Brian had been sleeping peacefully--and now this.
The object was cool in his hand, and so smooth it might have been machined. Was it a ball bearing? But from what, and how had it come into his hand before the sun was even up?
A dream, of course. So he waited for it to end. And waited. He hefted the thing. Totally real.
The thought crossed his mind that Hitler might have been angry at him for some imagined slight--but don't cats always go in their boxes? Was it softer than it seemed? Gingerly, he squeezed the thing.
No, this wasn't something extremely unpleasant deposited by the cat. It was a little squishy, though. Not a ball bearing. Not rubber. More organic.
Brian sat up. He opened his hand.
No. No, I am not looking at what I'm seeing, and it's not looking back at me.
Except--why did I wake up with an eyeball in my hand?
It was a green eye. His eyes were green.
Being extremely careful not to wake up Julie, he got out of bed and went toward the bathroom, holding his cupped hand out in front of him.
In the thin light he made a mistake and slammed into door jamb so hard that a sheet of white lightning went through his head. He reeled, caught himself, stood gasping, getting his bearings. The pain was considerable, but not terminal.
He took a deep breath and continued into the cool tile bathroom with its mix of catbox stench and Ivory soap. He closed and locked the door and turned on the light.
The eye stared up at him. It was definitely green, and it had little black flecks in the iris. It was a human eye, no question.
Dear God in heaven, did Julie have green eyes?
No, blue. Beautiful pale blue eyes. So...where would an eyeball come from in the night? Had somebody thrown it in the window? No, they were thirty-four stories up and the windows were closed. So no.
Thinking hard, trying to understand, he stared straight ahead...and therefore into the mirror.
He managed--just barely--to stifle the scream. All that escaped was a woebegone quack, like a duck reacting to bad news.
He was aware that Hitler was rubbing against the door, growling like an old DeSoto. The cat had seen Brian get up, and wanted to be fed. Not catfood, not from him, but the hand that offered it.
Never mind the cat, think back over the past few minutes. What had waked him up? Not the alarm, it was too early. Dimly, he remembered that his left eye had itched and he'd rubbed it--
Again, he looked down at the eyeball. But you don't just rub out your own damn eye!
He needed a doctor. He needed to get this thing back where it belonged. But maybe it would be too late if he went to the doctor. And as for the emergency room, there'd be the usual six hour wait.
He looked into the big, black soc ket where the eyeball had been. How could he go to work like this? And what about navigation. He'd already damn near knocked himself on his ass hitting the door.
Truth: his damn left eye had just plain fallen out of his head in the night.
This time the scream escaped, but terror reduced it to a rattling hiss, no louder than the sound of a dying tire. He hung over the sink gagging, fighting his rebellious stomach.
Finally, he regained control of himself. Gagging, he listened for Julie. Nothing. Thank God his struggles hadn't awakened her. Right now her involvement would be strictly no-win. If she saw no eyeball, then he was crazy. But if she did see it this was real and it must not be. Could not be. Because nobody who could just rub their own eye out of their head was healthy. No, he had some kind of muscle deterioration or something. Terminal disease, no question.
