Green Stop Sign

Leanne Machado

      There’s something wrong. 

      Creaking shifts, distant beeps and the subtle shake of footsteps — in and out, a delirious hum and noiseless chatter, in and out. By all means, it should be normal. Normal. What even is normal? Silver gleams with pasty tan wood, blue LED and the constant shifting, up and down. Waiting, beep, open, push, wait, close, up or down. This has happened a billion times, maybe even infinite. But now there’s something that’s no longer right. 

      The numbers besides the white buttons, waiting to be pressed and follow what they are programmed to do, are gone. With what used to be eight buttons corresponding to eight floors, to ascend or descend, in their place now are four symbols, built-in like a square that is a trap. Choices are now limited. 

      In the top left of the four buttons — two short curved lines, both perpendicular to each other as they move in two directions. Beside that, the top right button is a small icon of a bowl, short dashes that seem to represent steam. Below that — bottom right button — is an eye. A singular drawing of an eye, without eyelashes or color. Void of life and beauty. And beside that, the bottom left button is a stop sign. While the other buttons lack color, simple line drawings that a child could perform, this stop sign is green. It reads a white-lettered STOP, in the middle of its octagonal shape, but instead of red, it’s green. Not too bright nor too dark, not too blue or yellow-toned, but somewhere neutral and somewhat muted, the vibrancy removed from the body. Like moss, caked and encrusted against a tall, old tree. 

      The button of the perpendicular lines is pushed, and it illuminates a pale white before the elevator begins to rumble slightly, and with its creaking and a jolt, it oddly feels like it's being shifted to the left. No descent or ascent, but moving to the left. The lights inside the boxed machine flicker, into darkness for no longer than a blink of an eye, and all movement stops. 

      A piece of printer paper, crisp and flat, without a single crease is now pasted above the odd buttons. 

      ACCEPTING IS OPTIONAL. 

      Three simple words, with just enough time to read them before the elevator dings — a warped, baritone shift at its last key — and the silver doors slide open. 

      It’s a street. A cold chill and fog seeps into the elevator, drawing goosebumps. Outside now, the sky is a mudded blue, a few stars visible from the still cloudiness. Apart from being inside to now facing a dark street — and by the fact it was clearly still early morning when this elevator was first entered — it feels like a familiar street. There’s an old wood bench off in the short distance, a gold plate that must read the contributions of said bench, but not quite visible from the fog. There’s old brick buildings, with only some lights from the windows golden and enticing. Alleyways and trash cans, something of a normal city, but empty. 

      In front of the bench that is closest to the elevator, there’s a streetlight. It’s a dark gray all the way up, but at the head where there should be a dim light, encased in a plastic shield and covered in webs and moths, instead is a street sign. A street sign that looks like a streetlight. It glows at the words. The plaques are the same color as the thick stem, with gold letters where the two skinny rectangular plates cross each other. One faces to the right, and the other to the left. 

      The right reads: Your Destination. 

      The left reads: Your Destination. 

      And flickering down to eye-level, the bench is gone. The buildings are gone, the fog has grown thicker, and there are now two brick roads leading diagonally towards the left and to the right, starting from the barrier of the elevator. The chill has grown along with the mist, clutching at warmth from the tan wood of where █ stands, but a knuckle jams to the second button, the bowl. The elevator squeaks, the lights flicker, and the doors slowly close. 

      Jolted now to the right, the paper still stays the same. “Accepting is Optional.” Whereas before the air was silent and cold, even before the elevator came to a full stop, the small contraption has become increasingly warm, and the air has been permeated with a thick, weary smell. It takes until the elevator stops to reel in and not gag, a cold hand pressed to block out the smell. There’s a wet, squelching chatter that repeats far and close. Almost like the lull of a crowd, instead of chatter, it’s chewing. 

