Elevator

This is my rough draft of the Flash Fiction for Creative Writing.

She blinks, walking in from the sunlight to a dark lobby. There are starburst aftereffects clouding her vision—even so, she deftly slides around the corner, even half blinded, and strides rapidly towards the elevators. Both doors stand open.


A man, perhaps young, perhaps not, stands in front of the elevators, several feet away, facing the opposite direction. His body angles away from the elevators, indicates his disinterest even more than his lack of movement towards them. She doesn’t really look at him, only registers that he is not in her way and is not heading for the open doors that are her destination.

Her shoulder curves, her foot takes the step to lead her towards the elevator—and he turns to look at her, sends her waves of attention and intention

—cold sweat—

she doesn’t look back, but she feels it in a shudder down her spine—and her heart sinks. She’s on the elevator now and pushes the button, wills the doors to close, wills him not to appear, watches the “4” light up on the bank of lights

—he’ll see it—

watching the doors pause an eternity, slowly slide almost shut until a shoulder shoves between them, almost too late to make it, but he does and he’s on, and she asks him what floor, can’t stop being polite, although now she feels irrational panic, why should she feel that way?

—always knew the doors wouldn’t open if you were caught between them—

silently curses the lit button that tells him where she’s going. He looks at the bank of lights, telltale lit circle, and replies “four” but she barely registers it except as affirmation she doesn’t want, already caught up in furious rationalizing. But her rational coldly reminds her that floor three is the men’s floor, that the only boys she sees on fourth are with their girlfriends, that his intentions are screaming a warning

—how do I know I’m right but I do—

elevator rises and she keeps a tight rein on the panic that still blooms where it began the second he looked at her, and she sees his subtle intent body language, she knows what happens next

—bloody hellfire and damnation—

slides her hand down in her bag, fits her few keys through her fingers, clenches her fist to test the grip. Already she thinks of what few advantages she holds if it comes down to it. The shoulder bag is the first thing that will go, to free her arms—if time permits, straight at his face. Silently she reviews the training—how to put your body into a swing to get maximum impact, how to defend if attacked from behind

—thank you Max—

and the elevator stops

—has it only been ten seconds—

and the doors open. She hesitates, she knows he won’t move first, doesn’t want to force the issue, walks out, takes the third hall. Behind her, perhaps ten feet, he follows. She curses the silent carpet, checks his position as they move. He maintains the distance and she maintains her pace, stifles the urge to run. She passes doors—so does he. Only ten more feet left

—only my door and the fire escape left—

and no more doubt now, only fear she’ll screw this up. Her hand hangs down, forgotten, keys extended, as she plans her response

—Father don’t let me forget what to do—

the adrenaline begins to flow down her fingers; she stops planning stops thinking stops everything but movement and just listens

—red and silver hell, he’s still moving—

and her key is in the door, it’s turning, and she’s tense because this is the most dangerous part, sings out “Hey, Mary!”

—please somebody please be here—

and the door is closing behind her with a bang, because all doors here open and close like the crack of doom but she’s safe and has to shake out the adrenaline, or maybe she just shakes, and rubs out the key prints on her palms. Much later, she wonders why it never occurred to her to factor screaming into her plans.

There is one more door, across the hall, that he could have taken; one reason to be on fourth that didn’t include her, didn’t warrant the sweat chilling on her neck, didn't require her fear of what she had to do.

She listens for the next few minutes, but nothing disturbs the quiet of the hall. Far away, an elevator hums.

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I wonder if the rest of my Workshop group will understand why the grammer is so bad--that that's how you think in that situation, without periods and pauses and punctuation marks. I wonder if they'll suggest I change certain aspects to make it more reader-friendly. I wonder if I'll tell them that I just wrote it exactly as it happened, that it's not fiction at all.

Probably not. But I'll know.