The floor is covered in shit, but it’s the end of my shift. I’m in a tall, worn service elevator that can comfortably fit multiple gurneys lined up in a row. It’s essential I get to the deepest basement level to clock out as soon as possible, but the lift is completely stationary. The doors are not jolting towards each other, or even whirring, to signal that they still have the capacity to do so.

Between the silent, gaping doors and the extensive yet entirely unresponsive button board to the left, the side panel is interrupted by a second, much smaller set of doors, with flashing lettering above: ‘HEAD ONLY’. Am I allowed? I’ve never properly inspected it before, and there are no buttons to speak of, but it looks operational, and fast.

It opens, revealing a clean, rectangular niche. It’s straightforward to position my head inside – my body so irrelevant that there isn’t even a scene of decapitation. I spare it no thought as the doors seal shut behind me. 

I can’t see much with my eyes pressed up against the wall, I hear metallic grinding and releasing noises begin, and harsh lights start to flicker past my periphery. And although I no longer have a stomach, I still feel the continuous jolts that tell me I’m plummeting faster and faster – or at least, my head is. As I drop further, the rectangular space starts to contract around my skull, tightening with every floor that whips by, until I sense the metal groan in its desire to vacuum-pack my face. While it’s not succeeding at warping against every fold of flesh, the pressure is growing unbearable, as is my sense that there’s not enough air to last all the way, and that the bottom is still miles down. Does a head have further to travel on its own? I decide to count, but I keep losing track – I think one floor for an elevator comes to at least twenty for a head. The doors open, and I reassemble without fuss.