text: A high-pitched ping echoed throughout the empty lobby. The elevator doors opened with an arduous shudder. Michael, eyes fixed on his phone, took a step forward. He retracted his foot at the sight of the elderly woman and her dog that live on his floor. The woman wore a knee length, black dress, floral pinafore, knee-high stockings and pink slippers. She stared at Michael through thick glasses and smiled. The little white terrier gazed up at Michael and let out a little yip . Michael took a step to the side and nodded at his neighbour. Both dog and owner waddled out of the elevator and into the lobby. Michael stepped into the small metal box, locked his phone screen and slid the device into his jeans pocket. He pressed the yellowed, plastic knob marked “26”. The button creaked with the pressure of Michael’s index finger. The elevator doors rattled shut and closed with a thud. The tiny compartment smelt strongly of stale cigarettes and an indistinguishable meat smell. The wall panels had the initials of neighbourhood kids scratched into their artificial wood grain. Michael plunged his hands into the deep pockets of his navy blue bomber jacket and leaned against the wall. The elevator gave out a deep whirring sound and he began his ascent to the 26th floor. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered through a metal cage. Michael let out a deep exhale and blinked a long, satisfying blink. His contact lenses were dry and irritating. The little orange dial above the door began to move as the elevator climbed higher and higher. At floor 15 Michael started to fiddle with the keys in his pocket. He slid his index finger into the keyring, all the way down to the base. With his thumb he spun the metal hoop around his finger like the wedding ring of an anxious adulterer. Michael is the coworker that clicks his pen in meetings. He’s the guy at the coffee shop that bounces his knee when transfixed on his laptop. He’s the man that whistles in the showers at the gym. These small distractions soothed him, whether he realized it or not. At the 21st floor the elevator stopped with a jolt. Michael was jostled by the force of the halt. The fluttering fluorescent lights extinguished. Michael was left in complete darkness. “For fuck sakes!” he cried out. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. At that time of night everyone was at home. Everyone was cooking dinner and everyone was watching TV. The building’s ancient power grid couldn’t cope with its modern-day demands. Michael stood upright and reached for his phone. There was no signal. “Fuck!” he spat through gritted teeth. Michael switched on his phone’s flashlight and inspected the column of buttons in front of him. He punched the red circle with the bell symbol. Nothing. He thumbed it a few more times. Still, nothing. Michael crouched down and opened the small door below the column of knobs. He took the black, plastic telephone off the hook and held it to his ear. He stood up, bringing with him a foot of cord ending in a spray of smaller wires and plastic casing. The other half of the cord was still attached to the elevator. “Fucking kids!” Michael grunted to himself. He kicked the elevator wall and threw the phone receiver to the ground. It ricocheted on the tiled floor and landed in the corner. Michael pushed both of his palms against his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. He slammed his back against the elevator wall, slid to the floor and hugged his knees. Michael sat in the darkness. A faint creaking came from above. Then a twang. A twang like a thrown rock into a corrugated iron storm drain or a skimmed stone on a frozen lake. The elevator dropped. Maybe a foot. Maybe less. It was enough to turn Michael’s stomach. His heart was trying to escape his chest by way of his mouth. Another snapping sound came from overhead and Michael jumped to his feet. He looked up at the ceiling. He listened. He was desperate for silence. With a final metallic splinter the cables above separated from the elevator and the box began to plummet down the shaft. Michael’s feet lifted from the floor. Although he was falling it felt like flying. His bomber jacket bellowed behind him like a cape and his hair flowed as if he were underwater. Everything was moving in slow motion. Michael released the grip on his phone. It tumbled through the air illuminating the walls of the elevator. It cast Michael-shaped shadows on surrounding surfaces. Michael knew he was going to die. He didn’t have the time to process it in real-time. There was no saving himself. There were no poetic final words or goodbyes. He wasn’t scared. He just existed in that moment. In the last few seconds of his life he was at peace. Some say your heart explodes during a fall like that. A heart attack kills you before you hit the ground. Some say you die instantly on impact. What Michael did know is that your life does, in fact, flash before your eyes before you die. Everything Michael had ever experienced came into sharp focus. Old, forgotten memories filed deep in the recesses of his mind were now illuminated and vivid. His memories were like home movies but everything shot from his point of view. He remembered all the times he cried, feeling warm tears running down his face and collecting on his chin. He remembered every lie he’d ever told and the heat on the back of his neck and the knot in his stomach whenever he told them. He remembered every romance he’d ever had; the first time he laid eyes on them and the crushing moment he realized it wasn’t meant to be. All the times he let his mother down and all the times he enraged his father. He also remembered all the times his Dad carried him to bed after falling asleep in the car and all the times his Mum kissed him on the forehead on her way out the door. His dog Charlie licking his cheek, his first slow dance, his first hangover. Michael felt these sensations all over again. He remembered dancing around a bonfire in his bathing suit, watching the sunrise wrapped in a blanket and diving into frigid lake water. He remembered every flu, strep throat and earache he’d ever had. He felt the sensation of burning his fingers on a baking sheet again, the sheer panic after misplacing his wallet and every time he stubbed his pinky toe. He re-lived every orgasm, every meaningful hug, every electric first kiss. He replayed every knowing look from a friend from across a room. He felt the sweat running down his back and the burn in his lungs after every run. He felt the sticky feeling and heavy eyelids after a long-haul flight. The fear and excitement of a foreign city and the comfort of his own bed. He felt embarrassed at the times he just yelled English words louder or the times he returned a wave not meant for him. He experienced the adrenaline of jumping off a cliff into the ocean or stepping off a curb and narrowly missing a speeding car. Waking up next to someone you love. Waking up to a complete stranger. He heard the satisfying thud of throwing garbage into an empty trashcan, the feeling of a chiropractor re-aligning his spine and the smell of his first car. He remembered lyrics to long-forgotten songs and every password he’d ever made. Michael could smell the incense his ex used to burn and the perfume his grandmother used to wear. He could taste his mother’s spaghetti sauce and the dandelion nail polish he used to try and stop biting his nails. He remembered the comfortable silences he shared with the people he loved the most. He remembered the first time he caught snow on his tongue. He remembered the sun on his face.