/lit/ - Literature

It was raining inside the elevator
I could not see his face, covered with a thick velvet mask but his fingers, his fingers twirled like insects and the elevator music changed - not a homogeneous change, more like a surgical operation or an embroidery. Pieces of sound were cut off and melted into instruments that I did not recognize, giving rise to a strong triumph. The drops of water changed rhythm adapting to the melody.
-I'm going to the 23°. You? - The voice stumbled over the blanket of the mask.
-29° -
Fifteenth floor. We stop: in front of us, two men over their fifties suited up, one wearing a red tie, the other a red one with blue dots – he was a bit higher.
-Come with us -
Lightning, he pulled a water pistol from his jacket and pointed it straight at their faces. Their faces identical , they looked like wax statues, staring at the wall behind us.
He put the pistol to his temple: his head burst like a balloon and a river of confetti filled the elevator to my ankles.

It stopped raining. Inside the cabin only a body a pool of blood already stale and the tingling of the same music that echoes in my ears every morning,
- We take it anyway -, they said, the taller one carried him on his shoulders face to the ground; or rather, neck to floor since that face was crumbled over the floor.