The rain showers are nonstop. Every ping off every surface echos a thousand times. And I wait. Inside, the bodies wriggle and writhe like worms on the end of a fishing line. It’s the night of the turn. I am Kahlo. And it’s my duty to step when called.
Even for me, a percipient being, this step is…peculiar. Usually, the supplication comes post some atrocity. This, this step is a forewarning. Peculiar. Music is making these bodies pulse. A music analogous to the blood flowing through them. I hear them counting. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, happy Newww…”
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Now, wailing and the thunder of feet running towards survival.
A voice reverbrates in the darkness, “Kahlo?”
“I am not often called to witness,” I address the darkness.
“I called you for absolution,” the voice responds. The path of the storming feet forms a curvature around us. I bend into this panic. I reikhi calmness and clear thinking. I answer, “There is no amnesty for you,” as I swallow my ire. “No dancing maidens. No celestial father with open arms. You will roil in nothingness, blanketed by the smell of Death.”
“Kahlo, your words betray me,” is the accusatory reaction. I shift myself to face the direction of the voice and say, “You betray yourself and your ancestors; the thirty-nine dead ones and their ancestors. You called me and I stepped. Go now, and let your feet join the thunder. Run to the Nothing.”
It has been silent for some time now. Time has turned and still I sit, waiting and watching. This step, number 784 has made me a witness. To be a witness is to be roused and diligent. To all witnesses I say…stay woke!