you might be dying. that is to say, you've already died - seven times now, or was it eight? five? ten? you're losing track.
your hands haven't stopped shaking ever since you came back the first time, heart pounding itself out of your chest as you grabbed at your throat, choking on air, choking on life. your nails left red marks on your skin as the man in the elevator with you watched, curious, horribly calm.
if he screamed, cried, paced, you could at least find some companionship, some solidarity. as it is, though, he's absolutely useless. he watches you step into the wet cavernous mouth and he does nothing. he watches your body tear itself in half and he does nothing. no compassion, no attempt to help. he makes you do everything. he makes you do everything. maybe he wants to stay in this elevator forever.
oh, he's so stupid. you feel like slapping him across the face every time you look at him.
you look at him now. he grins, his teeth white and sparkling.
you swallow down the acrid bile that seeps across your tongue, and stare down at the floor.
can't you still see his blood? red, hot, sticky, soaking into the carpet. it looked like when you rip into a pomegranate, the insides staining your hands, the flesh spilling all over the countertop. it felt like that, too. as easy as tearing into a pomegranate.
you can still feel his body beneath you, his heartbeat slowing under your hands.
“what's the matter? cold?” he laughs. “believe me, you wouldn't want to be here when the air conditioning goes out. if you’d endured that stuffy nightmare of a week, i don't think you'd ever -”
you're not listening. you can't listen, anymore. your ears are ringing, your heartbeat still thudding through your head. was it thirty seconds ago? five minutes? an hour? you drove those scissors into his neck and you killed him. you can't recognize that version of yourself. that person was a wild animal, feral, unthinking.
was it you? was it really you who killed him?
maybe you've been coming back wrong. maybe you're not you anymore. how many times can someone die before it starts to mess with them? the man's face looks blurry. you're getting tired. your hands hurt. your hands feel dirty. you glance down, half-expecting to still see them red with his blood. they're clean, of course. no trace remains of what happened.
how many times has he died? you can't remember. does it matter? maybe you'll kill him again. maybe he'll kill you. how many times do you have to die? won't you ever just stay dead? maybe it would be a mercy, at this point.
no, no, you can't let yourself think like that. it will be okay. you will figure this out. he will not help you, but it will be okay. you've come this far on your own. you can do it. you can crack open the mystery of this elevator and free yourself. you have to. you have to.
he's stopped talking. he's looking at you, now, quiet and firm.
he's waiting to see what you do next, you realize.
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