Healing Hands

A short story by Grant Davis

I was quite drunk and that’s no excuse I know. I woke in the rear seat of my car, in the garage covered. I was covered with the car rug against the cold. I don’t remember leaving the party, driving home nor making myself comfortable; with that required effort I would have managed to stumble inside the house to collapse on the bathroom floor. The episode shamed me; I had drunk myself to point of insensibility and had driven home. Though I assumed my journey had been uneventful, it was still reprehensible.
Late in the afternoon, my tongue thick and tasting of something I would never have dreamed of putting in my mouth, I made myself a light lunch (or was it breakfast?) and turned on the telly. I channel hopped with detached interest. I settled on the news and weather. The content was undemanding and barely controversial and so not too demanding. The refuse collector’s strike was going to continue, our local Euro-MP was given a ten-second slot of soap boxing and the police were seeking witnesses to a hit and run which had left a young girl paralysed. Sorry, can’t help. I was out last night, and if I did see anything, I couldn’t remember . . .

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