The Color of Dying

by Carlos Colon

  Are you kidding me?

  There’s always that one. And here he comes charging me with a yell. I never understood that. What is that supposed to do, scare me? Did you get a good look at me, idiot? The blitzing punk’s momentum is halted by my grabbing his arm and twisting it around his back, past breaking point. His tortured scream as I throw him face first against a parked car sets another punk off in our direction.

  Man, these fuckers are dense!

  The roaring yell of my antagonist shakes me up so badly that I take him by his shirt and guide his head into a parked car window, letting the shattered pieces of glass sprinkle around him.

  Like I said, someone’s going to hurt.

  Throwing the bleeding-from-the-head unconscious yeller to the street, I step towards the gang inviting any additional comers.

  Anyone?

  I didn’t think so.

  Good.

  Now let me go after my prey.

  #

  I smell his fear. I hear him hyperventilating. My senses are not yet as strong as I need them to be, but they’re slowly coming back. Roberto’s bullet had knocked the crap out of me and whatever was left was exhausted by my tangling with the neighborhood goon squad. And from the sound of it, they apparently didn’t get the message because I can hear them regrouping with intentions of chasing me down like the villagers in Frankenstein. The fact that they’re still a couple of blocks away will give me a little time, but I’d rather not have to scuffle with those imbeciles again.

  My death face is still out for everyone to see. I can see it reflected on the window of a parked car. In order to kill that reflection, or to get myself out of sight I need to feed.

  Now!

  There’s a string of apartment buildings and alleys on both sides of the street. More often than not someone fleeing in fear like Roberto would probably duck into an alley, looking to break the trail. Instead I’m tracing his scent to the building in front of me.

  But I’m weak. I’m losing focus. I can smell him but I can’t pinpoint where. Damn that fucking bullet.

  Blood. I smell blood, sweet, fresh blood, of the quality I rarely get to enjoy. And it smells so fucking good.

  I want it.

  I got to have it.

  I don’t care whose it is.

  Through a window of the tenement in front of me, on the first floor, a lovely young mother, rocking her precious little newborn in her arms.

  A young mother, the blood of a young mother.

  Even more potent, the blood of a freshly born child.

  So sad.

  Wrong place, wrong time.

  In the ongoing struggle between the monster and his genetic resistance, sometimes the monster wins.

  The inside door of a tenement like this is usually locked. To get in you need a key or someone to buzz you in through the intercom. But many times in certain neighborhoods of New York, these doors, like this one, are broken by vandals. It’s a nice building, though, well kept. The lobby’s clean, well maintained. They’ll probably have that lock fixed in twenty-four hours.

  The apartment that offers me the fuel I need to re-emerge is to my left. Inside, the mother sings softly to her child. The baby coos at the comfort of her voice. My shadow casts a looming specter in the otherwise empty hall outside her door, evidence that Death still lurks (we are not supposed to cast shadows).

  The monster is exposed.

  The monster must feed.

  The door to the apartment is locked, but again I am able to force it open. Thanks to the Rebooks, no sounds are coming from my footsteps, only the sound of a nurturing mother and her angelic, dependent child.

  It isn’t a large apartment. It’s more of a warm, cozy nest for a nice couple whose family just had an addition. The child’s bedroom has charming pink decorations on the wall. It’s a baby girl.

  Mommy sets her little princess down in her nicely crafted Cinderella-themed crib. Sweet young mother, innocent child, you do not deserve this. But I hold no responsibility over what I am. I am Death. And I—

  The slam of a door—five flights up, on the roof! It wasn’t vandals that had busted the door in the front of the building. It was Roberto! He had no keys so he threw his body against it to get through.

  A grunt of anticipation escapes me.

  The mother turns.

  Her scream rattles the Disney decorations on the wall above the crib.

  No way the neighbors in the building won’t hear that. I gotta get the fuck out. My real prey is upstairs, on the roof. The faster I get out and feast on the salsa playing brute upstairs, the better chance for me to avoid causing more trouble than I already have.

