When we last left our hero he had just placed his hands onto a hot stove and lost his grip sending him falling to the floor… Let’s pick up the action there…
I remember feeling as my hands felt as if they were on fire! Were they on fire? Mum, still on the call, stuck her head in to see what I was screaming about,
“What’s going on in h… *sniff sniff* Who’s cooking chipolata’s?”
She took a moment to register what she was seeing… A small boy crying his eyes out with his hands out in front showing off his hands that resembled something of a grilled steak. You know that faux vegetarian food shaped like meat that comes with the grill lines on it? That’s what my hands looked like.
The next part is a bit of a blur. A quick dash to the ER. Some bandaging. Some more crying. Mum drinking lot’s of wine.
What’s not a blur is the next month or so I had to spend with socks on my hands. Socks soaked in smelly burn cream. Thankfully it was the year before I started kindergarten but still, my small developing ego took a smashing blow as everybody, toddler to teen, grown ups to the elderly, would laugh their arse’s off as I wandered by, sock on my hands up to my elbows.
Even my friends couldn’t keep me company. Between not being able to go outside, not being able to handle toys properly and the smell of the cream I was an outcast.
Attempts were made to turn the socks into puppet creatures to keep me company during this most lonely time but I just resented them and let them talk amongst themselves. For a whole 6 weeks I was a depressed, paranoid and isolated critter.
I survived on A Charlie Brown Christmas, Transformers the Movie (old 80’s animated of course) and My Pet Monster, the only friends who wouldn’t laugh at me.
The End
PS This is the last story I can think of that involves me mutilating my own hands. Promise.
