Sing!
It was a rundown building next to the courtyard of a defunct school turned performance space. Bums chilled against the padlocked gate, clutching paper bags by the necks of beer bottles. The door was like the hole of a trapdoor spider or a vacant mine. The brick facade, a discolored grey, sagged.
I entered a vestibule, pressed the button of Apartment 19, glanced behind me, waiting to be jumped. The buzzer sounded and stopped before I pushed the door. Frustrated, I gave the door a whack and it swung open. So much for security.
The slate stairs were steep, the walls, mustard yellow like a mental hospital I once visited on a school field trip. A maroon stripe ran up the wall keeping the handrails company. On the first landing a bottle of Krakus blueberries in syrup sat like a sacrifice to a god. Furtive noises crept from the walls, doors creaked, street snippets seeped in and echoed as the wind sliced through the rotted window frames. I expected to be ambushed from behind any moment. It seemed miraculous that nothing happened, like I was being toyed with or left alone for a more horrible fate.
I should have turned around. I could never feel safe or at home in this building but could I live with myself or face Angela if I let this opportunity slip away? Shelter came before security in the hierarchy of needs.