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Two men, stuck in an elevator for months, that was ridiculous. Their predicament was utterly ridiculous. The word months was probably not even the right term for the amount of time they had spent together. It had been six months, at the very least. Then, Colleague’s watch had ran out of batteries and they did not know any more.
The Antagonist thought he ought to have kept count of the time. Perhaps it would have helped him stay sane. He still was of course. His situation would have been less painful if he was not. But at the time the watch stopped working, there had been other things on his mind.
The most urgent of those things was escape, of course. Antagonist knew they had tried – he had tried – everything already. Both he and Colleague had died countless times by his own hands. The other man had used violence, as well. It did not change anything. By the third (or was it the fourth? He lost count) time Colleague died, he had stopped fighting back. It was useless anyway. Escape consumed Antagonist’s thoughts endlessly. It made him mutter nonsense under his breath, a bit too often for it to be just normal rambling. He barely slept, but when he did he would wake up in a frenzy, and start pacing around the elevator. He would get angry, sometimes, too. But he was alright. Of course he was.
Colleague had stopped speaking a long time ago. It was for the better, truly. Sometimes, when Antagonist was asleep, he allowed himself to think. He would drown his mind in a flood of questions. They would have been too loud if he was awake, and they would have both hated the moment that would have been sure to follow.
“Why aren’t we starving? The lights flicker, does it mean anything? Is there a pattern? I swear I can hear something breathing in my hear. But he is asleep. Am I sane still? Why can’t I remember her face? What is her name, again?
…
Who am I even thinking about, right now?”
None of those questions had answers.
For one, Colleague was the one who retained the most sanity, truly. He mostly just stared emptily at the floor, though. But he knew the pattern of the carpet did not make sense, at least. To him, that seemed like enough proof of his mind being sound. Unlike Antagonist, he slept. His past only made sense when he was asleep. He dreamt of a house, its facade painted a rather tacky shade of orange. The living room was neat, and the TV was on, but when he tried to approach it, his vision blurred and he could not make out any images, nor what the TV host was saying. The voice vaguely reminded him of someone? It was off-putting. There was nothing unique about it, but it was still off, somehow. Perhaps it was the tone. Or not.
The dream always ended the same. He would go upstairs to the bedroom. Sometimes, he would take a peek into the next room. It was painted a nice colour of baby blue. His bedroom (or at least he assumed it was his) was painted a sickening pink, however. He scrunched up his nose upon seeing the colour every time. It did not match the colour of the floorboards at all. He was sure he did not choose it. He would sit on the bed, and she would come into the room. He did not remember her face, but he knew they had loved each other sometime. Maybe they had gone on dates, and he had taken her out to dinner. He had asked her father for her hand. She had worn a flower crown at the altar. Then he had to get a new job. After that, the thoughts would just stop. His job. Afterwards, he would wake up. Antagonist vaguely watched him, sometimes. He always averted his gaze when Colleague woke up, for some reason. It would have seemed queer to anyone else.
The Antagonist and his Colleague had both redefined their idea of stability and normalcy in their first months together. At first, Antagonist had been hesitant to kill. He had been afraid that Colleague would be stronger than him. He was right, but with time, he had learnt that the scissors gave him just enough power to hold his Colleague in respect. Colleague had been afraid to seem awkward, hence why he had kept talking. He had learnt his lesson, too.
They had surrendered all social conventions, as well. Somehow, Antagonist had been more reluctant about touching his Colleague than about killing him. He did not like to think about the reasons for that. But he had soon realised that his sins did not matter any more, for he was stuck in hell anyway.
He could not help but still feel guilty sometimes, especially when he remembered how his Colleague had once rambled about a Wife he came home to every evening. He did not actually feel guilty about that, though. He did not care in the slightest; that is what made him feel guilty. It never lasted long, however, he could not form thoughts like that any more. It had been too long.
It was not love that they made. Colleague knew it very well, and he thought Antagonist did, too. The things they did together was out of desperation only. Antagonist was rough, even borderline violent, at times. He took what he wanted from his Colleague, and that was it. He was alright with that.
