I was trapped in the elevator with Satan.

Metaphorically of course—there wasn’t actually an elevator, and the Devil himself wasn’t pointing his hot iron trident my way while laughing maniacally.

No, the elevator is me—the thoughts and the emotions—going up and down as is natural for an elevator to do; when someone pushes the button I am summoned. Up and down. High and low. Endlessly without a rest, the elevator went, and every time the doors opened it would gain weight as people—information—entered. But the weight was temporary; eventually the people step out of the elevator.

I was a hardy elevator.

One day when the elevator was stopped at the top floor, the doors opened and there was Satan. He greedily pushed his way through the line and stepped surely into my elevator, sharp talons leaving scars on my pretty tiled floors. He was loud and mean: his words vile and vulgar. He stepped into my elevator and the first thing he said, I shall never forget.

“What an UGLY elevator!”

That hurt.

As an elevator, I was only trying to do my best. I’m not always there right when you push the button, but what elevator is? Yeah, that’s right. None.

Satan wasn’t just gross noise. He liked to beat on the walls with clawed hands that left white grooves in me, which would most likely have to be filled with putty to ever be smooth again. He also liked to bite at anyone who got too close. I think he got a guy’s finger once. I haven’t seen that boy ride my elevator since. What a shame. We used to be friends.

Some tried to give me the strength to push Satan out. They would speak comforting words to me, be extra patient when I took a longer time than usual to open up to them. A girl with blue hair would try to cheer me up, tell me the scratches gave me character. A girl with eyes that told me I wasn’t the only elevator with Satan in it whispered, I understand. When asked to leave, Satan would just scream a discorded note, a note so loud those people couldn’t be heard. When asked to leave, Satan just pushed them out of the elevator.

What an ass.

One day, after months of this activity, I realized my elevator was empty of everyone, except Satan. No one wanted to take the elevator; they just all used the stairs. The people weren’t just metaphors for information anymore. They were friends. Friends that took the stairs, even after a long day; they took them one by one, sluggish and slow. Friends that didn’t need me in their lives anymore.

I was an elevator, hooked to a cable that was breaking.

Meanwhile, Satan continued to scream and insult the elevator with every foul breath in his angry red body.

My elevator never went up anymore; no one ever summoned it. My elevator was stuck at the bottom, with an angry, red, clawed hand, and trident wielding Devil screaming and scratching. I have one thing to say to that bastard—

Satan, eat a Snickers. Get out of my elevator.