Elevator

He's been in here for 47 minutes.

They told him he'll be out of here soon, they're coming to help, they're on their way, stay calm.

And yet, those doors are still far from open.

Stay calm.

Yeah, sure, if you say so.

He shakily releases the deep breath he hadn't noticed he'd taken.

He's done that a lot in the past forty-sev-- no, wait, forty-eight minutes.

The watch on his wrist tick-tick-ticks away.

He wipes the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the underside of his sleeve.

God, his tongue feels dry.

Why didn't he accept that bottle of water offered to him by his assistant?

She's always thinking for him.

She's always thinking of him.

Or is that only what he wishes she thought?

Christ.

These walls.

Who thought up these goddamn walls?

These walls, with their random dark speckles of whatever-the-hell-they're-supposed-to-be in the overall fake marble design.

The money they make here, they could carve these elevators out of actual marble, and still have change enough to buy the whole world if they wanted to.

Or did they do that already?

Should it happen, he just hopes he gets the memo.

Look at these doors.

Look at him looking at himself in their gold reflection.

A flash of memory.

He glances down to the floor.

Remembers that weird movie where Ryan Gosling stomped a guy to death in an elevator.

He sees the boot hovering above the guy's face.

Above his own face.

Stomps.

SCREAMS.

He opens his eyes.

He's on the floor now.

Lungs gasping, heart fluttering, sweat trickling.

No-one's here.

Oh, god.

Keep it together.

Stay calm.

Keep it together. 

Stay calm.

keepittogetherkeepittogetherkeepittogether

staycalmstaycalmstaycalmsta--

Whispers.

What was that?

Rain.

When was that?

Horn.

Where was that?

Brakes.

WHO WAS THAT?!

Fist.

Door.

Connect.

Pain.

Knuckles.

Dent.

Blood.

KEEPITTOGETHERstaaaaaayKEEPITTOGETHERcaaaaaaaaalm...

He fumbles with the clasps on his briefcase.

Pulls it open.

Letters.

Papers.

Words.

Phone.

Fingers.

Dialing.

Shaking.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

"...leave a message and I'll speak to you soon."

BEEP.

"It's me. I'm, uh...heh, I'm, uh, trapped in the elevator of my building. Yeah, I know, right? Can you believe it? I'm still waiting for them to open the doors, you know? (Why won't they speak to me again?) Jesus, man, Jesus. Oooooooooh...OK. Listen to me, alright? Everything I told you to do? You remember? You know what I'm talking about, yeah? Yeah? Disregard it. Forget it, it's done. It is done. Settle it. Just give them what they want, OK? They deserve it. I mean, I can always get more money, can't I? So can you! Like, when can't we?! Heh-heh. But, um...yeah, I just want it done. That boy died, it's my fault, blah blah, whatever, OK? OK? So, yeah, that's everything. I, uh...I imagine you'll probably explode when you hear this. Can't say I much care, to be honest. Hmm. Honest. Honesty for once, eh? So, um...yeah. Thanks. Bye."

He hangs up the phone.

His arm drops.

The phone slips.

The phone falls.

The elevator falls with it...