Controlling the Outflow

“Why is it so cold,” I complain in the elevator as I head out of my apartment, “It’s June.”

My neighbor, who also heads out to work at six in the morning, shrugs with a grin. “That’s life,” Phillip replies to my rhetorical question. Somedays he really does enjoy frustrating me.

Shaking my head I wait as the elevator’s number goes down. From eleven, where our apartments sit on opposite ends of the building, down past one to the basement, where the tunnel to the garage is situated. “Doesn’t mean I can’t complain about it,” I shoot back.

Phillip chuckles. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” he states, making fun of me for absolutely no reason.

“Shut up,” I spit out instinctively as the elevator stops on the third floor. Some guy in sweatpants gets in, wearing headphones, and presses the button for the first floor. Phillip grumbles. Normally we’re early enough that the runners aren’t moving yet. The elevator stops at the first floor, and the guy gets out, heading towards the doors. The elevator stays open for a moment longer, the wait time on the first floor is longer than any other floors, then it closes. “The worst,” I mutter.

“For once,” Phillip says back to me, “I agree.” The elevator descends the final floor, and opens for us to head out. We head down the hallway, towards the garage. There is a slight rumble in the ground as we walk down the hallway, just like there always is. His car is up on the roof, mine is down here in the dregs, so we split off almost immediately after we make it into the garage.

Down in the furthest reaches of the garage, around the bend and under the ramp up to ground level, sits the cheapest available parking space. The ramp limits how tall the car can be, and the pillar on one of the front corners, holding up that ramp, makes it a maneuver getting in and out. I don’t mind, though. Because it is cheaper than any other by a good amount, and it’s close to the elevator. On day’s I’m feeling active, I can hop the railing directly in front of the hallway doors and land on the trunk of my convertible. Today is not one of those days, and so I walk the full distance, heading over, down the ramp, then back around the bend to my space. Hopping in, full ignoring unlocking my doors, I check my mirrors, stretch my neck, and press my starter button. There’s a momentary delay between when I hold down the button, and when, beneath my feet, the car starts to tremble as the engine begins to run. Putting it in reverse, I watch the small screen on the dashboard, now showing where the car is headed, carefully as I navigate my way around the pole and into the lane proper. Then, as I shift into drive, I feel much less of a need to be meticulous and careful as I start to drive out of the garage.

As I exit to the actual street, I align my priorities. I need coffee and breakfast on the way to work. Which means, I should swing by a drive-through. Probably stick with fast food, so I can be in the office early. I speed my way over to the Mickey-Dees, staying only about six miles over the speed limit so it isn’t worth pulling me over. The parking lot is mostly empty as I head through the lane and order myself a breakfast coffee and sandwich. I start eating as I drive, shoveling the egg sandwich into my mouth. I let the coffee sit for a good bit of the drive, mostly because people at work are far less judgemental about drive-through coffee than fast-food breakfast. Pulling into the building’s parking lot, I take a deep breath. It’s been more than a year since my only source of knowledge about my life disappeared. No, that’s not quite accurate. Was murdered is more likely. His apartment building, the one right across the street from my office, and a block away from where my parking space sits, had a lot of activity and damage on the night he seemingly vanished. He had mentioned beforehand that there were others like us. Others that might be watching what happens. Or perhaps, making things happen.

I put it out of my mind. I’ve got work. And making things happen is not something I should be thinking about. Sipping my coffee, I park my convertible in the space and hop out. After enjoying my coffee and breakfast sandwich to help with my hangover, it’s much easier to just live an enjoyable life. I head into the office building and swipe my badge to pass the security guy. “Hey, Elly,” the guy behind the desk says, “You’re later than normal.”

“Early running dude,” I complain to Mitch the Security Guy. As I head to the elevator and press the button, I silently pray that no one else is coming in now. Normally, I’m clear for the ride, but now I’m arriving in at a normal early time. The elevator doors open, and I get in, pressing the fourth floor button. Some people approach, so I back up to the back corner of the elevator. Once people are past security, pressing the close doors button takes long enough that those approaching can press the call button and force the doors to reopen before the elevator moves. A couple of the Advertisement agents come in, chatting about their excitement about finally getting to party tonight. Chatting about being on the prowl and hunt and similar such words. Most people are like that, saving their partying for the weekends. Especially people who want others to know about their nights out. “What about you?” one of them finally notices me after the elevator doors close.

I groan. “Friday is my day of rest,” I joke. The other one laughs, and tries to give me a shove, before noticing the obvious signs of a hangover on my face. “Oh, you’re serious, cool,” he says, almost apologetically.

I didn’t notice the shove until it was too late, his hand made contact. Not that it moves me. He probably thinks that was intentional, but it just happens. I can feel it, in my bones. But not strong enough to be a concern. As long as I focus, hold it in. Because unleashing in an elevator is never good. To the other guy, I add, “Some people want to be about this life, but actually being that way is too much for them.”

