The Accursed_A Dark Psychological Thriller Novel

by J. Koratzanis

  Glass exploded and glittered over Chase and struck him from his imminent slumber.

  Why? He would finally go night-nights, just like Daddy promised.

  Globs of black mucus hacked up as the fresh air challenged Chase’s swollen lungs. Through blurred eyes, he watched the black smog suck out through the window and a hand reached through.

  SPOFFORD

  I

  His consciousness jolted when the steel frame of the stretcher clanged against the bumper of the ambulance.

  Chase’s head rocked side to side as the blood from his lips splashed onto the obnoxiously white linens. The Velcro straps around his wrists and chest snagged against the paramedic’s jump seat. The chair spun and crashed back into the side of the gurney.

  Fireflies the size of pterodactyls burned in the back of his eyes as the penlights scanned across. The blues, whites, and yellows of a Van Gogh-like twirl in his mind ramped up along with the ceaseless questions and answers at varying RPM’s upon his warped turntable.

  Green elastic bands snapped around the back of his head and snarled his hair as the paramedic covered his nose and mouth with a soft plastic gasket. A finger slipped below the band and broke the knot of hair free. Chase gagged through his arid throat before the squeak of a lever and the hiss of releasing pressure forced its way into his weakened lungs.

  A hand struggled to rise from its constraints as he tried to speak. Sanguine fluid and expectoration spattered against the inside of the oxygen mask.

  “Fuck. Replace. I don’t want him choking on his own blood,” a Minnie Mouse voice said.

  Nickelodeon-like vision glimpsed at hands that undulated in quavered, sepia-toned progression. One paramedic removed the splattered mask as the other swapped it out with perfect syncopation. Echoed voices fought to clarify in his ears as he strained to listen to his would-be saviors.

  “Sir, can you tell me your name,” Chase heard within the tumultuous vortex of his mind.

  “Romano, Chase. Twenty-eight-years-old. No priors,” someone else said. Maybe male, maybe not. The turntable sped up to seventy-eight.

  “Think he’ll make it?” another Mickey Mouse voice, or the same one, said.

  He plummeted again as gravity sucked with a mighty force before he splashed into the cold, foul, tempestuous ocean of dissolution.

  “We’ll do what we can.”

  II

  The soot and exhaust stained façade of the Spofford Juvenile Detention Center towered over the Hunt’s Point neighborhood in nauseating shades of ash and fawn, as its exterior mirrored the trepidation of the interior. It was a place many called home. Whether it was because they drifted over the lines of societal reciprocity, or simply those who were unplanned, unwanted, the estranged children of New York City resided here until their sentences expired, legal age of adulthood turned up, or they were luckily accepted into the New York City Foster program.

  Lucky. Yeah, right.

  Chase had been tucked away there for less than two years. Twenty-two months of fear and pain that no child should ever endure. Especially one who didn’t deserve to be there. One his extended family refused to face.

  Chase knew he was going home, wherever that might have been, and he couldn’t wait. The comparative meetings with various families, though drawn out and confusing, was the only hope Chase held onto when he prayed.

  At last, from the dozen meetings, one family wanted him as their own.

  Didn’t they?

  Waiting had become a sickening habit over the last six months.

  When he was old enough to somewhat understand where he was, he waited to find out what happened to his Daddy. Never was there an answer.

  “Mommy went with Jesus,” one social worker told him.

  “Your Mom’s dead,” another said. “She’s not coming back.”

  He didn’t wait for her.

  He never learned her name. Or Daddy’s. The case of New York State vs. Romano was sealed, and not even Chase could know what happened until he reached legal age. It was something he never considered.

  He waited for playtime which seemed to distance themselves with each passing day and each passing week. And when it was lights out, he waited for the dawn, anxious, and hoped he would see the morning sun once more.

  His last roommate, James “Jimmy” Johnson, a boy nearly twice his age, was classified as a JD, a Juvenile Delinquent, and cried himself to sleep most nights curled up u his vomit green foam cot. And at age eleven, he never understood why he was ordered to spend one-hundred eighty days in detention for wearing a stolen watch.

  He didn’t steal it. He didn’t ask for it. It came from his older brother, Traci, who gave it to him as a congratulatory gift for signing up for boxing lessons at Gleason’s Gym. As his family lived well below the poverty line, he was accepted into the charitable New York City Police Athletic League’s Fists for Fun program.

  James wondered where his unemployed, seventeen-year-old brother would have earned the money to buy a Tag Heuer, but never questioned him about it.

  “Just don’t let mom and pop see it,” Traci told him.

  Maybe James should have been warned not to let the beat cop on Ralph Avenue and East New York see it either.

  “Hey, kid. That’s one fancy piece you’ve got there,” officer Bell said. James considered his watch, then back to the cop, and smiled wide.

  “Thanks!”

