One Event: Two Stories

I found another writing exercise from the fiction writing techniques course. This time I remember what the instructor asked of us. She wanted us to recall an event from our early childhood and write down what we remembered and how we felt about it, all from our perspective as children. We were asked to then write about that same event from our adult perspective. I chose to write about a man I remember seeing at the bottom of a flight of stairs one night when I couldn't have been any older than four years old. Years later, I asked my mother about that night and the gaps she filled in for me blew my mind.
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According to a child:

There was loud knocking on the door one night. Mama got up from the table where she read her books and opened up the door. A nice lady that came by the house all the time started laughing and pulled on Mama’s arm to come outside with her. Mama told me to stay there in the living room and then she left with the lady. I was so scared because I heard noise outside, people were opening up their doors and coming outside like Mama had done. I waited a little while then opened the door anyway and went outside too. Our apartment was right next to the stairs that went down to where the big tree was. People stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a dead man laying down there. He looked like the dead people that were on tv and had some leaves in his hair. He had on some jeans and was laying on his back. There was a man standing over the dead man pushing him but he wouldn’t move. The lights on the side of the building were shining down on him and I saw that his eyes were closed and his mouth was open. He had a lot of hair on his face. More people came up behind me to look. People just stood around looking at him. Mama and the woman were still talking like nothing was wrong. I was so scared. Mama saw me and started yelling at me to go back into the apartment. Mama stayed gone for a long time and I sat on the couch watching the flashing lights on the curtain. I was so scared because Mama was still out there with the dead man. When she finally came back in she told me to go to bed, but I kept asking her what had happened. But she just kept saying that I was too young to know. I had a nightmare about that man because he was so close to our front door and he was dead.

According to an adult:

My mother was up late studying at her desk in the living room of our off-campus apartment. I was sitting on the couch doing whatever it is that only children do to occupy themselves. I heard a commotion outside and then a frantic knock at the front door. My mother rushed to open it and there stood her friend and neighbor who always came by to visit us. She was laughing and practically pulled my mother outside; it made my mother laugh too. My mother told me to stay put, and I really did try, but I was such an anxious child and rarely listened to her warnings. I stood at the closed door for a few moments while listening to the hurried footsteps and excited verbal exchanges on the other side. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door, peeked my head outside, and looked to my left where the stairway and the people were. We were on the top level of the two-level building. Being such a small child, everyone seemed like giants. I didn’t spot my mother right away. I made my way between the denim clad legs until I made it to the top of the stairs and was able to look down to see what held everyone’s gaze. It was a man in a contorted pose, mouth agape, with leaves and debris in his hair. I remember being very frightened at the sight of this man. At my young age, I thought that he was dead, what child wouldn’t think it, he was lying there motionless with someone standing over him poking him. It took years for the memory of this night to return to me and for me to ask my mother if I was finally old enough to know what happened that night, and for her to tell me exactly who that man was. She laughed and told me that she couldn’t believe that I remembered that, I couldn’t have been any older than two and a half years old she said. My mother said his name was Smitty, a university police officer that had actually just left our apartment along with her friend and neighbor. I’m amazed that I didn’t remember my mother having company, only she and I having a quiet evening at home. Smitty, who had a tendency to drink in excess, and the neighbor left leaving my mother to continue her studies. Some time later, as he walked down the stairs, he tripped and fell to the ground below, and during the tumbling, picked up some debris. It wasn’t a dead man that I remembered, just a man who had passed out from an over indulgence in alcohol.