This Is Inevitable | #ONC2022

Chapter 4 | This Is Surprising

The meeting gets shoved to the back of my mind as I watch Tate pound on the doors of the elevator, his calm composure completely replaced with panic, fear, and rapid trembling. He stuffs the envelope into his pocket with such force that I fear he's either torn the paper into pieces or ripped a hole in his pants.

He spins on his heels and leans against the door, hands spread out behind him in support as he looks around the elevator in horror. Sweat begins to bead down his forehead as the lights of the elevator buttons flicker and pulse, until they shut off completely, plunging us in almost near darkness.  In what I assume is a desperate attempt to turn them back on, he frantically presses the buttons, the metal clicks echoing and filling the air. 

We both see the intercom button at the same time. Pressing it with more force than he should, he hastily shouts into the microphone, making me jump. "HELP! I'M TRAPPED IN THE ELEVATOR! KIAN IS HERE TOO, WE'RE GONNA DIE!"

Nobody replies.

He turns to me. His breath has swelled from calm to heavy and short, his gasps and pants loud and raspy. He's having a panic attack. Sinking to the ground, he draws his knees to his chest. The envelope falls out of his pocket, to his side.  Unsure of what to do, I sit beside him, reassuringly patting his back. He seems to withdraw more into himself.

"The walls are moving in, this is... I can't..." he mumbles to me, burying his face in his knees. 

"What's going on?" I say faster than I mean to. This is totally bizarre, out of character. I've never seen Tate like this; he's always relaxed, poised, emotionally in-check; not this mess. He's barely the same person he was a few minutes ago. It's surprising, but honestly really fucking refreshing to see he isn't perfect. 

But, now's not the time to rejoice. He's having a crisis. And--thanks, universe, by the way--it's up to me to make sure he's okay since I'm stuck here with him. 

"Are you claustrophobic?" I ask. It's painfully obvious, but I ask anyway in case I'm dumb and he's just having a general panic attack. He manages a weak nod. 

I move away, pressing my back against the opposite wall to him. Someone that's having a claustrophobic panic attack needs space. Literally. Me being too close to him could make him feel even more enclosed, as irrational as that sounds. I look at my watch. Good, the arms are glow-in-the-dark. Taking it off, I slide it to him, the device resting between his feet. He looks at it, a little confused. 

"Pick it up," I say. He does as told, his hands shaky as they reach for it. "Focus on your breathing. Inhale slowly as I say one, exhale slowly on five, okay?"

He nods. 

"One," I say. He slowly takes in a breath, reaching full capacity as I continue to three. 

I get him to hold his breath for a moment. I say four. At five, he exhales. We repeat this for a few rounds, until his breath is steady again. 

"Now, look at the watch. Look at the hands, watch how they tick by. Focus on the 'seconds' hand, thinking only about the numbers it hits as it makes a rotation. Can you do that for me for one minute?"

"Yeah." And with that, his focus draws onto the watch. His hands slowly stop shaking. As the minute approaches, he's a lot calmer. 

"Good. Now, the envelope. Pick it up. Feel the texture of the paper, how smooth some parts are and how bumpy other bits are. Run your fingers over the edges, tracing the wax seal. Can you do that for another minute?"

He nods. His focus is pulled away from the surroundings, and soon he's engrossed in the envelope, feeling the edges. Just as I think he's back to the normal Tate, the lights on the buttons flicker back on, and his focus snaps back to the walls of the elevator. His breathing starts to rise again.