Behind Closed Elevator Doors (Repost)
I have a fear of taking elevators alone. Something about being swallowed into a strong metal cage and either lifted or lowered with nothing but empty space beneath, putting all trust in the cables above puts me on edge. I do alright if I have company. Someone to distract me from the fear building up in the back of my head. But when I am the only one, when all I hear is the clang and rumble of unsure lifting equipment muffled poorly by the tunes inside, I can’t stand it.
I was in Korea last week and my roommate wanted me to grab something for her from downstairs before the evening curfew.
“You want what?” I called back uncertainly as I crossed the threshold of our room.
“Just some chromium oxide,” she trilled back, “for my health.”
Suzanne was a weak little thing. Poor dear. Turned up at a street corner in Tokyo claiming to have discovered the key to “marked existence”, whatever that was. Probably just the result of trauma from tabooed childhood experiences. A few days in the psychiatric ward of the city hospital and unworldly doses of complicated medicines brought her back to herself. Yet there was no undoing the mischievous dreamy gleam in her eyes, like she knew far more than she let loose. I shook my head as I shut the door to our hotel room and walked away.
There were no stairs in the building, so I plodded slowly to the elevator. Though every inch of me was screaming to turn around, I walked into the horrible empty box and doors clanged shut. Six floors had never felt so long. I scrambled out as soon as the cage set me free, gulping for fresh open air, at least air that was not stuffed inside that horrifying elevator. I had some trouble finding the chromium oxide Suzanne requested. After a fruitless scan of the aisles and a rather awkward conversation with the man behind the counter, I purchased a small vial containing a lime green powder. How could this help with health? Oh well, Suzanne is Suzanne and there is nothing anyone could do about that. I cautiously stepped in the elevator again and focused on an extremely interesting gnat as the doors closed, locking me inside.
My anxiety once more mounted through the roof. But I was only going up six floors.
Elevator music was so stress-relieving! Of course, soap operas were never interesting on TV or the radio, but this particularly boring one soothed my nerves for the first four floors. I closed my eyes and let myself drift back and forth to the sway of the drowsy tune. Then suddenly it clicked off. At the same time, there was a screeching, then a jolt. I lost both my footing and my presence of mind. I had stopped moving.
The doors remained shut. I was trapped. I was alone. Alone. Trapped. Trapped in an elevator. Alone. My breathing quickened. All was silent now but for my anxious breaths and racking heartbeat. I waited for years. Maybe it was only a few seconds. Either way, the suspense rapidly increased my terror. I could not bear this! This waiting! This impending doom! The cable would snap and I would plummet! But the nothing, the waiting, it was just too much! Something, ANYTHING, had to happen and had to happen now!! NOW, before I completely lost my sanity! It could NOT have been worse.
I was wrong.
A slow creaking—I jerked around, searching frantically for the source. It stopped. I felt helpless, like some wild animal caught in a trap, already given in to the fact that it was already dead.
A clang—I gripped the handrail and tried in vain to slow my breathing. I was in fight or flight and neither could work right then, so I was stuck with the unending anxiety for what was to come.
A smashing crash—I lost myself completely. Eyes blacked over with fear, brain swathed in terror, I heard myself screaming from far away. Again, and again, and again I heard my screams. I was completely unaware of anything else that was happening, the single sound of crash imprinted firmly in my mind’s eye.
“Stop,” I heard myself say, and, miraculously, I obeyed. Something about hearing my own voice, calm and unconcerned, brought me slamming back from horror into reality. The silence had returned. The source of the crash became evident immediately: a ceiling panel had fallen in, leaving a cloud of dust around where it had landed.
But that wasn’t the only unwelcome guest.
There was a figure clothed all in shiny black, face covered in a mask of the same color, standing to its feet and brushing the dust off its clothes. A black utility belt, fully stocked, was strung around its hips. But I only had eyes for one thing—the thing that rattled slowly and gleamed in the eerie light: the gun slung in its holster.
It was like living a nightmare. I lost myself again. Never before had anything frightened me to this level. I would not have dreamed it possible that I would lose myself to insanity in the face of such monstrous terror. I was entirely unaware of anything, everything, except the thoughts that vainly chased the visions of my poor mangled bloody body out of my head. From out of the dark fog, I heard my voice again. It brought me back to myself. I gulped and stared. My mind cleared and I saw the elevator button panel in front of me, and my hands were frantically pounding the floor numbers in the vain hope that the shaft would continue moving or the doors would open.
“Quit slamming buttons,” the mask snarled patiently, “You know it’s not going to work.”
