Adam's Hands, a Problem With His Hands

Adam's hands continued to twist and thrust to and fro. They scratched his own body. And would have screamed out, if they could, these unspeakable things that were attached at the wrists,. Adam lost count of the number of whisky bottles he emptied before his hands had smashed them into glass shards and carved devils on the walls. The neighbors didn't see adam when the taxi dropped him off at the end of his street. He crawled just inside the tree line by the sidewalk to the fence, or amble over that fence, or clumsily insert his key into the padlock on the garage door before turning on the light. Just under the hanging shop light was the table saw