrounded her house.
She would look at them and rub her fingers over their shiny hard shells before releasing them back in their watery homes.
One day, she noticed an especially large turtle sitting on the bank of the river. She ran over to check the reptile out.
I took notice of the creature, and was about to warn her that it was a snapping turtle, one of the most dangerous turtles in the world, but didn't have time to do so.
I still remember the horrible snapping sound of her arm bones breaking. I still remember her horrific screams and cries in agony, and all the blood that filled the water.
Most of all, I remember her severed hand lying on the sand, and the large crow that flew off with it before I could grab it and freeze it, just in case it could be reattached.
Mary bled to death before we could get her to the emergency room. At her funeral, we buried her with a lot of her turtle plushies.