Six months ago, I moved into a small apartment closer to work. The first three days were quiet, but on the fourth day, well after midnight, a loud noise started coming from below. Someone was shouting, laughing, cursing, banging on the walls, running around the apartment. It seemed like the usual thing—a drinking party at the neighbors'. I couldn't sleep anymore, so I went out onto the balcony for a smoke and looked down. There was no light in the windows, and the street was silent. And there, on the floor below, was a girl sitting on the balcony railing, her legs dangling (my floor is fifteen, and hers, therefore, is fourteen). I was surprised and then cautiously called out to her. She didn't answer. I knocked on my balcony and called her louder—no response. She just sat there, legs dangling, arms outstretched, as if watching something drip down. Meanwhile, the noise, running, and shouting in the apartment she'd left continued.
I called the police to the apartment. When they rang the doorbell and then knocked on the door, everything went quiet. No one answered, but the noise continued a little later, after the police had left. Someone was shouting loudly.
The next day, I went down there myself and rang the doorbell—naturally, no one answered. I asked the neighbors, and a talkative old woman said the apartment had previously been rented out, but had been empty for several months. An unpleasant incident had happened there before: a group of drunks had beaten a girl, and she apparently fell from the balcony.
The next night, there was more shouting. I didn't dare go out onto the balcony. I didn't want to stay in that apartment any longer—I had to move again, fortunately, I hadn't really settled in yet.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz