I was working on the final details about the presidential campaign when the rain fell.
At first, I hadn't heard the screams despite my window being open.
Maybe the fall of the drops echoed too harshly through the town or maybe I was too lost in the political strategies to realize.
It wasn't until then crying and the begging of this caught in the rain unionized into such a loud plea, I could no longer ignore it.
The image of people on the street ripping their own throats, vomiting their melted teeth and tongues and convulsing so violently on the wet concrete their heads would simply split open–
I will never be able to erase that image from my eyes.
It printed itself there. Undeniable and real.
As if hell itself poured on the unlucky people on the street, nobody knew what to do. How to take cover.
It was in the air. The humidity entered the lungs no matter how well you protected yourself from the rain.
It had a familiar smell.
