A week later...
“Careful. Step, another one. We’re almost to the entrance.”
“Shut up, please!” I snap at Dawson.
I’m annoyed and unhappy with life.
It’s been a week since the surgery, and I still haven’t recovered my vision. Expectations for doing so were between 20 and 30%. The odds of staying this way forever were even higher than the odds of fixing it.
Why didn’t this happen to a murderer? To a criminal? To a corrupt person? Why, as cliché as it sounds, do bad things happen to good people?
While it is true that I have not been a saint, I do not deserve a wreath of flowers, and I do not deserve the Nobel Peace Prize. However, I find it ridiculous, absurd, and even cruel that I, who have not intentionally caused harm to any person in my twenty-seven years of age, should be the o