Yet, sometimes, Colleague still doubted it. When the other man crashed their chapped lips together, almost tenderly. The few times that Antagonist kissed him, he lost all forms of coherent thought. It seemed Antagonist somewhat knew of this: once, he had taken the opportunity to stab his Colleague’s throat as they kissed. Colleague did not even have the heart to be mad at him, this time. (Frankly, he rarely was. He was too desperate for that.) Besides, Antagonist somehow always made sure they both enjoyed themselves enough, and that he only hurt Colleague when he intended to, and somewhat moderately. Maybe that was love, in a way. They took care of each other, in their own definitely messed-up way.
The Antagonist saw things a bit differently. Life shaped him in such a way that he could acknowledge what he had with his Colleague as both love and something else entirely. To him, having the other man was a way of feeling alive. It isn’t like he had any other choice in the elevator, anyway. It was not quite love, just a cheap thrill. It was as nonsensical as can be, but he would kill for it nonetheless. He even did, once. He was surprised he did not like it nearly as much as he thought he would. Seems like he preferred his Colleague alive, after all. He had even thought of apologizing to him for that. He had never actually done it. That would have been a show of weakness, and he could not accept that. He already seemed weak enough in other ways.
Whether they loved or hated each other, they somehow both thought being together was better than being stuck alone. It did not matter if they killed each other a few times in the process. One thought there was no better option. The other thought the better option was out of reach.
So, stuck they were, surrounded mostly by their own silence. They fucked, sure, but they did not talk. There was nothing to talk about any more. They had already tried that a long time ago.
“Ding.”
Neither of them was sure they heard correctly what certainly sounded like an elevator stopping at their floor. Yet, they both jumped to their feet in anticipation upon hearing the sound. The doors opened.
“Oh God, finally.”, the Antagonist muttered to himself. His eyes were wide open. Was there a way to escape after all? And most importantly, was it right in front of him?
Colleague glanced at the Antagonist as the doors opened. He could not bear to look at whatever was in front of him. Judging by the look in Antagonist’s eyes, it would destroy any bit of sanity he had left.
The Protagonist gasped. His Coworker had the decency to look at least a bit surprised. The not-yet intern had no way to know whether he was faking it, but he had his suspicions. He stared at their doubles for some time, trying to take in every detail of them, trying to figure out the way to solve this floor and how it was connected with the others.
The Protagonist had not found anything worth his time by just looking at the small room in front of him, besides the copies. He found them quite uncanny. “Maybe they think the same about us, though”, he thought. He decided that the best course of action was to strike up a conversation with his copy, who was nervously fidgeting, rather than his Coworker’s, who appeared to have sat down quietly in a corner.
The Antagonist had to think, and he had to think fast. His double must be as intelligent and quick-witted as he once was. The only advantage he had over him was his determination. As he spoke to the other, as calmly as he could, trying to keep up a friendly facade, his time in the elevator flashed before his eyes. He tried not to think of it too much, but images of him and his Colleague kept plaguing his mind, making it difficult for him to think about the conversation he was having. They were not necessarily together. He remembered the first days. Back when they both thought someone would come to their rescue. They had talked a bit, back then. About a lot of meaningless things. They both drank their coffee black. Colleague had studied abroad. While Antagonist used to have a strict sleep schedule, the other man never did. They smoked the same brand of cigarettes. Colleague somehow had quite an impressive knowledge of wine and gastronomy and-
The Scissors. He mentioned the scissors to his double. He was obviously not supposed to. The Antagonist paused in the middle of whatever he was saying, and spared a glance at his Colleague. He saw the small glint of hope in his eyes. The hope to escape, finally.
Unrelated thoughts began swarming the Antagonist’s head. Thoughts of the outside. His family, the church… there was no way he could come back to that. After he left, he had had to do whatever he could to earn enough to survive. He still had nightmares about that part of his life, sometimes. He was not sure he wanted to go back to that, either.
His eyes focused on his Colleague, his Colleague. He represented everything the Antagonist hated. Did he hate him, then? He was not sure. What he was certain of, however, is that he had gotten used to him, to his annoying presence in the opposite corner of the elevator. Could he live without him? … He hated the answer.
