Warmth

Dallas feels his stomach drop along with the elevator; the only difference is that his stomach does not bounce back a few feet. The jolt nudges his footing, and he blindly grabs for the metal bar along the wall to keep himself standing. It is difficult, to say the least, as his pounding heart falls down his throat and back to its proper home inside his chest.

Once he is steady, he has only one thought.

Great.

He entered the elevator with the hopes of getting back to his room a few seconds quicker. Now, in the pitch black, he realizes he should not have been so lazy. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them, trying to adjust his vision to the darkness. The overhead light does not give so much as a flicker, and Dallas' hope of it coming back on is quickly replaced by fear.

Fumbling for his phone from his bag, he remembers that it died an hour ago. The soles of his feet sting and his back aches and within seconds he is ready to lay down and sleep on the dirty floor. He had spent the day browsing museums and now he feels the exhaustion seeping from his mind and into his bones. If only he had not finished off his water bottle before he got back to his hotel.

His eyelids are heavy with fatigue, but he shakes himself awake. As his vision adjusts, he traces his fingers over the elevator buttons until he finds the call button. He presses it. A nagging voice tells him it will not do anything. The power is off, so how could it do anything? He does not know much about elevators, let alone how they run, but he hopes that the button works.

The sun was unforgiving this afternoon. Dallas is sure he tanned, even with the few minutes he spent outside. Its warmth seems to have followed him here, for he begins to sweat. In the darkness, he can make out the vague reflections of the three mirrored walls and their attached metal bars; the heavy sliding doors that remain shut; and as he hangs his head, frustrated and tired, deep red floor tiles stare back at him.

Dallas moves his hands on the metal bar. He almost smiles at how chilly it is, sliding his hands along the bar in an attempt to cool himself. Out of curiosity, he touches the wall, but it is not as chilled. With the promise of a cool touch, he sits down and rests the back of his head against the bar, feeling the cold soak into his scalp through his hair. He sighs, closing his eyes. At least one thing has gone right in this terrible couple of minutes.

When he opens his eyes, his smile falls. The reflection in front of him is not his own. He presses his back to the wall, eyes widening, until his vision comes into focus again. It is just himself, albeit bedraggled and sweaty. Why is he getting jumpy? This is embarrassing. When did he begin to sweat so much?

Regardless of his quiet assurances to himself, Dallas begins to grow anxious. Come to think of it, why is he sweating like this? His thin summer attire feels as if it is made of wool, and his bangs stick to his forehead as if he dunked his head in water. His palms and legs are hot where they touch the floor. In turn, the worrying makes his temperature rise further. Once more, his heart begins its slow climb into his throat, another ten beats every minute that he spends sitting on the tiles.

He can hear himself swallow. His eyes search for something, though he is not sure what. A way out? At least he knows not to do that, Dallas thinks. He has watched enough horror movies to know not to do that.

Horror movies were a bad train of thought to follow, though. Dallas allows his mind to wander from the concept to specifics. Convincing himself that he is only imagining shadows beside him because he thought of a scary movie is difficult.

Dallas blinks, but with each blink comes another racing shadow. He reasons that he is too hot. He fans himself with his hand, but it only pushes the warm, stuffy air into his face. He frowns, cursing when he leans his head back and hits the metal bar.

The pain sends a shock through him that wakes him up, if only for a second. He rubs his face and stands up, the rush of air feeling wonderful on his feverish skin. He begins to pace, attempting to waste the build up of nervous energy inside him, but finds that it does not help. All it does is worsen the shakes setting into his weary legs and arms, forcing him to sit down again.

He runs a hand through his wet hair, scrunching up his face at the gross sensation. He needs a shower.

If I ever get out of here, he thinks.

He frowns. His chest pulls tight over his thudding heart, and he realizes how difficult it is to breathe in this stuffy atmosphere. Will he ever get out of here? The elevator seems to shrink every five minutes or so, the mirrored walls closing in on themselves.

On him.

Dallas shakes his head. He laughs to himself. He is being plain ridiculous now. He hit the call button. Someone is coming, right now, and they will get him out.

Just to be sure, he punches the call button a few extra times. He falls back to the floor once he's done, sliding down until he lays on the floor.

All he can think of is the heat. It is overwhelming and obnoxious, the most difficult thing he has ever tried to ignore. His mind is clouding over with it, suffocating in the heat that only seems to raise. His heart's pounding begins to grow dull and slow, as if it is moving underwater.

Staring up at the ceiling, only a little ways above his standing height, does not make this situation any better. In fact, it forces him to acknowledge how tiny this box is. If he had taken the stairs, he would be relaxing in his room right now, not curled up on the musty floor of an elevator.

If he had taken the stairs, would the power have gone out at all? Somehow, Dallas believes it would have stayed on. Perhaps that is self depreciating, he thinks, to suggest he is the problem when he is not; but who knows? Does anyone really know why things like this happen? Dallas certainly does not.

In fact, as breathing becomes a struggle to maintain, he does not know much at all. His heart strolls along at a leisurely pace. The weariness in his body pulls him down to the ground, as if it is gripping him from the other side of the elevator, trying to drag him through the floor. When he shuts his eyes, the pure black is a sweet relief. He had begun to see shadows moving on the ceiling, swimming in the dark above him, reaching out to him; but now, in the total dark of his eyelids, Dallas feels far more safe from these lurking monsters. The gentle fade from mounting to panic to comforting warmth and slowness is enough to allow Dallas to be rocked to sleep by the dizziness in his head.