It had the nerve to wear her face.
I yell at it, I scream, I kick at the unflinching face worn by the infernal machine. It ignores me, intensely focused on the cleanly removed abdomen of my wife. The rest of the body had since been integrated into it, absorbed in a flurry of steel and blood and regurgitated onto the surface as a facsimile. All this from a clock. I scream in frustration and just throw everything I can reach at the thing, shaking with rage and with tears starting to bubble up behind my eyes. A badly-aimed knife slips into the lump of viscera on the ground that it had carefully been mulling over, and it freezes.
Slowly, ever so slowly, it turns her head around and looks at me.
I don't even get a chance to run.