Lights Out, Time's out

Seven hours. 

It’s been at least seven hours. 

It’s still dark. 

Maybe I’ll go crazy. 

“Maybe,” I say aloud, and it slightly echoes off the hollow silver walls. 

I like to imagine that it would be all the more interesting if the elevator had mirrors instead of the blurry, aluminum-like materials covering the space, because I would be able to watch my sanity slip from my grasp. I would be able to watch my drastic thinking seep into the floors and cracks of the elevator. 

I’ve never gotten stuck in an elevator before. 

I’ve seen it often enough in movies, but they’ve always had tall mirrors or blood wonderfully pooled and splattered over the reflective surfaces. I’m just stuck in an unhaunted, boring and generic elevator with dead silence snoring over my head. There’s not even a single creepy creak or tap or even hush of a demonic voice; just me, my broken phone on 10% battery with the flashlight on, and the boringness of this place. The boringness that has drenched my clothes, causing my body lethargic and dull. 

I tried calling for help, but I don’t have service. 

But it’s okay, I think I have some hope stirring within my chest, enough to believe that someone is on their way to help. 

I think it’s good to learn more about yourself. 

I think I can go insane, but I’m more than aware that I won’t. I'm not a psychopath. I can’t be one anyways, even if I intended to. Do you think some people just want to be psychopaths? Just for the curiosity of it? Or is that too baffling or stupid of a question to ask? 

I don’t think I’d be able to become a psychopath, honestly. I love my cat too much. Maybe a sociopath? At most? If something were to happen to my cat, I might flirt with the idea of becoming some deranged, sociopathic cat-lover who decided to go on a hunt killing off every animal abuser on the planet, but that would take some time and energy and it would probably all happen in my head. 

I don’t think I’m insane, because I’m not. I just like to amuse the idea that people very much could. Even the most mundane, simple, even most innocent person can have their minds twisted in such a gross manner that dumpster grease has nothing on their intentions. 

I used to hate the way I think. I used to hate the way I kept talking and talking and talking and talking, until no one listened. I have empty TedTalks with myself, with my mental audience of 10,000 filled seats, whether it’s in my head or in my room when I’m home alone; and it’s honestly cathartic. So what if people won’t listen? I know that someday, someone will. But how do I know that? How am I so sure of that? Because I’m willing to listen to myself. And if I’m willing to listen to my own goddamn self, why wouldn’t someone else? 

It’s dark. 

Or dim, not really that dark, just dim. 

I’m humming a tune, and it’s a weird rendition of something from Chet Baker to Billie Holiday, which is honestly not a bad transition in my opinion. Would a psychopath sing Chet Baker or Billie Holiday? No, but a sociopath might, with the smallest grain of empathy they can hold for music. I’m not saying I’m a sociopath, or that I’m going to be one, just that I very much could, and I would portray such a character really well. 

But I don’t even know what I would do if I were to be a sociopath. 

Because I like people. 

I wouldn’t kill one because it takes too much time and strength and lack of a soul. And it’s just wrong, for the most part. Or for all of the parts. Every part. I don’t have much time on this planet, despite being stuck in elevator for a generous seven hours; I still need to go to the gym and sign up for a membership that I’ll only end up attending never, and I still need to hug my cat. And talk with my family. 

I think this muddled mindset of mine likes to burst into a tangent of thoughts and hypothesis when submerged into a situation like this, one where I’m physically caged in, left with nothing to do except stare around four boring walls and at my mundane old self. I soon think that it would be immensely more interesting if there was someone passed out on the floor, sprawled out like a murder scene from some 1940’s noir film. Except since it’s the 21st century, that person would most likely be sleeping, weary from anxiety, and me being me would end up staring at them without trying to be creepy, because what else can I be doing if I can’t talk with them? I wouldn’t stare at them the entire time, just glance enough to know what they look like, or at least what the back of their head looks like if they’re facing away. 

It would be even more interesting if the person just opened their eyes all of a sudden, or just stood up all of sudden, and eerily turned their heads around, almost like an owl. I’d probably try to copy, before realizing that my neck would snap in half if I go any further back. 

But it’s just me. 