  Fuck! What did I almost do? Never have I come even close to doing something like that! But then again I never had a bullet bounce around in my brain like a pinball before. I can’t believe what I was just thinking. What about my genetic resistance? Could a bullet through the brain have damaged me that much? As for you, sweet lady, make it a point never to miss another Sunday at Church. God just intervened for you in a very big way.

  Leaping up the steps three or four at a time, I can already taste Roberto’s cerveza-soaked blood pouring down my throat. It reminds me of the feeling I used to get when I passed the Outback Steakhouse on my way home from work.

  Too bad dead guys can’t participate in the Olympics. I must have made it up these flights in record time. The door to the roof has a sign that says open only in the case of an emergency. I think it’s a safe bet that for Roberto this qualifies as one.

  The crisp, cool air of a New York City night kisses my ashen face as I step out on the roof. There is no hostess to lead me to my table but the whimper coming from the opposite end of the roof tells me Outback’s is serving cowardly woman batterer a la carte.

  He’s winded, shivering on the roof’s tar surface in the fetal position. It actually surprises me a little bit, I expected him to have a bit more stamina. I’ve seen trombone players blow those things for hours without even taking a break.

  Anyway, it’s not my problem. He’s got no breath left to run which means his only choice as he sees me approaching, is to beg for his life.

  “Oh God, no, please. I’m so sorry. Please.” The last word barely gets out as he breaks into a pathetic sob. It is such fulfillment witnessing the fright of your prey before you feed, knowing that his body will be lifeless within the next few seconds. Genetic resistance or not, when filth like Roberto is about to become your next victim, it’s easier to understand the joy of the kill.

  Roberto clasps his trembling hands together in prayer as I kneel before him. “Ay, Jesus Crísto, Santa Maria. Ayudame, Dios, por favor, ayudame.”

  It shouldn’t bother me since God and I aren’t exactly on the same team these days, but it does. God steps in to protect young, innocent mothers and babies like the ones downstairs, not a worthless piece of shit like you, you fuck. You have no idea what I almost did because of you.

  “Stop praying. You have no right!” He’s not hearing me. His hands are still together, eyes closed, lips moving. “Stop it, I said. Stop praying, now!” He tapers off a little, but not completely. “NOW!”

  This time I got his attention.

  The prayers stop.

  Good.

  Say goodbye, fucker.

  The sickening wail of the fallen abuser resonates through the rooftops of Rego Park as his unearthly executioner gnaws like a rabid Rottweiler. Below on the street, the Rego Park vigilantes arrive, wondering aloud where the scream is coming from. The whole neighborhood in itself is already in a stir, having heard the scream of a young mother, fearing for her life and that of her child.

  Heads pop out of the windows looking at the commotion forming on the street.

  A vigilante punk wanders in circles, waving his arms maniacally. “Anybody see anything?” Surely somebody did. It’s not like the street was empty. But being New Yorkers, some crazed guy running away from another is probably nothing out of the ordinary (assuming they didn’t get a
good look at my face).

  “Where did he go, where did he go?” he asks to anyone who will listen.

  The answer arrives in a splattered thud on the street, twenty feet behind him.

  “Holy shit!”

  The gang members gape at the gored, headless torso before looking up and spotting their targeted subject on the roof. “Get that motherfucker!”

  Like the Keystone Cops, they charge the entrance of the building seeking another round with the Rego Park demonio.

  When they finally make it up here, they won’t find him. Instead they’ll find the head of a woman-beating trombone player with his mouth wide open, paralyzed in fright.

  Okay, so it was reckless kill on my part, no question about it. And it was in New York, out of my territory. Nonetheless, it had to be done.

  No doubt Travis and Donny will be pissed. They will have sensed this one as it happened and they’ll know it was me. And if that’s not enough, there are going to be smartphone videos all over the ten o’clock news tonight showing a street brawl with some young punks and a guy that looks like he’s auditioning for a Bruce Campbell movie.

  It’s the second ruckus I’ve caused in their territory in less than a week. Yeah, Travis and Donny are going to rip me a new one for sure.

