Seeing Crimson

By K. B. Forrest

What do the Barrios of New York City and Harvard University have in common? Turi Sepulveda soon realizes that it is murder and madness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Dec 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781771113717

Book preview

Prologue

The dry brown oak leaves crumbled easily. The boy uncurled his hand and let the particles drift to the ground. He picked up some of the pliant crimson and gold maple leaves in one hand for a moment, and then set them down on the short concrete wall of the schoolyard. He was waiting for the Potato Chip Man. There was a bulge in the chain link fence above the wall and it bowed out enough to allow the children to extend their hands with their twenty-five cents so that the Potato Chip Man could pass their bags of Wise Potato Chips to them. The boy liked the little owl on the bag. He felt for the quarter in his pocket and waited with hunched shoulders.

Hey, there he is! the boy heard them yell. He looked around despondently and knew the teachers would purposely turn their backs. Even though it was almost an everyday occurrence, he still felt terror spring up and make his knees weak. He couldn’t even run away.

Give me your money, a large, red-faced child demanded.

Other children closed in, snickering and urging him on. The child’s red face was close as he took the boy’s collar into his fist and twisted it, almost lifting him off the ground. He was mute with terror. A wiry black boy pushed his hands into the boy’s pockets until he came up with the quarter, which he handed over to the red-faced bully. The boy felt himself being flung to the ground. He cried out as the concrete scraped the skin of his palms. Kicks rained on him and he curled into a fetal position, yet he was aware of the crowd of children that had gathered to cheer on his attackers.

Stop it right this instant! he heard the yard teacher yell. She was an older woman with carefully coifed gray hair. The children reluctantly made way for her until she stood in front of the bullies who, by that time, had backed away from the boy. The boy looked up at her through his tears.

Get up! she ordered. What happened this time?

The red-faced bully pushed the black boy forward and put his arm over his shoulder protectively. He called Willy a nigger, Teacher, he said with deep indignation as the black child nodded sadly.

Good Lord! the teacher gasped as she slapped a hand over her mouth. Then you deserved what you got! Imagine the nerve! You don’t have my sympathy! She fumed as the small boy sobbed wordlessly.

The boy was ashamed of his tears, but he was helpless to control them. He hated himself for being so weak. He looked down and wished it were over. Just then, the Potato Chip Man arrived, his shopping cart squeaking loudly. Children ran gleefully toward the bulge in the fence and the boy was left alone with the teacher.

This won’t be tolerated, I tell you. If you want the other boys to like you, stop taunting them, she said in a rough whisper. You of all people. The nerve you’ve got!

The boy continued to sob, staring at the floor to avoid her angry gaze, but the teacher’s grip on his shoulder loosened suddenly when she saw another gray-haired woman with a whistle hung on her neck, approaching the yard. Her replacement having arrived, she rushed away, forgetting the boy, happy to finally get to her lunch.

The boy watched as the children exchanged their quarters for little bags of potato chips and he felt the deep loss. He had waited for his treat, and now he had nothing. The children gathered in groups devouring their chips, and then they threw the empty bags to the ground among the fall leaves. The boy sidled toward the fence and looked around. Nobody was looking. He snatched up one of the empty bags and took in the scent of the potato chips. It was wonderful. He bent down and felt for the driest oak leaves, crushing them until they were about the size of potato chips, and then he put them into the bag. It felt just like a full bag of potato chips.

The lunch recess seemed interminable. The boy slowly crushed the leaf-chips until they were like powder. He passed the time like this, standing in that one spot, until the bell rang.

In the classroom, he sat down quickly on the hard plastic seat, hunching his shoulders to look small and invisible. He was different. He never was able to be around other children much. Before he was old enough to start going to school, his mother rarely allowed him to leave the house at all. They never had visitors, so there were many things he didn’t know. He was certain that he was different, but he didn’t know exactly why. He suspected that it was because of the way he went to the bathroom. He had to keep that a secret. The other kids only peed, but he had a hole where shit came out of, like a dog. His mother had called him a dog–yes, she had been appalled whenever he shit his pants. Suddenly his reverie was broken by strident laughter and he looked up to see the class staring at him.

If you can stop daydreaming for long enough to listen, maybe you can keep up with the class and not fail every test! the teacher, Mrs. Kahn, said in a mocking voice.

He loved Mrs. Kahn, but he knew she hated him because of his cowardly nature. And maybe, just maybe, she might know other things about him. She was so beautiful, unlike the gray-haired and mean Mrs. Wolfgang, whom he had secretly nicknamed Mrs. Wolfman. Mrs. Kahn had soft brown hair and a smooth, open face. Suddenly she smiled.

All right now, go out to the hall, look at the clock, and tell me the time, she said kindly.

Terror seized the boy as he stood on legs that seemed like heavy logs. He felt his face redden and sweat broke out as his tears threatened to humiliate him again.