Funny enough, I did know. I stopped, still sobbing, still shivering, my eyes rooted to the floor. I was never going to use the elevator again.
“Hand it over,” and I felt the figure extend its arm in my direction.
I looked up past the outstretched hand and stared past it as if into the face through the mask. I was stunned. I felt my fingers fumbling mechanically for the flask of chromium oxide tucked in my jacket pocket. I felt my arm trembling as it reached the figure’s ringent gloved hand and dumped the vial into it. My mind was elsewhere. I knew that voice. But no, it couldn’t be….
“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it can be—because it is.”
I shut my eyes and turned away with my hands over my ears. I could not bear the presence of this mind-reading psychopath. I must be hallucinating out of sheer terror. This wasn’t real. I could not believe it. Yet a small voice in my head told me there was no denying it.
A big voice outside my head told me too:
“I am not a hallucination, nor am I something to deny. No matter how much you dislike it, this is how it is. I would tell you everything here and now, but time is short. Ready?”
All of a sudden, I knew what was coming. I couldn’t pretend any longer. I desperately wanted to say no, but by then I realized I had no choice. I nodded, eyes still glued shut. I shifted my hands and peered through my fingers as the figure removed its mask. Though I had already known, the shock of seeing it in reality reconfirmed my horror. It also somehow added to it. The figure was me.
A dead me, a demented me, a changed me, a me that did not exist in my memory, but still me.
A horrible me. Her expressionless face shone pale and waxy, dark circles under her baggy eyes. There were minimal lashes and her eyebrows were scant. Her staring eyes shown glassy cold, like a demon’s, but devoid of all fiery zeal. Her lips were the same pale as her skin, but maybe touched with blue—lips like those of a corpse. Her mangy hair ran thick and wild, but grayed and sparse. She looked altogether like a cadaver in a black jumpsuit, dead for years, somehow untouched, and fresh out of the coffin.
“Now I’m really sorry about this,” she said cooly, “but it will all be over soon and you will be on my side of it.”
What did she mean? I asked myself in a frenzy, I mean, what did I mean? I was horrified, shocked, and confused, and desperately wishing that I had refused Suzanne her cursed chromium oxide. But a part of me was curious as to how this had happened.
Almost in response to my thoughts—something told me it was—,“Let me tell you briefly,” she said in icy tones that were probably meant to be kind.
“I know you. I know what it’s like to be you. Heck, I WAS you. Until that fateful day when I met my future self in the elevator. I was on your side of this, and now I’m on mine. You are young, you are afraid. Afraid of what you did, what you became, what you are. I am not a trick, or a hoax, or a failed science experiment. I am a creation born of your essence. I have your history, your physical traits, your likes and dislikes, but I do not have your weakness. Instead, I am instilled with invulnerable strength. I am the you you have always dreamed of becoming.”
She raised her head slightly as she said this, as if proud of her dilapidated, lifeless body. A cold shiver tingled down my spine. I broke down and cried tears of pain, horror, and longing. I never dreamed of becoming the monster standing so proudly across from me. I almost felt sorry for her—I mean me…then what particles of color remained in my face disappeared.
“Thanks to a nameless woman you will soon have the pleasure” (she scoffed) “of working with, that dream is now a reality. She will change you to unlock your full potential. She will gift you with her trust and benevolence. Or so you must believe,” the future me spat bitterly. “She is not what she appears to be. She is not a congenial scientist interested in you for your own good. What she is, you will discover for yourself in due time. I cannot explain it here. But it is important that as soon as you ascertain her secret, you flee for your life. You must leave the…place where she has you stay and come straight here. Come here to this elevator. Stop it, break in, then tell this story to the past you standing on the other side. Do you understand me?”
Still shivering, still moaning and heaving, I slowly, slowly lowered my head, then raised it again ever so slightly. I understood nothing of what she said, but I did understand that our engagement was coming to an end. I thought if I just kept nodding in agreement, she would leave.
I had never been so mistaken in my life.
She looked at me intently, expressionless as usual but with a trace of sadness etched in her brow. She continued speaking, slowly this time. Every word fell like a blow. “Then you will arrive at the most difficult part of all,” and she suddenly drew and raised the gleaming gun from her holster. “Shooting yourself.”
And her voice broke.
I screamed. I would have swooned clean away if I had the time. My future self seemed to know that, so she shot me then and there. I felt the pain, felt the blood. It hurt, and I was frightened beyond anything I had ever dreamed. I crumpled to the ground, my own blood pooling around me, trapping me in a sticky red mass. I felt myself dying…slipping away. I looked up at my murderer helplessly, terrified for what was to come. I fell unconscious.
