The Man in 417

While I was part of a writing group a few years back, I remember thinking... It is very difficult to write fiction. I noticed that one of our writing groupies, just wrote... about life, and experiences, daily stuff, places she has been, things she had done.   I thought - that's what I need to do. Start writing "my stories", rather than a big long book - I will do short stories of events, and things in my life.  When the #metoo movement hit, there were a lot of memories that popped up from my past. Some were uncomfortable, and some I still try and push to the back of my mind.  One of the books we read in the book club triggered  many of those memories.  Here's one of them from my little book of short stories I'm working on:  

The Man in 417

Reading the book "I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death" by Maggie O'Farrell, I was triggered while listening to her incident on the walking path.  It brought me back to my own experience with a boy – a young man really, that lived down the hall from me.  

I was young. Maybe 15. He was close to 20 or older, I’m sure.  We were chatting at the recreation centre down the road, and we ended up walking back to the apartment building where we both lived.  We lived on the same floor – actually just a few doors down from each other – me with my parents, in 414, and he alone in a bachelor apartment. Number 417.  He asked me to come in.  I hesitated, but then thought it would be nice to keep chatting. Probably not the best choice I could have made. We sat on his couch, which I believe was also his bed, and he got us a drink; a very strong rye and coke. After a bit more talking, he leaned over to kiss me – I pulled away slightly, but his lips caught the side of my mouth.  I got up fairly quickly, and said I should probably leave.  He moved ahead of me, and stood in front of the door. He blocked me, and would not let me out.  I know what he wanted, and I was not prepared to give it to him. I don’t know what I said to make him come to his senses, but he moved away from the door, and let me open it and leave.  I heard it slam behind me.  I was shaking.  I headed to my apartment, and  hurried inside.  That was close…

Every time I went out and every time I came home, for a very long time, I would turn to the right and run down the stair well to the outside. I would come in that way too, and hike up 8 flights of stairs to the 4th floor – I dared not pass his apartment, for fear he would open the door right at the time I was passing by. I never wanted to see him again. I don’t think I did.