Go ahead, you know where the big hall clock is, she said.

The boy walked out into the silent hall and he heard the twittering giggles that followed him. He stood before the clock and watched the arms move inexorably. They seemed to mock him. He could never tell time when he was under pressure. It was just like math. His mind froze. He knew he couldn’t go back in without an answer. He had to do something. A teacher walked by him and he opened his mouth to ask her, but then she was gone before he’d worked up the nerve. So he stood there for what seemed like an eternity.

What are you doing? Why are you just standing there? Mrs. Kahn asked loudly enough that he heard the class break into uproarious laughter.

She led him back into the class with her hand tight on his shoulder, but instead of allowing him to return to his seat, she stood him before the class.

Quiet class! she hollered. Now tell the class the time.

The class was silent and he dared not look into their mocking faces. He stood staring down until tears cascaded over his long lashes. The class broke into twitters, giggles, and even heaving guffaws.

Sit down. You need to learn how to tell time! Mrs. Kahn railed on, giving his back a little push, but he no longer heard her words.

He slunk back to his seat, worrying about the snot that ran from his nose. He had no tissues and he couldn’t wipe it on his sleeve with all of them staring, so he kept his face lowered.

He farted! the red-faced bully behind him announced loudly, and the boy did indeed, smell a foul odor. He heard the bully behind him pass gas again, but of course, everyone thought it was him.

Teacher, I think he messed in his pants, the bully said as if concerned. The class was nearly hysterical with laughter now and Mrs. Steward from next door poked her head in and conferred with Mrs. Kahn. The boy looked down again as they laughed, and to his horror, his snot washed thinly over his lips and he tasted its slight saltiness.

Eeww, the girls screamed.

In desperation, he wiped at his nose with the edge of his sleeve.

He was pushed roughly from behind.

See you at three o’clock, the red-faced boy rasped.

The dismissal bell finally rang and the children began to pour out of the school. The boy paused for a moment on concrete steps that were covered with old blobs of gum. The boy never took the direct route home. He fled by many circuitous paths, knowing that he’d be beaten up otherwise. His mouth was dry, eyes darting as he chose his route and ran. He got lost in the throng of children and he passed the crowds waiting for the buses. He ran for two blocks in the direction of the busy avenue where the shops lined up one after the other, a stitch in his side making him grimace.

He turned around and looked fearfully. His tormentors weren’t there. He relaxed somewhat and entered the Walgreens. It was a good place to kill some time until the kids cleared up and he could go home safely. He was especially afraid of the red-faced bully and his wiry friend. It seemed that they took their main amusement from pummeling him at least once a day. His only defense was to fall to the ground and roll as they kicked him mercilessly. They had promised to get him after school again, and they must be lurking out there, looking for him.

He went by the lunch counter and inhaled the delicious smell of hotdogs and sauerkraut. He remembered the day his mother had given him enough money to buy one and he had actually stood there alone, but determined. He listened to how the grown-up people ordered. He had to know the right words.

A dog with kraut, he whispered finally, but the waitress made him repeat it three times before she was satisfied that she heard him. The staring customers had had a hearty laugh over this—a hearty, mocking laugh. His stomach had cramped as he tried to push down the tears. He didn’t remember the taste of the hotdog that day.

Now he stood before the candy counter. The bins held potato chips, pretzel sticks, gumdrops, and hard candies, but he settled by the bin with the Halloween candies. The candy was in shapes of corn sheaves, pumpkins, moons, black cats, and apple cider jugs. He tried to see the details on each one, and they seemed to come to life.

What will you have? a woman’s impatient voice asked. He jumped, startled at the sound. Looking up, he saw the clerk standing there with a small white bag and a scoop in her hand.

I…I’m just looking, he said.

Half a pound of licorice, a lady behind him called.

The boy was relieved and he continued to stare at the candy. It wasn’t so much that he was hungry for it. He just loved holidays, and the candy made him think of fields of pumpkins and bright moons over hushed country fields. Suddenly he saw a small white bag being shoved in his face. It was the clerk. She was smiling.

Here kid, she said.

He took the bag and smiled widely. Thank you very much, he recited as his mother had taught him.

He walked out of the store clutching the small bag. The street seemed clear now. He turned and began to walk toward his mom’s apartment. He smiled as he took in the changing leaves. Where they were piled high, he walked through them, churning crimson, gold, and brown together as his heart fairly burst with joy. Life was wonderful! He looked into the bag and saw them—one of every shape! He looked up, smiling. A jack-o-lantern grinned back at him from a doorstep. Fall was the most wonderful season!

