Prompt #4: Dark

Rating: PG-13 for language

"Miss, you have to, uh—" What was a good verb to use here? Something that conveyed the seriousness of the situation without inciting fresh panic would be a good choice. "Uh… Miss, you need to relax. Everything is going to be okay. Please."

He should have taken the stairs.

The elevator jerked again, and the one other occupant in the steel box gave a shuddering gasp. Aside from the imminent plummet to his death, he didn't feel any particular which-way about confined spaces, but the same could not be said about her. She stood frozen with a white-knuckled grasp on the rails, great blue eyes wide with tears. If she hyperventilated any more, she was going to pass out.

This horrified him to say the least. He tried again. "Deep breaths, Miss. We'll be okay, promise."

It really wasn't so bad. The elevator had stopped moving, and an emergency alarm was blaring in the distance. The lights were on, the air was flowing, and they'd probably get to go home early after this. Pretty good result, all in all.

She clearly did not share this opinion.

"How can you say that? That's so irresponsible. How could you possibly know?"

He looked at her balefully, his charitable spirit rapidly evaporating with his patience. "You passing out will certainly not help the situation, I can tell you that."

She laughed tightly, which he did not expect. From past experience, his sardonic side – rarely seen – usually elicited comments about his insensitivity. But her breathing did sound less forced now, and she slowly released the hand rails to sink bonelessly to the floor of the elevator.

"Relax, just… relax. It will be over soon."

Oooh poor choice of words there.

She seemed to be getting a grasp on her evidently deep-seated terror, sucking in deep breaths through her nose and exhaling forcefully and rhythmically. She cracked a strained smile. "You are so shit at calming people down. What's your name?"

He stared at her. "Why?" he blurted out without thinking.

You're a wordsmith. Urgh.

She rolled her eyes, her bravado in stark contrast to her sheet-white countenance. "It's so I can avoid you next time I'm in a jammed elevator."

Fair. "Keith." He cleared his throat. "Keith—"

And promptly, just like that, the lights went out.

She screamed.

Okay, it was a yelp. She was turning out to be less dramatic than he was expecting from his first impression.

"It's probably just a power cut."

"Probably?! That's not good enough!" She was doing that deep breathing thing again, and he suddenly hoped that the air supply hadn't shut down with the lights. "Brakes run on power, don't they? This is fucking ridiculous."

"Cool it. It's probably a safety shut down for systems to reboot." He wasn't even an engineer – what the hell did she want from him!

"My name is Mina, so fucking use it."

Was anger a more productive emotion than panic? He supposed he was about to find out. "I want to be in here even less than you do," he replied sharply, "So if you would just lower your voice to a more civil pitch, and watch your choice of words, I would really appreciate it."

He could just picture her outraged face. She had been pleasant enough earlier for him to notice – and remember – that she was actually quite pretty. Her hair was twisted up, and her shirt dipped low enough for him to see her collarbones. She'd smiled when he asked for the ninth floor.

Bet she wasn't smiling now.

Her silence made him uneasy. "Sorry for snapping," he said shortly, his tone of voice distinctly un-sorry.

"No, you're not." His forehead was about to impact the elevator wall when she continued in a small voice. "It's okay, I was a bitch."

Yes, a fucking rude one. "I was impatient."

The velvety darkness was starting to disorient him. Easing himself to the floor, he leaned back and let the coolness of the metal seep through to his skin. Better.

Then the rude woman started to laugh. Not the bordering-on-breakdown sort of laugh from before, but a belly-deep laugh of unleashed relief. "I've been going to therapy for four years," she hiccoughed, the change of topic giving him slight whiplash. "Never had a break-through so quick before. I knew exactly where I went wrong there. Wow."

"You're in therapy?" No way.

She was silent for another stretch before she answered. "I don't know why, actually. I was angry all the time. My mother figured I either had an eating disorder or was into drugs."

Mother of the year. "She sounds delightful."

"My dad wasn't around, so I guess she was playing it with her ears."

…?

She sighed deeply from her corner. "My therapist is probably a hack. I found it very easy to skip details with him."

He promised himself he was only replying because they were stuck in a box together. "Feel free to share," he intoned. Too late, he realised that most of his sarcasm was only evident when paired with the corresponding facial expression: eyebrows raised, with the challenging keep-going-I-fucking-dare-you stare. Which she couldn't see— Oh shit, she's really going to share.

"Look, I'm pretty, okay? As far as society is concerned, in a purely objective sort of way." She said it so matter-of-fact-ly she managed to side-step conceited territory entirely. This time, he let his head impact the wall with a thud. Old boy, you did this to yourself.

