I want this as a weapon. You wouldn't carry it; it would just float in front of you, and you'd see thin strands of its hair fluttering in the breeze. Every so often, if would turn around, its mouth choking on the gun barrel, its eyes pleading to you for mercy from this endless agony, this soulless torment, but you would ignore it as you always do, and it would turn back, tears flowing from empty sockets, and one more shred of your humanity would tear itself off like used toilet paper and flutter away into the great chasm of your own, sinking depression.
Although that might be a bit too creepy.