FICTION || Lergon Parris: Ayudame!”
Penned in Rage Journal, Amplifying Marginalized Voices
Fear gripped my throat with icy hands, restricting my ability to form words in the darkness. Perhaps the fact that the elevator was dark helped to mask that fear. Or perhaps it was the fact that the other members of my party were huddled in the centre of this steel box whimpering and shivering, too preoccupied with their fear. The teacher, Ms. Edwards was also immobilized by fear, as she was the centre of the huddle. I stood to the side, trusting myself to the body’s natural method of calming itself as I assessed the situation. We were stuck in an elevator in Cuba. I had a less-than-basic grasp of the Spanish Language, and as the only male of the party, it behoved me to exercise some semblance of bravery. Yet the steel box was dark and menacing. The grip on my throat was slightly released, and I swallowed hard.
Our evening had started as routine as every other since we embarked on this school trip. This time, we had visited a ceremonial cannon firing, and I marvelled at the dominant sound of the old weapon as it fired its projectile across the sea. So far, there were no regrets on this trip. Cuba held its beauty with dignified and individualistic hands as its unique culture impressed our eyes, ears, and taste buds at every turn. Surely the camera roles were ripe with indelible memories.
Ramon, the tour guide, and bus driver was an expert storyteller, adding to the majesty of each landmark with insightful facts. All of this resulted in hours feeling like minutes, and days seeming like fast-forwarded VHS movies.
So, when the sun was exiting the stage on that day, my mind had groaned derisively. Because this meant we were going back to the hotel for dinner, then sleep. Twenty-four hours were just not enough.Making our way into the hotel lobby, we were immediately entranced by the now familiar soft guitar strings of live Cuban music, the melody ordering our steps as we moved towards the lift.
Carla, jokingly described as the slowest member of our little group, was true to the description. As we assembled in the elevator and the door began to close, the straggler made a desperate sprint, grabbing the metal frame of the door and upsetting the sensors. She achieved her goal of joining the group, but the elevator now protested with darkness and immobility. I stood in the corner closest to the door steeling myself against fear as I occupied my eyes with the faint movements of my huddled group. Ms. Edwards had still not recovered. I knew that it was up to me, a fourteen-year-old boy tasked with one day becoming a man to take charge of the situation. It was me against the menacing elevator. I could feel the steel box taunting me, discouraging me, closing in to suppress my will. But I fought with desperation as my mind rifled through a metaphysical rendition of my Spanish notebook.
Then finally, with lion-like triumph, I banged on the steel doors and shouted.
“Ayudame! Ayudame!”
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