Deep down, each one of us believes, I’m the exception. We live our lives in the unconscious certainty that the brick walls that fall on other people will never flatten us. That’s why we rant and rave and shake our fists in God’s face when life suddenly goes south.
I had been asking that question over and over ever since Conover left the room. Asking for what seemed like hours.
Dying with my boots on I could accept, at least in concept. Guarantees of personal safety had never been part of the job description or listed among the bennies. I had known from the get-go my chosen career could be dangerous; and if I was honest, I would have to admit that element of risk was part of what attracted me to police reporting in the first place. Of course, accepting death in the line of duty as an abstract idea isn’t quite the same as looking it in the eye.
Not that I was resigned to dying. Far from it. I would fight and hope right up to my last breath. Still, if this was it, I figured I had no legitimate gripe.
But mutilation was never part of the bargain. Wouldn’t be now, if not for my crazy gift. That’s the Why me? I was struggling with. Thousands of people have eye transplants every year, and as far as I know, not one of them has ever complained of bizarre supernatural complications. So why me? The only answer that came to me was as unsatisfying as it was inescapable. Why not me? Why anybody else?
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