The elevator dinged and the number 7 gleamed brightly in the poorly lit halls. The doors to the shaft opened to admit the horrendous sound of the music, continuing to play its dreamy melody. I stepped out onto the carpeted floor, completely fearless: completely knowing. I proceeded calmly to room 718, where Suzanne lay expecting me to walk in with her chromium oxide. I flicked the key card across the locking monitor, which flashed green and clicked open. My hand closed on the handle. I opened the door silently and strode calmly in.
There she lay, lounging unconcernedly on the closer of the two beds. She had been writing in her “diary” when I entered. Her sparkly little-girl journal rested open on the bed in front of her and she was sucking the end of a pink pen strung with feathers and bits of fluff. She was unaware of my presence.
My deranged dead eyes wandered for only a couple seconds, then fixed upon hers, which were turned downwards at her journal. I shot a message through the sky, just as she had taught me, and “Suzanne” looked up and met my eyes.
They locked for several long moments. For a split second, there was nonchalance. Then uncertainty. Then a look of utmost terror. She knew I knew. She tumbled from her bed, streaked like a demon to the window and was just ready to spring through it, glass and all, when a loud and smoky bang issued from just in front of me. Before she had the chance to slip through my fingers yet again, I pulled my gun, still hot, and shot her.
She collapsed on the sill.
I walked slowly over to where she lay dying, hatred burning from her fiery eyes so quickly losing their vivacity. Killing was my job. I was used to it by now, but I had never dreamed my targets would swing full circle. I peered down at my victim. Our eyes locked yet again. She attempted to say something but it came only a gargle, for a flood of clotted blood came pouring from her mouth. She was choking, drifting fast. If only I could make her pain last longer…
Her life ebbed away all too quickly, her eyes turned glassy and cold. Quid pro quo. The blood issuing from her mouth lapsed to a trickle. She had a few seconds at most.
“You will ruin no more lives, no more helpless souls,” I said in a cold voice barely above a whisper, “Your selfish cruel career is ended. If only I could change the past.”
They wanted to see what he could do, so he would show them what he could do.
Kal stuck his hands in his pockets, walked over slowly to the window, and then stopped. He pumped his feet for a minute or two, blowing his cheeks out lazily, then mounted the sill and dropped out. He fell from the 23rd story. Everyone but Oriole and Davi screamed and ran to the window, eyes wildly scanning the area for any trace of him.
Davi sported a strange look of satisfaction, a slight smile playing about his lips. Oriole just smiled outright, knowing full well the current status of Kal’s abilities. If this was how they reacted to his jumping out the window, boy were they in for a surprise! But then his face fell. If they reacted to Kal like this—they could never know. They could never find out even a little of what he could do….
Another shriek from Jessica pulled Oriole out of his reverie. He glanced over at the crowd by the window and saw: Clyde wide-eyed and tearing his perfectly styled hair, Merlene fighting against hyperventilation and heaving her shoulders uncontrollably, and Jessica ranting in complete hysterics. Peering over their shoulders, he saw what brought on this change of mood.
A gigantic ball of fire was falling from the sky, leaving a glowing streak wherever it passed. Then it collided with the side of a building, tumbled along it in an arc and jumped off onto the roof of another. It ran across, flew up a couple hundred feet, then dove through an alleyway, skirting the walls. When it resurfaced, it doubled back and flew on. It rolled on its fluxing course, burning up everything it touched. It leapt, spun, backflipped, and soared through the air, ricocheted off skyscrapers, like it was following a frenzied dance.
The others didn’t know, but Oriole did. He calmly walked in their midst, then muttered, “Showoff,” just loud enough as to be heard by everyone. They stopped and turned. Oriole lifted his chin a half inch, his arms crossed and a knowing smile etched on his face. Clyde turned to look at the ball of fire, then back at Oriole. Understanding dawned upon his face, then utter confusion. The remaining color in his cheeks was drained. He opened his mouth several times to speak unsuccessfully before getting out, “How?”
Oriole answered with a nod in the direction of the window.
The fireball had grown immensely since its first appearance, now at least forty feet in diameter. It stopped dancing and started spinning uncontrollably in the air. It spun faster and faster, spitting out sparks which soared and fizzled out like a shower of stars. The bottom end of the globe tapered just a touch, then the entirety shot upwards at a certain point in its spin, as if it hit a mix between a wall and a draft. The energy of the impact made it shoot off into the sky like a spewing river of fire. Standing, or rather floating, in the midst of where the fireball had been, was Kal. He hesitated only a moment, then blew a tiny white-hot blaze in the direction of the now-falling yellow burning mass. Upon contact, it exploded, like one gigantic firework. Then silence fell and the darkness resumed. Kal unconcernedly steered himself up to the window with jet boosters and stepped inside. He was greeted with looks of dumbfounded shock, then riotous applause.
