It doesn't really end: Metacarpus

My hands were made for good, not for evil. They were made to play the piano; to play the notes to make beautiful music that would echo hauntingly in the air, not for beating people up and coloring their skin making it blue and purple. These hands were made to punch dough to make them softer for chewy cookies and not for making people your personal punching bags. These hands were made to wrap gifts and not for wrapping around people's necks and choking them to death. These hands were made to write beautiful things, and not a suicide note. Your hands were made for good, not for evil.