The Power of Books

I was sitting across from the Fuhrer and he was crying. And smiling. He looked at me. But the tears were of real sadness, not coupled with the smiles in the usual sadism one would automatically picture when thinking of Hitler + Smiling + Crying. When he smiled at me, I smiled back… because it was the Fuhrer, and how could I not?

I thought to myself, “He knows what he is about to do, and he doesn’t want to do it.”

The bomb was already in place. The timer was already set. The odd thing was, he was going to die too. It was just part of this particular mission.


I am trapped in a recurring faux reality. Every night I know that I’ve done this all before, and each subsequent time I have an even slimmer chance of saving everyone I love. It has never worked. Not the first time, not the second time, and not the last time just before I woke up again to start the waking reality of the day. I rolled out of bed and looked at my copy of Life After Life by Kate Atkinson on my bedside table, and shook my head.


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