A Moving Experience

Flatmates are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.

Some are sweet and delicious. Others are tangy and exciting.

And every once in a while, you hit upon a real nut.

* * *

"I'm a poet," declares Miljana.

Wow, I think, this is great.

I know people who write. People my age. Usually they modestly say that they 'try to write' or 'try to become writers'. I have not heard anybody being so confident before.

"I also paint, I do sculpture... You know, you have to do everything."

This is even better!, I think. She's a real artist! I love this place already!

So I was introduced to my new home.

And no. Miljana's not the nutjob.

* * *

"I will keel you! I will keel you!" he shouts, as he pushes me again, and again. "Go to your rrroom! Go to your rrrom!" I stumble backwards, madder and madder, and it takes all my willpower not to hit him back. Then he grabs my throat, and I think, oh no you don't, this really is a bit much; I grab his thumb and the hand comes off quite easily. We're at the end of the corridor now, he pushes me again and I hit the handle of my door; next, I find myself lying on my bed. I still don't want to hit him back, I just stick out my knee and instead of lunging at me, he hits himself in the groin. "You're mad," I say, furious and amazed. "You'rrr making me madd!" he screams, for a fraction of a second there's a pause and I wonder whether he finally got out of his affect; he stares right at me, and then can't stop himself from slapping me.

I don't offer him the other cheek. But although my blood is boiling, I don't slap him back.

Gandhi would be proud.

Then he leaves.

* * *

No, I was not scared. It is a little hard to explain, but I wasn't.

What I was was angry. Mad, furious, screamingly, volcanically, earth-shatteringly angry. (I still feel an echo now, just writing about it.) So angry that when I stood up to him, the adrenaline made me shake with fury.

I did not expect him to work himself up into such lather that he would actually attack me. He was shouting, threatening, as if spoiling for a pub fight - "What is theess? What is theess? You want to go outside?! You want to go outside?!" - and I was just standing there, my legs planted wide, my arms at my hips, not giving in an inch even when he moved his nose a centimetre away from mine while he kept shouting; and speaking really quietly, remembering the advice - thank you Mr. Holland! - that when you drop your voice in confrontational situations, people are forced to pay more attention to you.

And yet, though I did not make a move, it did not help. He literally worked himself up so much that he pushed me.

And I did not push him back. Mad as I was, ready to explode, I did not.

I was not scared. All my fear somehow got transformed into anger, and I was ready to go hit him so hard that he would not get up.

Which is precisely why I did not.

A lightning series of thoughts struck me struck me, more in images than in words, the moment I felt myself stumbling backwards and all but raising my hands to push back: suppose I do, suppose I do touch him; then it's a real fight, and I am as implicated as he is. And somebody will get hurt. I know it. Somebody will. I feel no fear for myself, I do not feel afraid of pain - I am scared that I will somehow manage to hurt him. Not on purpose - a vague memory floats to the surface of a boys' fight, in which somebody's head gets banged on the radiator - but once I start hitting back, there is no telling where it will end. I am two days ago from handing in the thesis; I see him lying there in a pool of blood, police, a trial - who cares that I would be innocent of any wrongdoing, do I really want to go through this? No.

So I do not hit him. I step forward, I stand my ground, I shake so much I could power a small electric device, I fume.

I do not hit him.

* * *

I feel very proud of myself afterwards. He screamed at me, he pushed me, grabbed my throat, slapped my face - and I did not hit him back.

And I feel humiliated. He screamed at me, he pushed me, grabbed my throat, slapped my face - and I did not hit him back.

I am not surprised at the mix of feelings. I know I will not be able to work now. I sit down, cross-legged, close my eyes, and try meditating - for the first time in my life trying to use it to make myself feel better, not to achieve any 'higher end', as I used to think about it. It works, sort of; after two hours, I am quite calm, although still not completely so. I decide to finally deal with the bag of old fruit that I haven't touched since moving, and start making jam. Yeah, I know. But I really do.

(Later, the anger comes back, in waves. Not sleeping is not new or strange, but it is really unpleasant to feel so furious. I keep imagining the situation, or rather a similar one, in which I would not hold back this time; I would break his nose, his teeth, hit his chin, his temples, get him down, beat him to a bloody pulp. Yeah, I know. But really, I did not. And it is unpleasant, I wish I could just think of something else and get rest; I get up and do some work and it does help some; but it still takes until six in the morning before I manage to sleep.)

* * *

Immediately after the incident, however:

I call the landlady. Jasia is so shocked she goes and wakes up poor Robert, asleep for the past hour after having been up all night. They both apologise to me, I say it's not their fault, and Robert promises to come the next day, when he is in London.

I call the police. On the non-emergency number. I am not quite sure what I want them to do, I don't really see much that they can do, but perhaps they have some idea. I certainly want to report what happened; no way that my warnings to him are going to be just empty threats. The voice at the other end is helpful, polite, friendly. The man asks me whether I want them to come investigate. No, I say; I don't want to involve uniforms any earlier than necessary; I have a feeling that this card should only be played when things really get out of hand, for after all, nothing really happened to me.

"You're going down, my friend," I say menacingly when I see him in the kitchen two minutes after the phone calls. "I'm not your frriend! I'm not your frriend!" he shouts, and I wonder for a second whether it's about to start all over again. "No, you're certainly not," and you could glue on wallpaper with the sarcasm in my voice, it's so thick. "You're crazy - I did not do anything to you, I did not touch you, and you started hitting me" - am I really trying to explain, am I really still trying to be reasonable? Yes, apparently I am. Can't help it, habit of a lifetime. "You were challenging me! You were challenging me!" he keeps screaming, as if he had hit upon some great clever justification of his behaviour.


(tbc)