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Ad: By: Arnold Bustillo
I look around, and I have no idea how I got here. All around me are people enjoying themselves, getting along in groups and cliques, laughing and drinking and smoking, as I sit on a couch along the edge of the room. I can remember what feels like a little while ago, when the party was fun and new. Back then, I didn’t concern myself with why I arrived here, I just lost myself in the atmosphere and tried to have a good time. Now that I’ve been here a while, and I’ve had some time to reflect, I look around and wonder not just how I came to be here, but exactly why I came here in the first place. The party is not the same party which I can remember before. The people keep changing – it seems that nobody stays forever. As much as I would like to leave the party, there’s something that keeps me here. Half of it is a fear of leaving, but the other half is a morbid curiosity for observing all these idiots around me. Most of them move about the room like water unrestrained. They join and leave and rejoin groups of other idiots, they coalesce around shared likes and dislikes. For the most part, the idiots are lost in their vices, more concerned with enjoying the sensations of the party than with actually connecting with the rest of the people here. There are also others like me, watchers and wallflowers who sit in quiet corners and peer into the party, as if they, like me, were more comfortable observing this shindig from the sidelines. It’s understandable. It’s much safer on the sidelines. Sometimes the groups and cliques fight amongst each other. Sometimes they get rowdy and shout at each other about this thing or that, and sometimes they engage in all out brawls, beating and punching each other for one reason or another. Conflicts don’t usually last long here, but to the observer on the sidelines it’s easy to see how the groups and cliques are impacted when the people who fight retreat to their respective corners, and try to get back to normal. Although we may have our differences amongst each other, one thing is certain, and that is that we all grow quiet and nervous whenever The Chooser arrives. The Chooser is only one person. No; person is not the right word. It appears as a person, but it is no person. With each appearance The Chooser makes, it appears physically different than it did before. Sometimes it appears as a man, and sometimes as a woman. Sometimes it appears as someone elderly and frail, and sometimes it appears as a young child. The only reason it can be spotted when it arrives is because of its empty black eyes that peer coldly, mechanically, through its mask. The Chooser never stays at the party for very long, just long enough to select one of us here to accompany it away from this crowded place. Nobody has any ideas what becomes of those who accompany The Chooser away from here, but there are plenty of outlandish ideas floating around. Some think we are rewarded for our good deeds when we leave with the Chooser, and others think we are punished for our bad deeds. Some think we go with the Chooser to have our memories swiped and our bodies swapped, only to return to this party in a new form. A few of us, myself included, think that nothing happens in particular, and that we just float along in a sea of blinding blackness, never to care about anything ever again. Everybody knows when The Chooser arrives, because a wave of silence will wash over the party from the front door to the back patio. Everybody will become quiet, and their faces will go blank, as their eyes follow The Chooser as it chooses the next person to leave the party. There is little ceremony when the choice is made. First, The Chooser will make eye contact with the person, then a brief wave of the hand will motion the chosen person to come away with it. Those who are chosen to leave the party can have any number of reactions. Some people break down in tears, and others make a conscious effort to face their fate in stoic confidence. Some people will beg to stay, pleading for one or two more nights with all their friends, but this tactic never works. The Chooser is not a person with emotions that can be swayed or convinced, it is a force. A force that represents the very nature of this party which, for some reason, we find ourselves at. If you ask me, I think this whole process is far more traumatic for those who are not chosen. For those who must sit back and watch as their friends and loved ones are chosen around them, time after time. Worst of all are the parents who must watch as their own children are chosen. It’s quite common to hear a parent begging to be chosen in the child’s place, but as I said before, The Chooser is not a person capable of being swayed. The Chooser comes, and The Chooser goes, and who it decides to take with it is not up for debate. Excuse me, the room is growing quiet now. The Chooser has arrived again. Ad:
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