By Turrnut on October 9, 2025
{Nonfiction}
It was going to be quick, I said to myself. It was going to be no more than three minutes. Or rather, I probably didn’t say that at all, since I was doing something that I have done almost daily—taking out the trash. I live in an apartment, on the fourth floor, and the basement was my destination, for that is where the trash room resides. In my family, I am assigned the role of taking out the trash, a chore. So with any chore, after a while it becomes a routine, a habit, and with that comes predictability. Except, my prediction was diametrically wrong.
I picked up the trash, put on my shoes, and stepped into the elevator, it was evening. I went into the trash room and took care of the trash, and stepped back into the elevator, back up, back up to the fourth floor, where my parents are, where home is, where safety inhabits, where…
The elevator stopped. It’s time to leave. There is just one slight problem: the door won’t open.
The initial perturbation wasn’t overwhelming, because this kind of incident wasn’t actually the first time. A few months ago a similar thing happened, and I got out unscathed. This time shouldn’t be any different, right? I pressed different floors, the elevator moves, but the door doesn't open. I tried to use the close and open door buttons, but nothing happened. I tried to use the alarm bell button. The alarm sounded, and yet, nothing happened.
At that moment, there was one last button left in the elevator that I haven’t pushed yet—the emergency call button, which from my previous knowledge, can connect and enable me to speak to someone, who can perhaps save me. With hands trembling, I pressed the button hard. I was then directed into some sort of voicemail system, the static-filled, crackly robotic voice was the only thing breaking the silence in the elevator. But I tried the button again and again, pressing the button and talking loudly, desperate for help, and finally, at last, I was connected to a person, who will definitely save me and get me out of trouble.
Except they can’t, I suddenly remembered. The last time I was trapped, the person on the other side was an employee for the elevator company, and that fact hasn't changed. But luckily, they asked for my apartment address and told me that they have already informed the apartment about the situation, and so I thanked them and waited.
I was alone in a box. A metal box. Trapped. It was just me and nobody else. My heart was racing, my hands were shaking, I was walking around in the tiny enclosed space like an imprisoned animal. There was absolute silence in the elevator apart from the fan above me and my tumultuous inner thoughts. I will be fine, I keep trying to convince myself. This was not the first time, I reasoned. Last time it happened, the elevator door magically opened after a few minutes, and surely, this time can’t be any different. Now, of course, it is far from a regular occurrence, but I reasoned that based on my limited past experience, logically I will be able to get out in no time.
Ironically, I was proven wrong yet again. I waited and waited, nobody came. It was dead silent, and still I could hear nothing. I waited for so long that I have to make a decision. The apartment people are not coming any time soon, so I could stand there, be quiet, waiting for the rescue that wouldn’t come, and potentially spending the rest of my life in the box. Or, I could try to escape, and no matter how impossible, no matter how hopeless, I could at least try. I took the latter option. Calmly, I decided that the best course of action is to cry for help, since I didn’t bring my phone for what I thought would be such a short excursion downstairs.
I pounded on the door, desperately yelling for help. I repeated this process over and over, initially, it was to no avail, but I kept going nonetheless. Eventually, I heard the voice of an old lady outside the door. And so we spoke. I forgot our exact conversation, but as calmly as I could I explained to her my situation, and so she decided to call 911.
It was at that moment I knew that I was going to experience things that have never happened to me ever before. For starters, I have never called, or even heard somebody call the police with my own ears. But the lady on the other side of the door did, and she told me that the police were on their way.
So once more, I stood in the elevator, quiet and waiting, hoping that the police would arrive. My entire life, my whole existence, was to be under the control of other people. It was a thought that I am not sure if I liked. But they are the police, I reasoned, so they must know what they are doing. I live in quite a nice neighborhood, so the police couldn’t be all that bad.
Then without warning the police came. The voice of what seemed to be a man asked me a few questions, such as whether I was okay. Then they began their work. I then heard a bunch of sound, from the sound of tools to people talking, either to each other or to me. During this entire process I was hearing the voices of other people and talking to them, interacting with people that I have no idea who they are but were tied together with the sole objective being to evacuate me safely from the confinements of the elevator.
Even though I could hear, hearing was the only of the senses that I am still able to use to perceive the outside world. It is the only source of communication, the only ray of hope. I stood near the door, listened carefully to any sound, and responded to anyone who talked to me.
Still, I continued to be trapped in the box by myself. A large, rectangular, claustrophobic, metal box of what I used to call an elevator and now my prison. A prison that secluded me from the outside world. All I could see was the monotonous interior, which consists of nothing but a fan and some lights on the ceiling, with some buttons on the wall. I was confined, I was a prisoner, I was trapped. I could not escape, nor could I see the outside world. Initially I was a bit panicked, but now I felt emotionless. I was an empty body, a corpse, in a box.
I walked around, and I stood when I got tired, and I squatted when I got tired of standing, and then I repeated the cycle. I could hear all sorts of things, from the fixing tools being used on the elevator, to the voices of police, to my parents, who yelled frantically for me.
Eventually I lost track of time and how long I spent there. I got hungry, but I ignored my stomach. The police told me they will get the maintenance people, and after that nothing happened again. Perhaps the most terrifying aspect of the whole situation was that nothing was happening. I could hear the sound outside, but it was a different world. Inside, I was still trapped, uneventful. I began to wonder what the people who were rescuing me were like. What do they look like, what are their life’s stories, and why are they doing what they are doing.
This went on for a long time. A really, really long time. But at last, finally, I was told that they will drop the elevator to the basement floor. The elevator moved slowly, but when it reached the basement it dropped suddenly. This was such a sudden drop that my heart beat violently, almost as if it would pop out. But it didn’t, and I lived. One of the people forced the door open.
I was freed. Freed at last. Slowly but surely, a curious scene appeared into view as the door was being steadily forced open. During my time in the box, I have seen literally nothing. All I could see was the boring interior, with the fan, the lights and the buttons on the wall. I have seen nothing for so long that the sight of about seven people in what seemed like firefighter uniforms combined with my parents rendered me momentarily speechless.
My legs almost shaking, I stepped out of the elevator, out of my confinement, my prison, into the real world. I didn’t look back. I thanked the heroes who rescued me, and went back home. It has been an hour and half.