That causes him to laugh and give me a shove as well. I notice this one’s coming, and move with the hand, so as to minimize the force of the contact. “You’re all right, lady,” he says, “What department are you in?”

I look at him, grumpy at the volume with which he’s talking to me. “Management,” I tell a half truth. That shuts him up right quick. The door to the fourth floor opens and I push past them to head out. More force that only they feel. More echoes dancing around my bones. Even moving with the push, it was too much. I take a deep breath, in and out, and do the exercises that Mister Mitchell taught me. I picture the barrel that is my body, filled with the power sloshing around within. Well, partially filled. I slowly picture the spigot being twisted open slowly, letting a small stream out without releasing everything at once. A controlled emptying of the barrel.

With each step, the carpeted floor ripples, and the floor itself rumbles ever so slightly. Not enough for the building to notice, but enough that I can, as well as anyone nearby who’s paying close attention. Fortunately, I come into work early enough that no one is on the sales floor. The telemarketing team tends to be unenthused, for good reason, and rarely shows up early to interact with anyone else. I am one of the few actual employees on the sales force, most people are contract workers. And even then, the only reason I show up early is so that people don’t notice the microquakes. Which, to be fair, is also the reason I became a full-time employee. Which is why technically I am now on the Management track and can say I’m management when douches try to act better than me. I head over to my cubical, and get things set up for the start of our work day.

The day passes without much incident. As usual the contracting team that technically works under me is perfectly average, because I don’t do much to motivate them, but in not doing much I also don’t distract or irritate them. They go about their work with the bored efficiency of someone who wants to do just enough to get paid and not get singled out. Just like me. As the day concludes, the contract workers all clock out and begin to leave. The other employees talk about plans as I slowly close out and file things away. I don’t really care that much about this, but taking my time and diligence minimizes contact. “Elly, you coming out with us?” Quinn, one of the other employees and a reasonably solid guy, asks.

“On a Friday?” I reply wryly.

Quinn laughs. “Right, sorry. Lost track of time. It feels like a Wednesday,” he says. He’s mostly lying. He offers a spot every time they go out, which is frequently on fridays, knowing full well I’ll turn him down. Trying to keep me happy or stay on my good side. Probably sees that I come in early and, knowing management, thinks I will eventually take over as the head of Telemarketing. Which is very possible, I muse, though it would take a month where either my team is surprisingly spectacular, or everyone else really struggles. Because, even though I do show up early, they would need a reason to promote me. Unlike Quinn, who could get promoted if he just devoted as much effort to seeming like he wanted the job as he does to being liked.

“Fair enough. Text me if I miss anything great,” I reply, then offer to another of hte group, “Oh and Nancy, Advert is on the prowl tonight, so watch out.” Depending on Nancy’s mood, watch out could be a dire warning or some helpful guidance, and I don’t pay enough attention to notice which of them is how she takes it. They head to the elevators while I finish shutting everything off on the floor. Our boss comes out and notices my work, giving me a nod before returning to his office. He works late most Fridays, doing reports and such on our sales for the week. Judging our performance. I head to the elevators myself and press the call button.

The elevator is empty as I get in. About as expected. I press the lobby button. The door begins to close. I breathe as the elevator jolts, beginning to descend. Once it comes to a halt on the first floor, I get off. Once again, I focus on the spigot. The slight tremors awaken Mitch as I approach. “Enjoy your TV time,” he says as I leave with a polite wave. I head through the street, hurrying past the odd-feeling shadows outside my office building. A block down to my car. Hopping in, I start it and feel it tremble beneath me. Shaking, but under control. I empathize. With reckless abandon, I hurry back to my apartment.

Parking the car is, as usual, an ordeal of careful maneuvering. I walk through the tunnel from the garage to the basement, and see, waiting there, the two people who return around the same times as me. Phillip and Kelsey. They are in an argument about whether using the gym in the apartment is worth it. Neither particularly needs to worry about it, they both are younger than I am and have monstrous metabolisms. Kelsey just thinks more about the future than Phillip. The doors thankfully open as they notice me coming and try to bring me into their argument. I walk past them, avoiding touching anyone. They follow me in, and politely give me space. Around the apartment, people know I don’t like being touched, and most of them that regularly interact with me respect that.

The elevator begins to raise up, moving past the first floor. Kelsey looks at me, “But anyways, the gym. It’s important, right?” she asks.

I mentally hope for this to stop. As though in response, the elevator jerks. Something is wrong. There is a grinding noise but the elevator doesn’t move. Then, the pit in my stomach begins rising. No, we begin to fall. It’s only a five or six story fall, bad, but with the semi-working breaks, not deadly yet. But I don’t feel anything from the fall. As I look at my unconscious friends, I feel the roiling echoes rushing through me. This is about to get very, very bad.