The 27th
Author’s Note: Inspired by “I Go Back to Berryman’s” by Vincent Scarpa, written for a creative writing class.
Content Warning: Strong language
The air swarms around you as you step over the piss stain to reach your corner (the one where the smell of the pee is dispersed by the AC above your head) in the mirrored box, and you look up to the ceiling to check for (hopefully) the fried corpses of those f*cking mosquitoes; but of course, there’s always that one f*cking mosquito, taunting your every move just as the mirrored doors enclose you in this 4x4 foot death trap and you feel your lungs shrivel like the vacuum-sealed bag stuffed in your already-bursting suitcase, and the box dings, followed by a vicious jerk upwards (you’re going to die, you’re sure of it, but it’s just 27 floors); and as you probably ascend, you hear the admonitions from the chihuahua on the 5th floor (it was actually the 4th floor but 4 means death and that doesn’t free the dagger in your chest), the echos of the fight between the kinda-okay-better-than-most-looking Australian boys on the 8th floor that you’ve known since birth, their voices curling at the end, the friction of the 10th floor twins’ scooters against dry surface, screeching, and you think: if this box doesn’t kill me, certainly the mosquito will, but it doesn’t yet so you keep riding in your corner; and you’re at the 12th floor now (you know that because you like watching the number on the panel switch from 12 to 15 because 13 is unlucky and 14 has a 4) and you count down the floors with your fingers, 27 minus 15 minus 1 because there’s no 24 is 11, and you hear another bark, this time from that poodle on the 18th that climbed the stairs all the way up to the 27th (where you live) and knocked on your door twice, right before you adopted your own crusty white dog and you knew it was fate; but then you enter silence (except for that f*cking mosquito) because the tenants are either your grandma’s Mahjong acquaintances, their voices empty, or they moved out, leaving only phantoms of their presence in their vacant apartments, or they died like the developer of the building on the 26th floor, but you’re here now (congratulations) on the 27th.
