Elevators

The small metal box closes as I hold on to the railing. I implore for the person next to the button panel to press my floor --or just let me out at any level really--. The contraption lifts and my stomach squeezes. At any point this elevator could stop. It could come crashing down. And I honestly can't do anything about it. I hate elevators.
In my short lifetime I have grown to tolerate elevators, but this symbiosis developed gradually after my traumatic experience in Chicago. When I was 10-years-old, my family had decided to visit the beautiful city of Chicago. Having only been minutes within our lavish Mariott hotel, I grew bored of the dull checking in. I then dragged my cousin along with me to perform some mischief; or at the very least have some fun. That's when we found the elevators. Their doors were golden and glimmered like the gates to heaven.
What better way to entertain oneself then with the classic elevator jump? As the floor pushes ones body at extreme speeds, one must wait for the stop. For when that elevator stops, the body's momentum follows that of the elevator: up. If one jumps at the same time, one flies. What better way to have fun!
My cousin and I excitedly walked into the golden box and pressed the button of our choice. Pressing the 5th floor, I gave my cousin, Malika, an excited look. How had my mom let us go by ourselves like this? She had told me I could go wherever as long as I came back soon! One elevator ride would do just the trick.
The doors smoothly closed as Malika and I waited. We felt the pulse of strings and levers pull up our cage and gently yet quickly sensed the vertical motion of our bodies. We waited. We anticipated. We timed. And we jumped! What a rush. The gold doors opened again for us and we walked out, visited the floor, and giggled back to the elevator doors. But this time, an eerie sign appeared at our arrival: Wet Floors. Malika, not being able to read English (she was from France), saw this as a warning.
"Should we go?" she asked.
"Malika, it means wet floors! It's fine," I confidently responded.
But I felt it too. That feeling of premonition. But we walked in.

The elevator went down with ease. I looked at Malika smugly. It wasn't until the doors didn't open that I looked away from her. Malika looked at me. Tears formed in her eyes. She was panicking asking me what to do. She was 3 years older than me, but I was the only one who spoke English. The venomous elevator floor buttons all read numbers except for one blood red circle; emergency call. I pressed it. My voice stayed firm as a lady picked up on the other line. Malika cried in the corner as I spoke. We heard men calling our voices asking if we were ok. The room was tiny and my mind congested. Responding ok, we waited for them to fix it. I held Malika. I waited. I closed off my emotions like the doors of the elevator. When the doors opened, fresh air breezed by and my youthfulness came back --the adult ability of making decisions was suffocating me--. My emotions burst and I realized my fear.
I feared being trapped, I feared being alone, I feared being an adult, I feared emotional distress, I feared death.
My mom, having found us after hours, came up to me asking, "where were you?!"
I said one thing, "I hate elevators," and burst out crying.