The Man in the Entrance

The elevator doors slowly screech open, empty. I quickly walked inside before the door closed behind me, a few others following suit. The small light above the door lit up as it closed ever so slowly. A man near the front pressed the close button in quick succession. The door wasn’t going to close any faster, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth closed, suffering the obnoxious clicking noise in silence. 

The door finally closed, and I already wished it hadn’t. The walls were pale brown, faded at the edges. The singular light bulb stuck out from the ceiling, flickering on and off, leaving the space in darkness for a few seconds at a time. The control panel next to the door was made of a rusty, red metal. Half of the buttons’ lights no longer worked, the little lights inside burnt out and broken. 

How could this place be a spot for a job interview? The ad had been hanging on a street light when I saw it. I was recently out of a job, and bills were piling up, so when I saw the chance to get back on my feet again, I didn’t hesitate to call the number typed in large letters at the bottom of the poster. Now, only a week later, here I was. 

I stood in the back of the elevator next to a mother snuggling her baby in her arms, almost like she was trying to hide him from view. An old man was standing to the right of me, his weathered hands gripping a dark wooden cane. There was one person in particular whom my gut begged me to avoid. 

His dark  hair fell in his face and was matted on the top of his head as though he never knew a single brush in his life. He was lanky and tall, merely skin and bone. His baggy clothes  hung from his body like drapes, too large for his frail figure. Somewhere inside me, it felt wrong to judge so harshly, but the rest of me didn't agree. I didn’t recognize him, but there had to be a reason for that horrible feeling in my chest. It wasn't just the way he looked that scared me, it was more of the way he was currently acting. 

It was the creepy glances around the room, and the way he had his hands clasped together in front of him as he messed with his own fingers. It was the fact he was standing with his back to the door, facing the rest of us. 

The man didn't just give off a bad feeling, he was the bad feeling. The bad feeling that was running up my spine and and through my heart, making a nest in my brain. The bad feeling that was making me want to scrape my skin off with my fingers. 

In his frantic search around the small space, his eyes locked with mine. Every molecule in me screamed, sending my body into a riot. I remember him now, his eyes were permanently burned into my memory. Breathe, breathe, breathe, dammit breathe. Why wouldn’t my body listen? Why was the floor moving like a tornado, swirling in circles under my feet? Why could I only hear my own heart beating in my ears? Breathe. Why were the lights so damn bright? 

Memories flashed by, memories I don't remember living. A city sky lit up by large buildings like a concrete jungle. A dark short cut home. A tall man in black. Screams I was choking on. Blood, blood, blood. 

I heard the crash before I felt it. I was on the floor. Cold wood against bare skin. Both of my palms pressed to the floor. I couldn’t tell if the voices were real anymore, they were barely a whisper against the roar. I clenched my eyes closed. And then the roar was gone, so were the voices.   

When I opened my eyes again, the roar was replaced with a persistent beeping. The lights burned my eyes, and the voices were back, but they were louder this time. I put my hands to my ears. Please let this nightmare be over. 

“Hey she's up, " a woman's voice said. It didn't sound like the muttering I had heard before, like the voices that told me things I never wanted to hear again.

"Step back for a moment.” Another voice spoke this time, it was a man. I shot up, eyes as wide as saucers. 

 The room was white with brown wooden cupboards in one corner,  with a couch in front of a large window on the opposite wall. I was in a bed with soft white blankets covering me from head to toe. I also realize I wasn't in the same clothes as I was moments before.  I was dressed in a thin pale gray fabric. The absence of sleeves helped me to notice the IV protruding for my arm. 

My hand went to the wire, tugging it from my wrist. my mind is still fuzzy, thoughts coming to me in a blur. The pounding of feet running towards me in a panic sent me into a frenzy. Hands were flying past my face reaching for my flailing arms and legs trying to pull me and push me down to the bed. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, all I felt was one singular thought, one singular notion; Run. 

“Hurry, restrain her,” someone screamed. 

“Make sure she doesn't hurt herself.” ordered someone else. 

“Breathe, breathe, you’re safe,” Why did I know that voice? Why did my heart slow to a gentle hum? Why did I believe what it said? My panic turned into a numb buzz in my head. I lowered my arms to my sides and I stopped kicking. My mom was standing in the corner of the room behind the men and women  who were previously trying to hold me down.

 She took a step closer and I noticed  her swollen and red eyes. She walked past the small crowd that separated her from me to the foot of the bed.

 “Where am I?” I mumbled. 

“You're in the hospital, you had a panic attack dear,”  she whispered softly.

“What?” I choked. I remembered the man from the elevator. Did I have a panic attack in the elevator and one of those people called the police?

“Yes, you had a nightmare and woke up screaming, so your roommate called for the ambulance,” The doctor answered for her, rubbing his arm where I must have kicked him. 

“Mom, he's lying. I saw him, the man, he’s back. They must have let him go or he must have escaped, I don’t know but I saw him please you have to believe me,” I begged her. She had to see the truth in my eyes. “Mom please.” It only came out as a whisper, a quiet plea for help. Mom just shook her head. Her smile was pitiful, pity pointed at me. She had to believe me, she had too. 

“Sweetie. . .” She was crying. Why was she crying? “He’s still in prison, it was just a dream.”