  23

  What was she supposed to do, spend the rest of her life mourning for a husband who spent his last night in bed with another woman?

  We all deserve a second chance at happiness. I got mine when Stefanie put a twenty year hold on the punishing song of Los Ruidos. She deserved a second chance, too. So did Jessie, and so did Davey. My boy was eighteen, looking handsome in his sharp, black dress suit, and his big sister, who had turned twenty-one, was already a clone of her mom, wearing a modest but very charming bridesmaid’s gown. Their mother, the forty-eight-year-old bride, was wearing a cream-colored dress that fit very nicely over her still shapely figure. It was July 1998, ten years after life was sucked out of me by a serpentine redhead at the Ritz-Carlton.

  Stefanie’s side of the family filled up most of the banquet room at the Ardsley Hilton, but friends were there too, along with members of Rippey’s family and his college professor associates. All were there to celebrate the happy bride and groom. The late July sunset and the drive from Newark got me there a little after 10:00 so I could feed my masochistic habit of watching Stefanie become happy again with someone who wasn’t me. Somehow I kidded myself into thinking that the reality in front of my eyes would help me let go. That foolishness went out the window the second I saw the love in Stefanie’s eyes as she danced with her new groom.

  The kids too, had taken to Rippey. He brought a sense of sanity back in their lives. The suffering and embarrassment from my scandalous death was at last beginning to subside. I was an unpleasant distant memory.

  Dominic, Artie and Ramona helped maintain a strong presence for the kids during their growing years, applauding at Jessie’s dance recitals and celebrating Davey’s victories on the baseball field. They were also there to congratulate them for their good grades and beamed proudly as a family at their graduations. Now they were all sharing this special moment together. It was time to say goodbye to the tears and escape the ugly cloud that had followed them for most of the past decade.

  Grandpa Artie and Grandma Ramona looked sprite and energetic at their table, even healthier than their son Dominic, who had by then let himself go considerably. He reminded me of that cop Dennis Franz played on NYPD Blue. By the time I got to the reception everyone had already eaten, had a few too many drinks and was dancing to some really bad disco being played by an overpriced DJ. The more reserved guests were off to the sides having their little chats, like this tipsy group of wine-drinking hens I passed. They were colleagues of Stefanie’s from Fordham University, sharing thoughts of how happy they were that she had found somebody new.

  “Especially after that first son of a bitch left her so humiliated,” said an over-perfumed fish-face whose glass of cabernet mysteriously tipped over on her lavender dress.

  I was then treated to the sight of Rippey and Stefanie playfully dancing to that mind-numbing Macarena. Artie and Ramona also watched happily, enjoying the sight of their daughter smiling again. When that record mercifully ended, the DJ softened the mood with some slow-dance numbers. It seemed to be the preferred music of the evening as the guests filled the dance floor, enjoying the sensual air set by the lush tunes.

  For me the music was drowned out by Los Ruidos, and they picked up a few decibels when Rippey and Stefanie again held each other tightly and looked into each other’s eyes. The room then broke into a large round of applause as they went into a long, deep kiss that hammered a crack in my heart no smaller than the San Andreas fault. But hey, what did I expect? It was a wedding. Was I expecting them to sign a contract and shake hands?

  Torturous as it was, I was still compelled to look. Maybe I thought I could get used to the idea and make it hurt less.

  Boy was I off.

  The first notes of the next tune were vaguely familiar. When the bass came in to flesh out the mood, it became a little more familiar. But when Roberta Flack breathed out the first line of the romantic tune, it then became unbearably familiar.

  Bad move, DJ. You should do your research before taking a job.

  The female guests on the dance floor gasped as a loud sob broke out above the music. When the bride turned away from her husband and ran out of the room in tears, the ladies followed her, leaving their dance partners to wonder what was going on.

  “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”

  Dominic was incensed, both startling and confusing the puzzled guests, who didn’t know where he was venting his anger at.

  Dominic stomped his way towards the DJ. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” I wanted to say the same thing but obviously couldn’t without turning the reception into a fright fest. “Give me that CD!” ordered Dominic. The DJ was as shaken as the guests who stood nervously on the dance floor. “I said, give me that goddamn CD,” he warned.