This nothingness and boringness that are only dancing with my potential to becoming a sociopath are slow and gradual, almost like a waltz. One step here, one step there, I’m still humming Chet Baker under my breath, gently swinging my phone to the beat, watching the light move along to the song. 

If I go to sleep, will I wake up in this very spot? Or will I also be collapsed on the floor like that victim from the noir film? I don’t think I move very much around in my sleep, but it would probably be quite uncomfortable for the rescuer to help me out if I’m still sleeping when they arrive. 

See? I consider. I think I would suck at being a sociopath. 

I miss my cat. 

My cat would not care though. 

She probably doesn’t. 

She doesn’t, I don’t know what I’m trying to prove to myself. 

I don't think she'd react in any manner or sense if I were to somehow end up being a sociopath. 

But I do think that she’d stop me. My brain could be malfunctioning but if I see her do so much as rub gently against my leg, my thoughts will Bluescreen, as it is the universal law that once a dog or a cat engages in physical contact with you, you are not to move a single muscle unless they permit doing so. 

Dude, I’d actually suck at being a sociopath. 

And I’m not jabbing, materializing, or gagging the reality of sociopaths or being one. I’m genuinely considering the fact that, by all technicalities, anyone can become one to begin with. 

There’s never enough communication. 

There’s always a source or start for every situation, event, and issue. 

Oftentimes, or most often really, everyone is wonderfully, beautifully, terribly lonely. 

It’s such a breathtaking epiphany when you realize that every single goddamn person has felt lonely, and you don’t even have to know their name, where they’re from, or where they are. I love to romanticize the idea of unity, the possibility that maybe everyone will be willing to understand each other, to agree to disagree, to look past their roots and differences, but that sort of thinking and stream of beliefs are too idealistic for this world. It’s perfect and ripe for the world to crush gleefully. 

Maybe it’s easier being a psychopath. But that’s too strong of a term. And I have no evil or impure intentions. 

Maybe it’s easier being apathetic.

Perfect.  

There we go. 

I like being by myself, and as much as I can feel joy and sadness, I can also care less for what glare or flames others will throw at me. I like to depend on the idea that everyone meets the same ending. 

Don’t we all meet Death at the end of the road? 

I don’t think I’ll be so solemn if I meet them. Actually, I hope I get to hang out with them for a bit, tune into some stories. I’m going to ask them how Bob Ross was when he passed on. And Chet Baker. And Billie Holiday. I’m sure Death is going to give me something, right? 

I don’t know if I’ll ever become a sociopathic cat-lover serial killer. I think being a psychopathic one is even farther than I could imagine. I’ll just depend on my cat, see what she says if I ever feel some unnameable urge to do something strange or baffling, or feel my mind twisting a little. She’ll probably splat her paw on my face and stare at me with eyes full of pure disinterest. And then I’ll probably annoy her by hugging her and humming Billie Holiday out loud and off-key. 

I miss my cat. 

I don’t want to actually go twisted, being stuck in this place for only so long. 

Eight hours. 

It’s almost been eight hours. 

It feels like my phone’s flashlight is flickering, even though it’s not. 

What if I’m just stuck here? 

What if I’m here for hours and hours, because the elevator is stuck so low that it can’t be helped? 

What if I actually pass out in here, and when I wake up, I’m still swimming in this nothingness? 

I didn’t even get to say bye to my cat— 

THUD-THUD. 

..What. 

I blink, squeezing my eyes shut, opening them wide, adjusting to the slightly blurriness taking over momentarily.  

THUD-THUD. 

Oh, I exclaim delightfully in my head, If something were to burst into the elevator, that would be interesting. 

The elevator lights flicker on, the thin lights illuminating a light that swallows my tiny one from my dingy phone. 

THUD-THUD. 

There’s harsh, squeaky noises that echo for a moment, until a thin crack forms between the doors. It isn’t another hour until the doors finally open slowly and smoothly. The face of one of the hotel managers appears, offering a hand to help. There’s concern etched into her features, eyebrows furrowed a little, her form laced with practiced hotel professionalism. 

“Sir, are you alright? I know it’s only been three minutes since the power went out, but you must’ve been startled.”