Last night, I was convinced it was the end of me.
My workplace is located in one of the tallest buildings in Lusail, Qatar. My clinic sits on the 8th floor, and every night after work I follow the same routine: bathroom break, then elevator straight down to the ground floor.
Except last night, I didn't.
I skipped the bathroom and went directly to the elevator lobby. While waiting, I pulled out my phone, put on my earphones, and played Dorado's playlist, my usual way of zoning out after a long shift. The wait felt longer than usual, so without much thought, I pressed the ground floor button again.
The doors beside me opened.
I stepped inside without checking the screen because I was certain I had pressed zero. I stayed distracted, scrolling through my playlist, letting the music drown out the silence.
But the ride felt...wrong.
Too long.
I finally looked up at the screen.
38.
I was going up.
Panic hit me all at once. I started pressing everything. Every button within reach only to realize there were no floor buttons inside the elevator. Just open, close, and a bell. I pressed them all but nothing happened. The elevator didn't slow down. It didn't stop.
It kept climbing.
I tried to calm myself, forcing a nervous joke in my head:
"Ah sige nalang...maybe I'll just get a quick look at the top floor."
The elevator stopped at the 36th floor. The doors opened painfully slow. No one came in. The doors stayed open longer than normal, as if waiting for something, or someone, then closed again. The elevator resumed its ascent.
38. The doors opened.
I stepped out and immediately realized something was wrong. The floor was dark. Empty. Unfinished. Plastic sheets covered the walls, wood and cement scattered everywhere. It was clearly under renovation. The air felt heavy, stale, like it hadn't been disturbed in a long time.
Then someone passed by.
A middle-age Middle Eastern man, not very tall, wearing a white shirt. I froze where I stood. He stopped and looked me over from head to toe.
"Inti mamnu hena" he muttered. You are not allowed here.
My voice came out shaky. "Fi mushkila...hag elevator, brother. There's a problem with the elevator."
He glared at me, then switched to English.
"Go. Leave now. Or you won't get to leave anymore."
My blood ran cold.
I didn't argue. I didn't think. I pressed zero and ran back inside the elevator.
As the doors were about to close, a hand stopped them.
An American man stepped in. He was wearing a suit and holding a brownish-black case. Relief washed over me. I wasn't alone anymore.
Or so I thought.
As the elevator descended, a question crept into my mind. "Where did he come from?" There was no one else on that floor. Just me and the other man.
I glanced at him again.
He was unnaturally pale. His face looked hollow, drained of life. There was a deep violet bruise on his cheek, and beads of sweat rolled down his face despite the cold air inside the elevator. He looked...sad. Empty.
I checked his reflection in the mirror. He was staring straight at me.
My entire body went cold, like I had been dropped into a freezer. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I turned my eyes back to the screen, watching the numbers crawl downward far too slowly.
The ride felt endless.
Finally, the doors opened.
I rushed out without looking back.
And then my heart stopped.
I was back on the 38th floor.
The darkness. The plastic. The unfinished walls.
I froze.
That was when I heard a loud ambulance siren from the street, our room being so close to the constant bustle outside.
I woke up gasping for air, my heart pounding violently in my chest. I grabbed my phone and checked the time.
3:12 a.m.
I didn't sleep again after that.
And now, every time I step into an elevator, I make sure to look at the screen.
Every single time.
Because I'm not sure...
If I really woke up...
Or if I just finally made it back.
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