  The terrified DJ hit the stop button, bringing the room to a sudden silence. He then handed the CD to the seething 260 lb. beast, who promptly broke it in half and threw it back at him. Without offering any explanation, Dominic marched towards the hallway outside the banquet room where his family was trying to comfort Stefanie. She was sitting on a bench with Ramona and Jessie by her side. Artie and Davey were also there lending support while Rippey knelt in front of her and stroked her hair.

  In the banquet room, the bewildered DJ was still looking for a clue as to what just transpired. Rippey’s friends had no answers and neither did some of Stefanie’s friends. They all shared the same quizzed expression. But not the Torres side of the family. They knew. And they probably even had a little sympathy for the DJ who didn’t understand that he had just played the wedding song that Stefanie and I danced to back in 1972. It was an unexpected, hurtful jolt to Stefanie at a time she was supposed to be celebrating the start of a new life.

  “It’s okay, baby,” said Ramona, stroking her daughter’s back.

  Dominic knelt beside Rippey in front of his sister. “You okay, sis?”

  Stefanie responded to no one. She just kept on crying. Artie shook his head, frustrated he could do nothing to soothe his daughter. He settled on taking her hand and giving her what was meant to be a reassuring smile. Instead it made her cry more.

  Dominic rose and turned back towards the banquet room cursing under his breath, not realizing that yet again, like back in the ball park, he was looking right at me—right at the center of my forehead. If I were visible, it would have looked like he was cursing at me.

  Again I checked.

  I was still out of sight, but for how long? The high emotions from hearing that song and seeing Stefanie break down had the potential to weaken me. I was still in there. I was still in there, somewhere in her memory, somewhere in her heart.

  I had to get out. The last thing that needed to happen was for her dead husband to m
ake a sudden grisly appearance. Afraid of knocking something over and creating some sort of poltergeist moment, I restrained myself from bolting out that very second. But to reassure myself, I checked the mirror across the hall. The reflection was still of just Dominic and the rest of the family. When I turned to face him again, I then saw him squint, slightly tilting his head, looking side to side before zeroing in right back at me.

  He was concentrating. Again I resisted moving, for fear that he might hear the rustle of my clothes—and it definitely looked like he was trying to hear something.

  I checked the mirror again—still unseen.

  Dominic’s eyes continued to wander, now roaming above my head as if he were following a fly that he was going to swat with a rolled-up newspaper.

  Suddenly there was no one and nothing else in the hall. Stefanie’s cries had drifted off to the distance. Everyone consoling her had faded from Dominic’s line of vision. His mind was no longer at the Ardsley Hilton sharing space and time with those attending the wedding. He was now focusing at a vague area just below my hairline.

  I remained motionless. His calmness unnerved me.

  Dominic took a deep breath and nodded. He had returned to Earth. The family had soothed his sister while he was away. Not that they’d noticed he was gone, but gone he was. Where? I didn’t know.

  I slowly edged away and backed the hell out of there. For me, this party was over.

  24

  Will her eyes ever again flash that twinkle the way they did whenever she passed her undead friend in the hallways at work? I doubt it. They’re now blackened and swollen shut on a misshapen face that is almost completely purple. Her busted nose is flattened and spread to the sides while her cracked lips hold a loose grip on the respirator that is trying to compensate for her collapsed lungs.

  My distance from Irene, the new third-shift nurse that is monitoring her from the other side of the bed, should be enough that I don’t interfere with the observation of her patient. I haven’t formally met Irene yet, just polite nods when we pass each other in the halls. For all I know, she probably doesn’t really know Veronica either. But whether she does or not doesn’t mean she can’t be shaken by the sight of a co-worker being assaulted to such a level of disfigurement. This is a mother who worked endlessly to support her two boys. What happens to them now? The reality is Veronica Rojas is probably never going to rise from this bed again, which only underscores the fruitlessness of revenge. Even the surge of energy I received from the sanguine geyser that sprung from Roberto’s arteries is now dissipated.