“That was incredible!”
“How did you do that?”
“Do it again!”
“AAGH!!!!” and everyone but Davi fell to the floor clutching their ears. The static came for not even half a second, but it was enough to stop the noisy celebrations. Davi pointed up the hall to where the rest of Kal’s family was supposedly sleeping. Oops. The kids exchanged knowing guilty glances, desperately hoping that they hadn’t awakened them.
“Alright,” Clyde whispered hoarsely, “Your turn…, Orville?”
“Oriole,” spat Oriole. But then his eyes widened and he turned deathly pale. He couldn’t show them. He could never show them—any of it. He dropped his head, eyes swimming in tears. “It’s scary…what I do,” he said in a gravelly voice barely above a whisper. But it carried to the whole room, echoing from the walls. “It scares me.”His breathing quickened, his chest heaved, his heart rate rapidly increased, his stress levels mounted through the roof. “The people…they…they’re not the same…after…after….” His brain turned off. Sweat burst from every pore. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. His vision blurred. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. His feet grew wobbly, his legs turned to jelly. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He lost all control and consciousness of his actions. All he knew was the booming voice inside his head. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t— I CAN’T, he thought wildly.
Kal saw. He saw the struggle. He saw the fear. He knew Oriole wasn’t ready. He also knew that he was losing it. He had to do something, fast. “Ori,” he said seriously. There was no response. “Ori,” more firmly. Then again, “Dude, you’re leaking.” Still nothing, but time was running out. If his hasty judgement was correct, he had about six seconds. He raised his voice to a frenzied shout, “You’re losing it! Go!”
This got Oriole’s attention. He looked up for a split second, then turned around and catapulted out the window like a shot. And just in time, too.
A Painter’s Reflection
I can teach thee how painting and writing are EXACTLY the same.
The page is a canvas, blank and beckoning. Grasp thy pen as a brush and boldly dive into the dark reaches of thy mind. Lose thyself. Each word is a different hue, carrying slightly different meaning. Each word looks different on the page, changing the tone of the writing. Sound each word in thy mouth, feel the flavor it brings. Staccato spikes for attention, smooth transitions ease the mind. Splash thy canvas with color and wonder, a piece brimming with depth and meaning.
Then open thy eyes and behold the masterpiece before thee.
It was all an accident, really, but Oriole still couldn’t forgive himself. Nobody blamed him—they didn’t even know. No one knew, in fact, but his new best friend Kal. Actually, even he didn’t know the whole story, though he didn’t question Oriole’s weak alibi. He was the right kind of friend: kind, easily forgiving, and loyal beyond anyone else alive. Everyone liked him because they could dump their problems on him and he would listen without asking any questions or gossiping later. That made him the special target of all the girls in school, but he handled it exceptionally well.
Oriole smiled. Kal’s a good guy, he thought. He looked up from where he was sitting, legs akimbo on the sofa, to see Kal try for the fortieth time to toast a slice of bread by blowing on it. Oh yeah, that was another thing about Kal: he could channel fire through every part of his body. Yes, every part. Except his eyes—he was still working on that.
“Aww, man!” Kal ejaculated for the fortieth time, “Burnt again. Maybe I could shoot for a more even spin….” And he tossed the newly charred square aside into a heap of previous failed attempts on the counter and reached for a new victim.
“Or,” said Oriole, trying not to laugh, “You could shoot for the toaster, and practice those fire eyes instead.”
“When you’re angry, there’s enough fire coming from your eyes for both of us.” He steadied the fluffy white piece of bread on his thumb and forefinger, eyeing it menacingly. “Besides, I like my eyes the way they are. They’ll burn up if I shoot fire out of them.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Of course not! They’ll burn!”
“Have you ever been burned?”
“Right. Plus you shoot fire out of your hands on a minutely basis.”
“It kind of tickles.”
“Oh, so you don’t want eye tickles?”
“Eww! Okay! Now you’re creeping me out!” Kal dropped the bread and scrunched his hands over his eyes, now squeezed shut.
Oriole laughed. “There’s a reason you stay in the kitchen to help your mom cook while I stay over here. You astound her by remaining unburned no matter how many times you touch the stovetop. I would just melt clean away if I did that.” They both laughed uncontrollably.
“You know,” Kal laughed through tears, “If you ever wanted to touch a hot burner without getting burned, you could always—”
“No!” Oriole interrupted. His face instantly transformed from one of laughter to a stony one of grim firmness.
