Page 40 of Tell It To The Waves

“Don’t hang up, August,” Baylee grunts into the camera.

“Dang, I wasn’t.” But really, I was.

“Why did you buy those things?” The video bounces around as she gets settled.

Pulling into my parking garage and parking, I can finally pay attention to the phone. “It will help with the sale, I think.”

“You’re a damn liar.” She zooms in on her eye. And I can’t help laughing.

“I don’t know, Bay. I’m so confused. I do not know what to do,” I whine to her.

“Listen.” Bay fixes the camera, propping the phone on a pillow. “Do what I said: come home for a few months, try it out. If it doesn’t work, at least you tried and won’t have regrets.”

“I hear you, but I just don’t know.” And I don’t. That’s a huge step, but honestly, what will I lose to do it? I have three more months on my lease. I can pay the rent here while I’m there. “I know it’s at least another two to three weeks until it’s fully done,” I tell her as I unhook my phone, grab my tote and my food, making my way to my apartment elevator.

In the elevator, I push the numbered button for my floor, look at my phone, and see that Bay has frozen. “Shit,” I mumble, but when I do, I hear an awful noise above the elevator, and it jerks to a stop. Panic draws screaming from my lungs.

I start pushing all the buttons while my other hand moves my phone around, trying to get a signal.

The call button on the elevator lights up, and then I push the emergency button, “Hi! I’m stuck in the elevator, please come help,” I beg, tears on the brink. I fall to the floor, shaking. Panic rising inside me. No one answers.

I sit there, legs drawn to my chest, heaving, when I hear a voice.

“Hello?” I scream, but the voice doesn’t come from the elevator speaker or outside. Looking down, I see Baylee moving.

“August, what’s wrong? What happened?” Panic fills her voice.

“I’m okay,” I lie. “I’m stuck in the elevator.”

“Oh, hell no,” is her only reply. Before she glitches again. “I’m.” The screen freezes. “Call.” And finally, the call completely drops. Leaving me totally alone.

Sitting completely still, afraid to move, I began to hyperventilate. Dropping my tote and emptying the contents of my to-go paper bag onto the elevator floor, I bring it to my mouth and start breathing in it. Trying to combat the panic I’m in.

My legs tingle. I was never scared of confined places until my mom died. Now, I panic anytime I’m in an elevator; just recentlyit has become bad. And, unfortunately for me, because I’ve tried, it’s hell making it up the seven floors to my apartment.

The intercom comes to life, scaring me even more. “Miss. The fire department is on its way; you’ll be out in no time,” the man on the intercom informs me.

Slowly inching myself back to the far corner of the elevator, I sit there with my knees drawn to my chest, finally feeling like I can take a deep enough breath to fill my lungs. My mind is racing. How the hell am I going to be able to force myself back onto this death trap once I’m free? And just the thought of that scares me more. I busy my fingers turning my bracelet around and around on my wrist, trying to concentrate on breathing.

After thirty-plus minutes, I hear a commotion on the other side of the elevator door. “Hello!” I scream out, my voice cracking.

“Miss, we’re going to get this door open. Hang tight and stay seated until we tell you to move,” they muffledly instruct me.

The sound of metal-on-metal pierces my ears, making me wince as I watch the metal doors part just a tiny fraction, their voices audible inside the elevator, letting me hear more clearly. “This thing is stuck between floor four and five,” they speak among themselves.

My fear begins to quiet down a bit knowing there’s other people so close to me. Until they all yell, and the elevator falls for a brief second. My scream bounces around the metal tin.

Not able to stay sitting, needing to be as close to the opening as I can. I run to the cracked doors, prying my fingers between them, trying to open it myself. “Please get me out,” I cry.

“Hey, what’s your name?” a voice calls to me.

“August. I’m August Graft,” I sob out.

“That’s a cool name, August. You’ll be out soon,” they promise.

There are groans and moans as the doors are pulled open. As soon as I see it’s open enough for my body, “I’m coming out!” I scream.

“No, no. Wait,” they call to me.