Behind The Voice
Cassi Gray
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2012 by Cassi Gray
Cover Photography Copyright © 2005 by Griszka Niewiadomski
CHAPTER ONE
Confusion reigned supreme in my head after hearing his voice for a second time. Spreading like wildfire through acres of Mojave dry desert, consuming all other thoughts and emotions in its path, lit only by the smallest of sparks from his perfectly enunciated words.
I had been in an incoherent daze by that point in the elevator ride, my hopes of getting out of there had been wrangled from me, strangled, and subdued beyond recognition. So the only thing left for me to do was to contemplate my duties for the day, once I finally got out of that box. I needed to plan my attack on the never ending paperwork that had surely started its relentless assault on my desk.
While work had many weapons at its disposal, like little paperclips of doom that glinted in the fluorescent lighting, I only had a small arsenal of tools that could combat that evil enemy of happiness that was the strongest on Mondays.
And as usual, my pen and staple remover would be slumbering away, tucked neatly into my drawer, with no idea of the kind of battle they were in for.
Neither did I when I broke my daze and looked up from the glowing elevator button, to finally see the snake charmer that had purred my name.
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It's only eight in the morning and already my feet are killing me. The searing pain that performed a full attack on my leg muscles after it was satisfied with my screaming feet, picked and poked at the nerve endings up and down my legs causing my right eye to twitch in response.
I'm convinced that a man invented high heels, or a woman who had no sensation in her feet whatsoever. Perhaps she was one of those brave individuals who walked on hot coals. Right about now I would like to drag her over some hot coals.
Clenching my jaw and teeth together while hoping no one can actually see my eyelid twitching, I grin and bear it as a business man in a professional pressed suit slinks onto my elevator. The navy blue fabric that makes up his jacket and pants, were free from any kind of lint or hair imaginable, and I marveled at the time and care that it must have taken to free the dark blue ocean of threads from any intruders. I could picture him sitting on the edge of his bed with tweezers in hand, plucking carefully away at the little specks and strands. Realizing quickly that was an odd thing to picture, I shake my head gently in disagreement.
Relieved that he barely even noticed me, I clear my throat and look straight ahead again. I'm sure his head is swirling with dollar signs and numbers that would make a math professor at Harvard need to sit down due to a sudden onslaught of vertigo.
Some people could deal with numbers. They could work their magic on them, manipulate them, and understand them. I was not one of those people. Numbers were about as useful to me as these high heels would be to an amputee.
Everything in the world was numbers driven, even words. So often times I felt pretty worthless considering my aversion to the demonic digits that ruled all.
Mr. Numbers stood in front of me and to the right of the elevator door. Tablet PC in hand his eyes darted and chased the devilish digits across the mini screen. Charts and pie graphs galore popped up and disappeared like the children's game Whack-A-Mole. I suddenly had the urge to whack the tablet out of his pale and greasy little hands. Instead, I picked at my own black skirt and smoothed its cotton skin against my hips.
The elevator chimed, and the doors open to let in a woman. She looks to be in her late fifties, her brown hair snaked with glossy, copper highlights that just hiss bi-weekly, credit card melting salon job at you. She carried herself in such an authoritative way that Mr. Numbers scooted further to the right so that his shoulder was touching the wall. His eyes still transfixed on his mini, glowing screen. I on the other hand remain where I stood prior to the appearance of our new ghoulish elevator inhabitant. Spastic eye twitches and all.
Mrs. Authority backed up into me so that she can better see the news blurbs and images flash across the small monitor that was mounted in the left corner of the elevator.
Gently, but firmly I brought up my hands and crossed my arms over my stomach, which in turn bumped Mrs. Authority's back. She turned to look at me and scowled as if I had suddenly ruined her life, and by touching her, I had also given her a strain of disease that will mutate her into a nice person that everyone wanted to be around.
Never before had someone given me such a disgusted look. I returned it by rolling my eyes at her. She snorted at me and turned her beady little eyes back up to the advertisements that bounded across the monitor.
The elevator whirred along its destined path like a solemn, robotic ant and it's only purpose in life was to go up and down this metal tunnel. Obeying all calls and buttons from the Queen with only a brief rest when there was a malfunction, or the building was closed.
I was so relieved when the elevator stopped and both of my companions, unpleasant as they were, got off. I finally had the elevator back to myself. Watching the doors shut, I sighed and leaned against the wall.
Propping my head up, I looked at the monitor, and read a small news clip about some poor man whose wife had lost her marbles and used a bottle opener to stab him to death. And yes, she literally lost her prized marbles. Apparently their grandson had given them to her before he was killed in a terrible car accident. I chuckled before I realized that was in poor taste. Thankfully there was no one else to witness my terribly dark sense of humor.
It had only been a couple of minutes since reading the news clip, but it suddenly dawned on me that the elevator hadn't started moving again. Instinctively I pushed the button for my floor again, even though it remained lit from when I pushed it before.
Nothing happened. There were no whirs of mechanical life, or clicks, clanks, nothing. There was no sound whatsoever from the elevator. I now stood, in a suddenly flimsy metal box suspended ten floors above the ground.
Which was a little disconcerting.
My cursed imagination took this opportunity to give me the heebie jeebies and thrust an image of a kid stomping on an aluminum can into my mind. It convinced me in graphic detail that's what it must look like if an elevator falls ten stories to its death. Crushing in on itself, creating accordion style sides, and making a metallic popping sound on impact. All while I was in it.
It became eerily silent, so I looked around for something. I don't quite know what I was looking for, but I knew my head needed no further ammo for frightening images. I was already pushing back the pressure of panic that was seeping into the elevator through any and every available crevasse. And considering elevators weren’t air tight that was a lot of crevasses.
I pushed the button again for my floor. It remained lit, just as it had before. So I pushed it again, just for good measure. But still nothing happened. The brightly glowing 14 just stared at me with its perfectly crisp lines for digits.
Numbers. Once again, they were mocking me.
I groaned and pushed it again, this time just because it felt like I was shoving my finger in its face.
Coming to the conclusion that the elevator would start moving again on its own, I took a deep breath and tried not to think about the ten story long tunnel that I was perched above, in an aluminum can. I could picture the red headed, freckle faced, little boy raising his foot up in slow motion, readying himself for the death stomp.
Head and back resting against the wall o
nce again, I closed my eyes and the boy's malevolent, little face was transformed into a mouth full of wicked braces as he grinned down at me.