Don't Do It

Emery stood at the bottom of the escalator, fingers clutching the strap of her purse. The lobby was mostly dead, with the exception of the maintenance man. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn back—to return to the safety behind the desk.


But she didn’t.

She had to obey the demands of her superior.

She took a step. Then another. The escalator's rise stretched out before her, growing longer, thinner, more intimidating. A cold breeze bit at her skin, sharper with each passing moment.

At the top was a smaller lobby that led to darkened counters, a small convenient stand, only operational during the day, a hallway leading to bathrooms and a single wooden door—a door she had entered many times. It had once seemed ordinary, but now, it felt ominous.

With her magnetic key card, hand nervously shaking, she swipped the lock. The chirp of access was loud, as if it was telling her to stop.

Last chance.

Emery was on an overnight skeleton crew, made up of five, including the night manager. Typically, by 3:00 a.m. the manager was gone, on his way home but still clocked in. The others holding their positions with one eye open, waiting to be relieved at 6:00.

Corporate frequently sent out “reminders” about overnight etiquette—warnings that carried no official weight, but hinted strongly at consequences. As the only woman on the team, the area supervisor seemed to single out Emery, regularly pushing her into impossible situations. When she refused, it resulted in disciplinary action. She was walking a very fine line.

Since that morning, the energy in the office had shifted—heavy and suffocating.
 Now, standing behind her desk again, Emery’s mind was a battleground. That meeting had changed her.
 The muted screams followed her everywhere. She saw shadows where there was none. She heard footsteps lurking when no one was there.

If only she hadn’t gone.


She wouldn’t be in agony—mentally or physically—and maybe her marriage wouldn’t have fallen apart.

The thought haunted her like a spirit, whispering from the edges of her memory.
 She imagined herself still standing at the bottom of the escalator, hand on her purse strap, choosing instead to turn away, to return to her desk. If she had, then work would have remained just that—work.

But she didn't. She had stepped onto that conveyor belt. And now, the darkness was a part of her.

Her heart ached with the weight of the choice she made.

If she had not gone upstairs:


Emery would have completed her closing duties. She would have received a strongly worded email from a mildly unpleasant manager about her "behavior and unwillingness to follow directions," along with a formal meeting request that required her direct team leader’s attendance. A write-up would’ve been the worst of it.

If she had waited for the morning crew:


She would have taken her break, letting the openers prep for the day. She would have watched early birds pour in from the first wave of buses, filling both the main and downstairs lobbies. That meeting would have taken place in His office—with at least a dozen others within reach. There’s safety in numbers.

Those versions of herself—paths not taken—lived only as flickers of memory, fragile shadows of peace she could never reclaim.

Emery drafted a well composed resignation letter that left no room for questions. Proof of certain rumors were displayed, along with the private details of what occured behind closed doors. Evidence of crimes were there in black and white. The end for Him was near.

With her belongings and locker contents stuffed into a box, Emery quietly made her exit. She looked up once more at the escalator—the worn rubber, dirty and abused by years of use. And the door above, looming like a silent judge.