Personal Narrative: Observation In Latin America

It’s Monday, December 9th. Today just seems unusual, like something big is going to happen! I wonder what it will be for a split second, then go back to studying for the Latin America quiz we have tomorrow. Mr. Fielder announces what questions we should highlight on our worksheets. I watch him go back to his desk. I look up and out the window, I see the glistening shimmer of fresh snow dancing in the sky. I cherish every second of it, wishing the time would go by slower. As time creeps closer to 12:20 p.m., the more I shudder at the thought of having to go to room 224. I finish making my flashcards, using splendid handwriting, and proper spelling and grammar. The clock whispers 12:18 p.m. in my ear, I turn white as a ghost. “Good work today
I said elevator, but this is not your traditional elevator. The elevator is 13 steps east of the stairs, no matter what size your foot is it’s always 13 steps, always. I tread over to the elevator and press the only button there, the down button. The elevator only goes down, can only fit one person, and if you're lucky, maybe a backpack! The elevator door dings open and spits a massive dust cloud at me, telling me to go back. I stumble into the elevator, and grasp my stuff for dear life. The interior of the elevator is painted black, so you can’t see the blood splatters. There is only one light that dangles by a fragile piece of string. It’s constantly swaying, and never stops flickering. You don’t want to be in the elevator when the lights go out completely, you never know what kind of crawly things come, out to bite
The elevator tells me we settled, on the last floor, with a ding, and a screech, elevator doors open. I step out unsteadily. There is only one hallway in the basement, that leads to the only classroom and back to the elevator, or stairs. The classroom is dead ahead. Mr. Fiedler must have let us out really early. I reach the door, it has the body of an oval, with two black windows, but you can’t see anything through them. The door is scorching hot with a massive layer of ash. Scarcely attached to the door, is a charred Christmas wreath buried behind dozens of murky chains. Cautiously, I grab my plastic flimsy ruler. Snap! I break the ruler on my leg, holding my fingers as distant as I possibly can, I swiftly open the door, with only half, of the injured ruler