From behind him, the arm came down around his neck suddenly and the bag was snatched from his hand. The red-faced bully jabbed his knee into the boy’s back and the black boy in front of him gut-punched him so that he fell to his knees. From behind came a hard kick and the boy assumed the fetal position for the second time that day. A hand grabbed his hair and tried to pull him up, but he clenched his eyes shut and kept his head down. A kick to his head made him see stars on a crimson backdrop. He heard the laughter dying down as he finally sat alone on the pavement, his legs now bent under him. The two boys were some distance down the street, having forgotten him as they stuffed the candy into their mouths.

The vacant lot—he just had to get there. He scrambled up, tears streaming as he wiped at his snot. It was strange that such a big place existed in the city. There were trees and bushes and tall weeds. Most of the time, he could be alone there. He began to run, skirting the block to make certain the boys didn’t see him again.

The boy ran through the weeds, some of them so tall that they slapped his face as if angry with him. He ran until he found his little playhouse in the lot, just as he’d left it. Once he’d wanted to build a tree house there. He didn’t have any wood or nails, no hammer to speak of, so he could do nothing. His playhouse. It was his private place, consisting of a plastic milk crate and several pieces of moldering cardboard to sit on. But he could be happy there. He could be great there, and all of his problems would dissolve, as he became his true self. The thing that kept him going was that he knew that one day he would be great all of the time, just as he was now great only in his daydreams.

The boy dug out a mean-looking knife from under a pile of rocks and felt its sharpness. It felt good in his hands. He had stolen it from a drawer in his mother’s kitchen several months ago, but she never noticed. She never noticed much of anything these days now that the man was around all the time.

He crouched on top of the crate and closed his eyes. He knew where to go. In his daydreams, he was a superhero. He just had to let his mind drift. Shakily he stood on top of the milk crate with the knife in one hand. His eyes never opened.

He was the Hero, now on top of a building with his arms akimbo as he surveyed the city. His cape flapped softly in the fall breeze, which also ruffled his hair. He held his hands in front of him and watched as steel claws sprouted from his fingers and grew long and fierce-looking. He knew he looked handsome and powerful as he looked over his city. The streets were deserted and calm, but he knew that evil lurked not far under the surface. It was a hard job being a superhero, but he loved it. He loved the power and the admiration of the people. There was always someone to save, and he attained his glorious size and power just for this purpose, even though for now, he was cursed to hide in a small, wretched body most of the time. Soon he would remain in his glorious form, but he knew that most of the time he’d have to hide himself like Superman did. He had to act shy and weak like Clark Kent, who was scorned even by the woman he loved. His reverie was broken by a movement.

Suddenly he saw Mrs. Kahn moving along with a large shopping bag in one hand and her purse tightly clutched in the other. Her brow was furrowed with some unknown worry, and the Hero wished he could soothe her. He loved her, although like Lois Lane, who always rejected Clark Kent, she scorned him when he was disguised as a small boy. Also, like Miss Lane, however, she loved him when he was the Hero. He wondered if Superman ever got angry with Miss Lane, just like he got angry with Mrs. Kahn when she acted like that. No, he decided, Superman also had a super heart.

From his vantage point, he saw the two boys, the red-faced one and the wiry black one, now grown and with bulging muscles in their arms and massive chests. They were eying her furtively and seemed to be considering an attack. The black boy, now huge and tall, blew snot from one nostril as he held the other. A mean smile covered the red-faced man’s mug, and he scratched his crotch vigorously. Mrs. Kahn appeared to be struggling with her bags when the two thugs rushed her and began to pummel her from all sides. One of them pulled on her blouse and took a peep at her boobs and the other was about to pull up her skirt, just like they did to the girls in the schoolyard. He wanted to see her panties—he might even try to pull them down! Mrs. Kahn dropped her bags and screamed.

The Hero leapt from the building and he was at her side in an instant. He struck first at the one who was still gazing at the teacher’s boobs. He looked surprised, but he raised his meaty fists in a challenge. The Hero responded by allowing his vicious claws to extend with a smooth, metallic sound that seemed to freeze the pair of villains. The black one’s mouth was wide open now in an unuttered scream and the red-faced scoundrel blanched white. In a twinkling of an eye, the men were running, screaming for their lives. They might have been big and muscle-bound, but he was the Hero! With his superpowers, he could vanquish an army of such foes. Like Superman, he had only one weakness, but that didn’t bother him now. He looked down into Mrs. Kahn’s eyes, for he was tall—a hero. She threw her arms around him and began to kiss his cheeks. He was aware of the lipstick smudges she left as she fervently thanked him.

Suddenly the Hero felt himself shrinking and shrinking until he realized that she was holding him in her arms as if he were a small boy again. He felt his steely claws begin to retract. No! He would soon be an ordinary boy again. A small, frightened, hated, ugly, stupid boy! He struggled to get out of her grip, but she held him there. Over her shoulder, he saw the boys laughing too. They were watching. They’d been watching all along!

