THE INSURANCE POLICY on the house and my grandma was enough for my mom to rent a place in Queens for a few months until she could find herself a job. Instead, she found herself a boyfriend — Harold — and I kept to myself in the back bedroom that was more of a closet while they got drunk and did things I'd rather not think about. I spent a few years like this, passing the time with books and a tennis ball thrown against the wall until Mr. Deacon next door started banging. The window in my room was locked and dirty, but I could make out a blurry tableau of the street below. A neon sign from the diner on the corner illuminated what was little more than an alley.
Sometimes people eating would be too lazy to walk from the lot a block down and would park behind the building. In doing so, they blocked the dumpster and risked the wrath of Santiago, who ran the place. Santiago was okay — I think he knew my mom was a dud and he didn't make me leave when I would come over on their date nights, sit at the counter, and draw pictures in my notebook. Maybe he was just creeped out by the pictures and didn't want me to go crazy on him. Teeth. Flames. And a shiny red car. Page after page filled with the same.
One night I was in bed, listening to music at the loudest possible volume to drown out the illicit, sometimes violent noises from the other room, when movement through the window caught my eye. Peering through the glass, there was a man slamming the front door of a car parked behind Santiago's place. There were three cars parked in the alley. All of them red.
My breathing quickened, ice splashing over me and freezing me in place. With my face pressed against the class, I could make out a tall man in slacks and a sport coat with a church hat on his head. With tan, leathered hands, he locked the door of the luxury sedan and headed up the alley. My eyes darted around his outline, afraid to look at him straight on, instead taking in little details as I dared to from the edge toward the center. The last thing I looked at was his face.
His skin was normal color and texture, but in the center of his face were two deep gashes in the shape of a cross. One cut across where his eyes should have been, a jagged, gaping wound dripping blood down his chin and ruining his crisp, clean clothes. The vertical gash cut his nose and mouth in half so the sides flapped open like a fish, the face caving in on itself from the lack of structure. Everywhere, there was blood. It left a trail behind him as he reached the corner and headed around the front of the building.
I was breathing so heavily it felt like the loudest thing in the room. I could hear it in my head, the headphones pressed against my ears blocking in the sound. My headphones. I realized the David Bowie that was playing through moments before had gone silent. All I heard was the heavy, ragged breathing.
I gingerly pulled the headphones away from my ears, cold dread creeping up my torso. I willed my lungs still and listened.
The heavy breathing was coming from the headphones. I yelled in horror and dropped them on the ground, stamping my feet against them. With every drop of my foot, a sound came out, louder and louder.
Hungfh. Hungfh. Hughfh.
I ran for the door but it was locked. I slammed my fists against it, screaming for my mother. The sound followed me across the room, echoing up the plain white walls of the room. Hunghf. Hungfh. Hunghf. God dammit mom for once in your life take care of your son! I screamed until my throat was raw and it felt good, a manifestation of the wretched fear and desperation inside of me.
"What the fuck do you want?" She wrenched the door open, her body wrapped in a floral silk robe and a drinking glass in her other hand. "Jesus you're going to wake up the whole damn neighborhood!"
My chest rose and fell rapidly, my eyes swirling wildly as I tried to focus my hearing. It was silent.
When half an hour passed and Harry still hadn't returned from his cigarette break, my mother went looking for him. The police said he had been stabbed 76 times.
