Walking Home

Frankie, a boy who lived in a garden apartment about ten doors up from mine, invited me and a bunch of other kids to watch television. He was the only one in the neighborhood who had a set. Hardly anyone invited me to their house for any reason so I was super excited. I begged my mother to let me go. She asked what the program was. I had no idea. She asked if I was sure I wanted to go. I nodded, never having seen television. I told her I thought it was like going to the movies only with a smaller screen. She agreed to let me go.

I was nine, looking forward to seeing something I’d never seen before. I skipped up the street to his apartment, rang the bell, and waited for someone to let me in. His mother opened the door, welcomed me in, and showed me where the TV room was. I couldn’t imagine a room just for television, but there it was.

A few kids were huddled around the small black and white set, grudgingly making a space for me. The program began with music that sounded menacing. When I tensed up, Frankie saw me and explained it was just setting the tone for the program. I felt unsettled but everyone else seemed to be having a good time, teasing each other about how many murders they would see.

The first scenes showed a man being attacked outside a bar. Police were called. The tension of the drama was playing out inside me. It was as if I were watching a real murder in real time. I looked at the others who were raptly paying attention, obviously enjoying every minute of the show. They didn’t look the way I felt. Scared. 

I was relieved when the ads came on. The others groaned at the interruption. The program continued. I was upset by the violence and closed my eyes but couldn’t shut out the voices, spelling out gruesome details of what was happening. More ads. A bit of relief.

The music, filled with foreboding, scared me so much I thought about leaving even though the program had more than half an hour to go. When it resumed, the violence was frightening. I had trouble breathing. I needed to go. Right away. I told Frankie my parents wanted me home by 8:30 even though the show ended at 9:00. The kids ignored me as I left.

I had skipped to his apartment in anticipation of seeing a television program. Now, I ran to my apartment as fast as I could, worrying about every sound I heard, checking to see if anyone was following me.

When I was safely inside, I closed and locked the front door, breathing heavily, still frightened.

It was the first and last crime drama I ever watched.


What happens to your body when you’re afraid?

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august 2025 stories