The Elevator

You start to realise something is wrong as the elevator lights blink and pop. There’s always something wrong when the lights are malfunctioning – you’ve read enough horror stories to know that.

And then there’s the person in a dark hoodie sulking against the opposite corner you’re standing in, hood pulled low over their eyes, back hunched, seemingly unaggressive, but you know, you know something’s going to happen.

Do you strike first? Do you stay until they do something?

And then you have a strange feeling that the other is thinking the same thing as their foot taps mindlessly on the ground and their hands nervously tick against their leg.

And then there’s a snap, and a crack, and a deep boom, and you’re both holding on to the handrails for dear life as the elevator rushes down in the air and you’re both thrown this way and that, starboard and port, back and forward.

Their hood slips off, and the moment your eyes meet…

There’s silence and stillness.

The elevator rushes to a stop in midair, but somehow you do not feel the jolt that should be there as the momentum carries you in the direction of the floor of the elevator…

But maybe that isn’t exactly the problem here. The problem – the problem is that – that’s – that’s you. That’s… me? You? Them?

Pronouns are suddenly blurred in your mind as you stare across the elevator at the exact same image of yourself.

Cliché, you might think for a second, but then you know it’s different from what you’ve read in sci-fi about an evil twin or a doppelgänger, where they try to overtake your life. You know you’re different – you, as in plural, as in you and…you.

You can see through your eyes – not just you you, but them you as well. Is there a difference, though? Is there a clear line between who’s who? You can see another image of yourself, crouching, eyes flashing, alert, but you can never be sure of which one you are truly looking at. Are you looking at whoever walked in the elevator first, or the second one?

But you try eagerly to strengthen that boarder between you and you, because you want a semblance of control over your own self – you don’t want to be them, not them – for my sanity’s sake please tell me I’m still me and you’re still you and they’re still them – for my sanity’s sake please spare me –

Only one of us walks out.

And you don’t remember if it’s the broadcast or if they thought it first, so you have to know as well, but only one of you is going to make it out of here alive. This isn’t some cliché I’ll-take-your-life-and-live-as-you plot, it’s simple, meaningless, and brutal. It’s either you or them. You refuse to acknowledge that they’re you because that’ll make things so much more complicated.

The mirror cracks around you – it doesn’t shatter, it only cracks. First, a lightning strikes in the middle, then it branched out slowly like the roots of a tree until there’s large pieces sitting on the ground, sharp as glass (it is glass), sharp as anger, sharp as – as sharp as you’d have it – and it’s all lying on the ground – and then there’s thousands of you and them and me and you staring back.

You pick one up, and at the very same moment with the very same motion, they pick one up, and you couldn’t help but notice your pieces are exactly the same, but it’s not time for that. You aim for their throat, and they come at your windpipe, and you block each other’s movements as one.

Neither of you is skilled; you have brief memories of karate in your childhood, but there’s hardly any skill here while blood is dripping off your fingers from the sharp edge of the blade, and you’re grappling like a pair of prehistoric animals.

Step on the foot (oh, but your other foot is being stepped on), elbow in the nose (ow, you got that too), jab in the trachea (why is it so hard to breathe) – it’s like you’re controlling two puppets at the same time, but you can only make your movements symmetrical. It’s like playing rock, paper, scissors against the mirror when you don’t have any tricks left. It’s just a desperate, slick fight of blood and fists and mirror shards, and it does verily hurt.

There’s no speech; no sound except your (both of your) shoes crunching on glass shards, twin grunts when hits are landed, thudding of your veins against your ears as you punch and punch and punch.

You shake your head, speechless, not willing to speak, because that fight with yourself has damned your rationality so much that you have no chance of recovering from that scene. You know that there will always be a part of you that hates you so vehemently as they hate you, as you hate them.

How can you win?

A thousand eyes staring back at you through the glass. How many eyes are yours? How many aren’t?

You don’t know how it’s going to end, but a headache overcomes you. You shout, and your head is too stuffy to hear if they are shouting as well, but your noggin seems to have split apart – you can imagine… don’t imagine! Don’t think of it!

The elevator is moving dimly. Your ears are filled with pain, your body with sound… wait, should it be the other way around?

Ding. Eleventh floor.

The world comes to a stop, and you’re standing up straight.

The mirrors are seamless. The elevator is empty. There’s no trace of blood. Only you stare back at yourself. But which one are you?

“You’re here,” your friend Cassandra calls worriedly out at you, “we were so worried – were you having a seizure in the middle of the ride?”

“What? No—I was attacked!”

“Attacked? Hardly! You were alone in that elevator – why else would we have been worried?”