The opposite could not be true, however. Colleague had no reason to talk – or even acknowledge – him ever again if they escape. “God, I killed him.” There was no way Colleague would ever forgive that. And now that he felt guilty for it himself, there was no way he could ever get over that either.
Did he want to escape? Of course he did. Yet, escaping would not mean he would be less miserable. Colleague, however, could probably live alright, if he ever found a way to deal with the trauma of the elevator, that is. So they had to escape still. At least for his sake. It did not make any sense for him to think like that, however. But there was no fixing it now. He would have time to resolve whatever his internal conflict was on the outside.
While the Antagonist was spacing out, his Colleague had gotten up and tried to talk with the doubles. He knew he sounded like he had not spoken in a long time (That was the case, after all.) but he tried to not let his apprehension get the best of him. It was their only chance, and he was well aware of it. If Antagonist would not speak, he could do it in his place just fine… Probably?
The Antagonist came back to his senses, eventually. He had decided that his thoughts were all nonsense, and that escaping should be the only thing on his mind. But he heard a voice. Colleague’s voice. He was not supposed to talk. He was going to mess everything up, and they would never escape. They would be stuck here until the end of time and-
“Just shut up!”
The Protagonist jumped at the words. His counterpart was breaking down. That was his chance, he had to get the scissors now or things would get violent. He had to think, fast.
Colleague stayed completely still as he heard Antagonist and his counterpart strike a deal for the Scissors. Why had he even tried to intervene, anyway? He somehow trusted the other man with their escape more than himself. But that would not matter any more. Soon enough they would be out of here.
…
The doors closed.
They had failed, and the others had taken the Scissors, too. The Antagonist closed his eyes and slid against the wall. He had lost his only means of defence. Colleague would surely kill him now, at least once. It was him who messed up, after all. Colleague had every reason to kill him… Yet, he did not. The Antagonist looked up at him. Colleague looked… scared, almost. As if he knew Antagonist could lash out on him any second.
The worst thing was that he was right. That had happened before. Antagonist had killed him. He had destroyed whatever this man once was. And he was just now choosing to acknowledge it. He had known, of course. But back then it had been useless to think about it. What mattered the most was getting out of the elevator, at all costs. But now that there was once again no way to escape, the Antagonist had all the time in the world to think about it. And he hated it. He hated the feeling of guilt. He had spent his life truing to get away from it, to no avail. It did not make sense. He did not know when he started crying.
On the other side of the elevator, Colleague was thinking of his Wife. For a brief moment, he had remembered her face. The way she would smile when he came home. The way she would pack his lunch every morning. The way her hair shone in the sunlight. But that did not matter much any more. He lost his chance of ever seeing her again when the doors had closed for the first time. He had simply been unaware of it. Now, there was nothing besides himself, the elevator and Antagonist. Antagonist.
He built up the courage to approach him. He was less scary without a weapon. He did not hold any power against him any more. He might as well hurt him. Maybe he wants to. Maybe he has a right to… But maybe he does not need to. They have known violence. It changed nothing. It did not bring any one back, it did not help and it did not make them less stuck. They might have thought it freeing, once, to just beat each other up, as a way to let go of their bottled feelings. But it never was.
The Antagonist flinched as Colleague slowly put his arms around him. He had made the first move, but he was trembling, nonetheless. Antagonist felt shame. The other man definitely saw he was crying. Curiously, he did not seem to mind? Eventually, the Antagonist brushed off his concerns and let himself relax in the arms of his Colleague, resting his head on the man’s shoulder. They were grown men. They had no reason to be doing this. Yet, it felt right, in a way. Besides, who they ought to be did not matter, anyway. Not here.
They both wanted to apologize. They felt it was needed, to take a fresh start and, maybe, to actually know each other, at one point. They could apologize, but what would the word “sorry” mean for them? It was better not to, in a way. They were used to their own silence.
Deep down, they were still the same two men stuck in the same elevator. What they understood about themselves does not matter. It’s absurd.