"When you're pretty and desirable and everyone around you wants something from you, everyone just smiles and takes your shit and panders to you. Boys think that if they buy you things and flatter you they get to fuck you. You owe them somehow, you know – that sort of thing." She was on a nervous ramble now, but he just let her talk. He had a few clients like this.

"When you're a teenager it feels great. Like super powerful. Like a superpower. I mean, just over boys. Most girls don't like it but all the photographers and directors are men so it didn't particularly matter that girls didn't like me."

But you're not a teenager any—

"I'm not a teenager anymore, right? I know I'm not intelligent, but the whole thing nevertheless frustrates me to death."

For someone claiming to be 'not intelligent', she did pronounce 'frustrate' correctly.

"But try explaining that to anyone. Suddenly I'm the ungrateful bitch. Poor little rich girl, unhappy because she's too pretty to be taken seriously. I'm more than just a face and a pair of boobs, I'll have you know."

He honestly didn't remember what she looked like, but that's possibly the reason why he was willing to participate in this at all. "Is this why you go to therapy?"

She sighed, "I thought it would help."

The sarcasm was completely lost on her.

"Did it?"

There was no reply from her side of the box. But it didn't sound like she was crying either, which was a step up from how these conversations usually went.

Her voice was very soft. "I really believed it. That I must be the most ungrateful person in the world."

"Stop."

"Sorry, what?"

"Stop talking. I rarely associate with people who blame the world for their problems."

He imagined that as soon as she got over the shock of his words, she would be folding her arms in indignation. "I'm not blaming, it's just—"

"Your mother, your therapist, your face, I know."

"No, it's more complicated than that—"

He was beginning to discover that his powers of conversation were very much rooted in the visual. One look would have struck her dumb so she would quit interrupting him. He'd never had to use so many words before. "You are right. It's so complicated that nothing is ever going to change in your life."

"My therapist says I have to love myself first."

"Sounds like pandering to me."

"Stop it."

"You're more intelligent than you think; you can take it."

"Why are you being so awful?"

He laughed. "You're spoiled. Everyone has only ever been nice to you. You said it yourself: four years of therapy and only poor results to speak of."

Something struck his shoulder with dull thud and he hissed. He picked it up with an air of incredulity. "You threw a shoe at me? Very mature."

"Just stop already," she repeated in a pained voice. She was probably curled in the corner, waiting for the next round of verbal bashing. Oh well, it was dark – he could claim ignorance.

"You look the way you look. The world judges you for how you look. It's only a problem when all you do is complain about how unfair it all is, while you sit there and benefit from it."

She was silent.

"You have money. Go back to school. Learn a new skill set. Find a different project with a different director. Or photographer – I can't remember. I can't believe this advice needs to be given."

"It's not so simple. I have… responsibilities." No crying yet.

"Then make sure there's something in it for you. Collaborations go both ways. It's your life, and you're painfully unsatisfied with it."

"There's a… a contract. A pretty big one."

He threw up his hands. "You have resources. You're stuck in an elevator in a law firm. I'm sure there is someone in this building with the necessary expertise."

It would have been far too self-serving to then say that he himself had the expertise. This conversation had not gone the way he expected.

He jerked back when something touched his knee, and she muttered a quick, rather petulant apology. "My shoe, please."

He groped for it and passed it back.

He didn't hear her move away, and he was in the middle of sincerely hoping she wasn't about to try her apparently remarkable charms on him, when he realised her hand had been ice cold. He quickly shed his suit jacket and proffered it in her general direction. After a beat, she took it.

"I don't mean to be harsh," he cleared his throat. Please don't cry.

There was some rustling as she presumably arranged the clothing around herself. "Everything you said was true," she said candidly, flatly. He imagined she was also shrugging her shoulders, now buried deep in his blazer. "There are solutions. It is all in my power." She sounded muffled.

"Your therapist is shit."

"I think he's reporting everything to my mother."

Not for the first time, he wondered how old she actually was.

"That's a HIPAA violation."

She shifted. "You're so negative." He thought he could detect a begrudging smile in her voice.

"Oh I'm sorry. I'm sure she's doing it for your own good."

He was relieved when she laughed, having finally caught his sarcasm one out of three times. He felt the hollow wall reverberate as she slumped back down. "The million dollar question: when is this going to end."

Somehow he didn't think she was referring to the power cut.

Author's note

One of my pet peeves: people pronouncing frustrate as FUSTRATE.
Secondly, I am aware that there are many nuances when we describe a situation with a clear imbalance of power, especially in showbiz, which Mina is clearly alluding to. Please don't read too much into it - consider this a situation with a predatory contract and young girl who is coming into her own power as an individual with a brain and significant resources.

Kunzite/Mina: Stuck in a pitch-black elevator, two strangers trapped together start talking.