They were mocking him. They were taunting the Hero! It had all been a plot. His disappointment was intense as he realized that Mrs. Kahn had been in on their plot to mock him. Their ridicule was like poison to him. It was like Kryptonite was for Superman. It was his one weakness.

He suddenly embraced her and dug his claws into her back as she taunted him with her fake screams. First peals of laughter tore from her throat, but they quickly turned into screeches of pain. She screamed and screamed as his clawed hands pulled back the skin of her back in long sheets. Below, he knew he would find the fiendish creature that had taken over Mrs. Kahn’s body. He had only to uncover it. He worked feverishly at her skin until he’d ripped it off of her back completely and she lay unmoving.

His lovely daydream had gone bad, but a wild and unfamiliar terror seized him as he felt the sticky blood and he fell down to the sidewalk on top of Mrs. Kahn’s body. It had all been a bad dream. But there was also something else that fluttered in his mind. Revenge.

Chapter One

Turi Sepulveda could see Logan Airport below him and he squirmed again. His headache was worse, but it always got worse when he was tense. It was only the second time he’d ever been in the air and he was certain he’d rather walk. The middle-aged mother seated next to him was bouncing her baby hard enough that he could smell the feces in the diaper whoosh out each time it flopped down. It was screaming and screaming until its red face appeared ready to implode, but it had been doing that since the pair had plopped down next to him at Dulles International Airport.

He hadn’t been the only Texan who’d stowed his cowboy hat in the overhead compartment, but he still worried about bags crushing it. Now however, as a stream of baby vomit hit his jeans, he was glad he had. The mother offered him a damp tissue and smiled.

It’s a challenge, she finally said brightly. It was the first time in that interminable flight that she’d said a word to him. The woman in the seat behind her, the one she’d been turning around to talk to as her baby cried nonstop, had gone to use the restroom.

But I’ve never regretted this little miracle for a moment, she informed him. The baby vomited again. So, visiting your folks? Or are you going to perform in a rodeo? Oh, no offense if you are, but I personally think rodeos are nothing more than animal abuse, pure and simple, she declared over the din of her baby’s furious screams.

Turi Sepulveda wished he could figure out a way to politely plug his abused ears, but he felt sorry for the poor baby. He was, in fact, a veteran bull rider, and although he could also boast of being one of the best team ropers in Texas, he was not going to Boston to rodeo. Right now, he wondered what the hell he was doing going there at all. He turned without answering and looked out the small window.

Now, Amber! the woman cooed to her struggling infant. Stop crying, dearie. There’s a man here who’s obviously not learned to share his personal space with a baby. Let’s not get him annoyed—he doesn’t know he’s being selfish, but one day he might have a little one of his own and then he’ll know the joy.

The other woman had returned from the can and the mother was looking at her and smiling as she spoke these words. Turi turned slowly, his face steely. The woman’s face went slack and she looked away. The baby stopped crying and smiled at Turi, holding her little arms out to him. Turi began to extend his hand, but the alarmed mother yanked at the baby, starting the screams again.

As the plane began its descent, Turi’s hands balled and he looked out the window again. His ears popped and he tried to remember any prayer he could, but all he could think of was his mother kneeling with them around her bed as they looked at the picture of the Virgin Mary. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuesta muerte… Was that right? He clenched his eyes shut and the plane suddenly bounced off the tarmac a few times before he felt the smooth roll of its wheels. Thank God the trip is over.

The stewardesses came by to help the elderly and those with babies out first. Turi leapt forward as the woman with the baby pulled her bag from the overhead compartment, dumping his good hat to the floor where she was now aiming her fold-up stroller. He caught the hat, but got tangled with the stroller. The mother yelped and began to complain to the stewardess about how rude the man next to her had been during the long trip. The stewardess nodded gravely, but as soon as the mother turned, she rolled her eyes in Turi’s direction, indicating that she too, was about to throttle the inconsiderate woman.

Turi felt no better as he made it out of the plane and headed to retrieve his luggage. He was anxious now as he remembered the knife he’d stashed in his bag. He wondered if they’d be waiting to arrest him, but no sirens greeted him as he snatched it up. Maybe he could leave it behind him after all. But his stomach churned with anxiety and he knew he had to have the knife.

He wished he’d waited for a few days! Why had he come so early? Why had he agreed to come for that minority thing? The minority students had been invited to come early so they could be shown around and be given special treatment. He snorted. What was he thinking?

The airport was huge and he was lost. He followed the crowd as they spilled out into the street and started hailing cabs. One after another, they were picked up, and finally a dirty looking old cab pulled up in front of him.

Hey, if you’re looking for a horse, ya ain’t gonna find one here. Do ya want a ride? the driver asked in a nasal South Boston accent.

Turi frowned, but he nodded.

So get in already, the driver said, lighting a cigarette. Mind if I smoke? Of course not, you’re the Marlboro Man, fahcrissake. Where to?

Harvard University campus, Turi