      A stark difference from the darkness of night to this room of ethereal white, glowing with a hum that strains the eyes, the chewing is coming from every direction. And strangely, there’s nothing physical to associate with the dreadful noises, besides from a sea of clothes that are worn like hundreds — thousands — of ghosts that can put on physical objects. Coats, shirts, pants, dresses, skirts, hats, socks, gloves, suits, uniforms of many variations — all moving and shifting as if they are being worn. Some are crouched, some are hunched over and standing, and the endless, gut-wrenching sounds of repulsive chewing, choking, swallowing. The chewing is then accompanied by something hitting the ground, wet like water, just as revolting as the chewing. 

      A trench coat and pants suddenly freeze in place, and the material twists around until it faces the elevator. Inside the coat is nothing, just the material inside, but the arm and leg holes are stretched to their capacity, moved by an invisible body. Then it makes a sprint to the elevator. Sensing the motion, the sea of clothes began to follow, like an avalanche of apparel that stretched for miles, yards, meters. 

      The third button, the eye, is jammed with haste, and just before the first coat has reached the barrier of the wood, the silver doors slam shut in a second. Distraught, chest heaving, breath heavy — there’s a splattering of red just at the barrier of the closed doors. Blood? Blood. The lights flicker once again and a sense of normalcy radiates when the elevator goes down. 

      GOOD CHOICE, the paper reads now, in big bold font. 

The doors creak and squeak, then they open. It’s a forest. Viridis green, bushes and tall trees tinted blue. White flowers sparkle and a gray butterfly flies across the span of the view from the elevator, gone out of view. Oxygen passes through and relief fills lungs, and for the first time, a step forward is taken. It’s peaceful here. Solemn, and at ease. 

      But a step forward is all it is. Relief has been overcome by dread, once again. There’s someone standing in the distance. The exact distance away from the elevator. Their head tilts to the side, a look of confusion etched into their eyebrows, their mouth mumbles something. They are void of color, like an old black and white film. It occurs to y̵̠̤͛̈́́͗͂̽̉̄̄̅̚͝ỏ̸͎̂́̍u that this figure is familiar. Their ████ hair, the way their ████ ██████, ███████, ███████. It’s ██! But a complete contrast to the colorful forest that surrounds them. Before a thought races, the figure’s head snaps to the right. There’s another person — same as the first — standing behind one of the thick trees, watching. And then that person turns their head, and another is crouched shrouded in the bushes. 

      And in a matter of seconds, there’s a whole crowd of ████, looking between each other in complete terror, like mirrors that reflect y̵̠̤͛̈́́͗͂̽̉̄̄̅̚͝ỏ̸͎̂́̍u. 

      The last button is pressed, the stop sign, and while the door slowly closes, all of the colorless figures let out a scream. Echoed and piercing, overlapped over one another, and then silence. 

      There’s no emergency exit, no button to call for help, the only source of color now coming from the green glow of the green stop sign. The elevator rumbles and shifts to the left, flickering lights, and it takes a moment to realize that the wood floor has become a seat, legs somehow crashing down to the floor from the events of the last room. 

      What to do? How to leave? And why does the paper now say, ACCEPTING IS INEVITABLE? 

      The last ding, shifting stills, and they open. 

      Darkness, and a soft, deep hum. And not just darkness, but complete, utter blackness. Even the glow from the elevator doesn’t illuminate past the threshold. An empty space, without a single glimmer of light. 

      But the hum, it lifts and falls like a breath. The air is muted, heavy, and empty, and if words were spoken, they’d get swallowed up by this absence of light. Something there, unable to see, but it’s there. Something is there. Hidden within or it is darkness. Breathing. 

      I/You feel it. A weight that makes the muscles tense, skin pricked and eager like a rabbit. Watched. You’re/I’m being watched. I/You see it. Somehow into the body that is the absence of anything remotely alive, into the wasted space. ███ ████ is looking into the elevator, and it’s closer than it was before. It’s seen but not seen. Forgotten and never forgotten. An inkling in the back of the mind to remind us all of how little we can be. 

      Something from behind shoves you out. It hurts — it’s a harsh shove. Head jolts back and the body contorts, flailing to catch myself/yourself and grasping at shadows to fail miserably. 

      The elevator slams shut, so loud it crashes against its own mechanism, and gone, just like that. 

      Accepting is inevitable.