Immobility

Chapter Fourteen

For a split second, I seem to freeze in midair, hovering, in no danger of gravity, and during that diminutive fraction of a sixtieth of a minute, I realize that the momentum gathered from the initial leap is insufficient and I will not execute the landing, that I will be entangled within the unfaltering tentacles of gravity. I clench my teeth—my jaws subtly aching from the resistance of the penlight—as I begin to plummet toward the curtain of blackness concealing the seething water that is separated from me by fifty feet of empty air.

With a final ember of hope, I extend my arms to their full length and steel myself for the rough impact with the wall of the hoistway. Unanticipatedly, my nearly maladroit hands and a tiny portion of my lower forearms make contact with the adamantine ledge—simultaneously, a sharp pain sings curtly through my right wrist—and my kneecaps and shins and forefeet strike the sheer wall of the elevator, the force of the impact sending fiery anguish echoing throughout my body like a current of electricity, weakening the grip of my fingers and causing them to slide slightly closer to the edge, but I manage to keep holding on. Although I know that there are no toeholds on this wall, my feet involuntarily kick at the metal. My left brachioradialis and shoulder blade are incessantly exploding with superheated pain, hindering my ability to sustain my grip and keep from dropping into the floodwater below.

I attempt to raise myself, but am completely unable to do so as a result of the pain ravaging my muscles. I risk a glance vertically down the wall of the shaft and feel a wave of giddiness wash over me as I am briefly ensnared within a sensation that I am endlessly falling. I can dangle from the ledge for a maximum of several minutes, after which I will inevitably no longer possess the strength to continue holding on, so I decide to rest for a moment, though I wouldn't exactly consider it resting, as it is profoundly difficult to relax my muscles, for I fear that I will not be able to sustain a sufficient grip.

After allowing myself a minute of rest, I muster every last bit of strength in my body—biting down on the penlight—and spread it throughout my muscles and into my palms to exert as much force as possible on the metal that prevents me from falling into the black void. I let out a scream as atomic explosions of blinding pain unapologetically rip through my overused muscles, spreading throughout my body like burning gasoline in my veins, and the usefulness of my fingers nearly nosedives to that of tiny sausages, but I prohibit myself from being snatched by the jaws of the inky blackness beneath me—nausea twists my stomach into a series of taut knots, and the periphery of my vision is lined with black specks. I draw a breath into my lungs and swing my right leg diagonally upward until both it and the remainder of my body are horizontal and my toes have made contact with the metallic edge, then hurl the remainder of my body upward, rotating it one hundred eighty degrees and landing a sufficient seven or eight inches away from the intimidating gap of lightlessness.

For a long moment, I lay on my back in a paroxysm of gasping, nearly shuddering from the intensity of the lingering pain gnawing at my muscles, the penlight having rolled out of my mouth and come to rest next to my face. Utterly devitalized by the swift depletion of my energy as a consequence of my endeavors to haul myself over the edge, my eyelids weigh until they are closed. I struggle to keep the blackness of unconsciousness at bay, for time must not be wasted lingering here torpidly—at any moment, the building could collapse, condemning me to be crushed by falling debris or simply drown. I lapse in and out of consciousness, the hazy episodes of blackout mercifully shortening in duration and becoming increasingly shallow, my fear worsening each time my eyes flutter open. After several minutes, I manage to keep my eyes open.

My stomach gurgling with bile, the blood pulsing in my neck, my head throbbing like a drum, I combat the exhaustion and searing pain cocooning my battered body and clench my teeth, pressing my palms against the ground and propelling myself up to a sitting position, involuntarily grimacing and swallowing a distressed scream forming in the back of my pharynx. A few specks of black swim across the edges of my field of vision, though I am not on the verge of slipping back into the limitless dark sea again.

I turn my head to the left and briefly eye the ax still lying where it landed subsequent to my catapulting it across the void, then look in the opposite direction to look at the penlight, from which the white beam still emanates; reaching over, I press the button to switch it off, since power failure lights illume the corridor. Hopefully I can find a door leading outside like the one on the seventh floor.

A wave of nausea suddenly crashes into me like a dozen pounds of bricks, and I cannot hold down the bile that has begun to creep up the back of my throat—I turn my head to the side and retch as the thin yellow stream falls from my mouth and splashes onto the metal floor. However, the quantity of the appalling substance is so insufficient, whenever I heave, practically nothing rises out of my gullet to emerge from my mouth. I am struck by wave after wave of retching, but the vomiting ends after about a minute. Spitting a few times, I wipe my mouth with my shirtsleeve and fish out the thermos, flipping open its cap. I allow myself only a few spoonfuls of water to rinse out the bile and spit, then take numerous swallows from the thermos, inwardly cautioning myself not to guzzle it, since that may aggravate my stomach once again and force the precious liquid out of my system. It is not enough to completely eradicate the edge of my thirst, but it is a thousand times better than not consuming any water.

Closing the cap of the thermos and stashing it inside the sleeve of my hoodie once again—though further in this time just to make certain that it doesn't fall out—I press my palms against the floor to raise my haunches into the air, and I manage to straighten up before stumbling and losing my balance. I bend my knees and squat to pick up the penlight and then retrieve the ax, then straighten up once again.

The seconds stretch into minutes as I stumble down the dull passageways that eventually morph into a nearly psychedelic labyrinth. After an unknown period of time, I schlep down a corridor that leads in a familiar direction, an auspicious sign catches my eye, indicating that the door beneath it leads into the openness of the outdoors.