“Sorry,” Kal muttered.
Oriole brooded, his head dropping down between his shoulders again. He shivered. His shoulders trembled and his chest heaved rapidly. Those terrible memories came flooding back to him and he was once more plunged into a sea of despair.
“Look,” Kal tried again more gently, “You never told me what happened, but I know it’s not your fault.”
“I DESTROYED HER!!! ” screamed the voice inside Oriole’s head. But he only nodded. No one could ever know what he had done. Ever.
As the tender rays of sun
finger through the gaps in the blinds
and fall upon my face,
swaying back and forth
as the fan gently blows against them,
I lie quiet.
The rolling waves of sound
shoot upwards from the fan
and drift slowly down,
falling all around me like rain,
an intangible blanket.
My breathing is deep and lulled.
Sometimes the window is open
and I hear the birds
peep softly to greet the day.
A frail shell envelopes everything.
I am neither awake nor asleep.
Maybe I am both.
The world is frozen in time,
or it is stretching to all time?
I dare not stir.
I dare not think.
The minute I do, the spell of bliss
shatters in an instant.
Time resumes, I resume,
life continues and the hands on the clock
pass 6 AM.
I groan and rise.
Time to start the day.
The next spell will be just as beautiful.
Curse Those Teeny Mistakes!
Just my luck. I forgot to add clover to my brew, so instead of looking rainbow and bringing blessing, it turns a sickening green and smells like rotten potato. My teammate gives a consoling pat on the back while Triss dances a jig round her cauldron. She won. Again. Now she gets the title of “Potion Legend” while I am stuck cleaning up my mess. Again. Oh well, there’s always next year.
They stare at me—me, caught in the act of my sworn secrecy, so I swallow hard as I answer painfully: “It scares me, what I do…the people…they’re never the same after…after…” my words catch; I jump off the skyscraper roof.
Hi, I’m H1.
I am H1.
On April 3rd of 2021, at 0946 hours, I am steadying myself in the cockpit of the mighty C-130. Out the left window flanking the wing of this monstrous military cargo plane lies the great metropolis of Tokyo, the crystal Bay curving round the right side, enveloping the mass of skyscrapers in a deep shimmering blue cuphold. Turning round, we bank to starboard, sky and city amassed in a blur before righting themselves once more. My eyes lock on the infinite space beyond the front window before landing on a dead-center view of the formidable Mt Fuji, made majestic with a fresh powdering of snow on its cap. I am fighting nausea—but this is fantastic! This is unforgettable.
Hi, I’m H1. I found Prose last September, but I merely dabbled my toes in the water until I landed on a challenge, entitled “Obstructions” that spoke directly to me. My entry (link: https://theprose.com/write?postId=543409) was a snapshot of my personality. And I won honorable mention for it! Then I was hooked. I live in Japan, smash writing and essay contests, and I love puppies. Sorry cats. I’m severely allergic so it’s biased. I’m a fan of stories featuring superhuman, paranormal, and identity discovery. After reading, I dream (and sometimes write) spin-offs every time. It gets bizarre, but it keeps me going. I get lost in the writing. Writing is painting—with words. The paper an empty canvas, my mind blankly splashing with color. Words are like paints. Choose and mix with care. How does it look on the page? How does your mouth feel when pronouncing it? What feelings, emotions are conveyed when you hear it? Does it match the flow? Is it an emphasized splat?
I considered using “blot” instead of “splat”, but my point is to be poignant, like a spike in the radar, drawing immediate attention, catching the reader off-guard, but leaving them hungering for more.
What is depicted? More than just words. It is another world. Be transported by the spellbinding art and exact science of the English language. It is beautiful.
I am H1. Writing is my life.
PS If you have any questions, leave them as comments and I will answer them.
PPS Yikes that’s a big “paragraph”…sorry.
Friends in Hostility, Hostility in Friends
The universe is hostile
Riddled and rotted with blackness
Ugly sooty sin stains
We live in it
Not of it
Lord I pray to you now
Deliver me from this hostile universe
Teeming with your glorious life
I love it, but I yearn for more…
Yin and yang
Weeds and flowers
Thistles and roses
Life is precious
We are cursed
From a single act
Cursed for life
On this hostile world
This hostile universe
Riddles and rotted with blackness
Ugly sooty sin stains
We live in it
Not of it
We belong to our kingdom
Our birthright in the new earth
The second dawn of creation
Creation purged of sin
Christ is King
“Jesus is LORD!”
Prose Means More to Me…
to pour yourself
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