  A few innocent, but strategic questions later, and James wondered why he was escorted into a cinderblock room and cuffed to a stainless-steel table in the Seventy-Eighth precinct. And apparently being in possession of stolen goods is just as bad as stealing. His mom and pop were nearly arrested themselves when they unleashed on him in front of the Captain when James refused to snitch on his older brother.

  Chase knew it wasn’t fair. But neither was his mother being dead and not being able to see his father ever again.

  He couldn’t remember what happened. Who can remember anything from when they were just barely three-years-old? Show Chase someone who can, and he’ll show them a liar.

  He liked James. A lot. Chase thought he was nice. Especially since James looked out for him. Whether it was the older juvies that beat the shit out of younger kids for fun, or the smuggle of Twinkies, a considered contraband out of the cafeteria, or the lurk of intake officer Chuck “the Fuck” Clementé, who was never indicted for sodomizing six boys who filed complaints, James was there.

  Chase never got to say goodbye to James. The last he saw of him was in the cafeteria that last day.

  The late-July sun sliced through the barred windows, and stabbed cross-hatched shadows across the bolted-down tables, chairs, and the stained and faded white and blue checkered linoleum tile floor. The horizontal beams of ionized mercurial fixtures did nothing but even out the electrical budget for the city, considering the air conditioning crapped out a few days before the Fourth.

  Emotions soared higher than the thermometer that day, and the staff sensed it. A thick, invisible clot of anger and frustration that barely moved as the meandering occupants slogged through to their places and stations, remained steadfast in its repression.

  Chase sat alone at the table closest to the boys’ room. Though he had to deal with the nauseating stench of digested New York City Department of Health approved microwaved meatloaf, withered string beans, and syrupy fruit cups, it was the only place in the cavernous room for solitude and safety.

  “Romano,” a voice startled Chase.

  His head jerked up and he choked on a bite of the garish loaf. The sting of dried bits of meat in his throat was joined with stomach acids as he stared deeply into the eyes of Chuck the Fuck. The onset of arcus senilis circled his dark Italian corneas and painted his deceptively warm gaze with a repulsive appetite. A few dozen pounds beyond portly, his waddling girth barely made it through the aisle of tables. Chase’s fingers wiggled, and his jaw clenched.

  “Congratulations, kid. You made bail,” Chuck said. His grin displayed candy corn colo
red and shaped teeth and creased the Shar-Pei folds in his cheeks and crow’s feet beside his eyes deeper.

  “What do you mean?” Chase said. Chuck put his catcher’s mitt of a paw on Chase’s shoulder and gently massaged.

  “Your new family is on their way. You’re going home.”

  Chase beamed. His hands settled, and his jaw loosened.

  “Come on. I was sent to take you back to discharge.”

  Chase scanned the room. James wasn’t sitting with Chase. He wasn’t allowed to. The other African-American boys had given James more than enough warnings not to associate with that no good, fuckin’ grease ball-cracker, in the daylight.

  Chase stood up. So, did James across the room. The two other kids who sat with James noticed. Chase mouthed IM GOING HOME.

  James returned a smile.

  “Yo, nigga. You best not be looking to kiss your boyfriend goodbye,” a boy said to James.

  “No. It’s not that,” James started. “Look who came to get him.”

  “Clementé?” Another boy said.

  “So, what, nigga? ‘Bout time Chuck shopped in his own deli,” the other said.

  “No. Fuck that. Romano’s going home with his ass intact,” James said and stepped away. Both boys arose from their seats.

  “Don’t do it, nigga. What do you think Traci would do if he found out you saved some cracker white-boy?” one said.

  James stopped and looked back. “Traci do what’s right. He’d be cool with it.”

  Both boys burst into laughter.

  “Yeah! Traci always do what’s right! His baby brother’s standing six months in juvy for him!”

  “James, Marlon, Clarence! Sit down. Now,” an officer shouted.

  Marlon and Clarence’s heads snapped sideways in unison. Clarence’s jaw went slack, and Marlon’s eyes burned with rage.

  “Man? Fuck you, Murphy! Mind your own potato-eating, cracker business,” Marlon said. He pronounced it bid-niss.

  Officer Murphy glowered at the boys and reached for his shoulder-mounted radio.

  “Support. Cafeteria,” he whispered, not taking his gaze from the boys.

  “Oh shit, yo! You see that?”

  “Yeah, nigga.”

  “He just called back up,” Clarence said.

  “Cool. Nigga can use a vacation,” Marlon said and sprinted towards Murphy.

  Chuck patted Chase on his buttocks. A middle finger rested into his crack.

  “Come on, kid. That’s our cue.”

  Chase couldn’t utter a sound. His hands trembled, his jaw clenched, and his bladder squeezed out a few drops. Chuck noticed.

  “Wow. Someone’s excited. Off we go,” he said and led Chase out of the cafeteria by his neck.

  “No!” James yelled and leaped across the tables towards the exit.

  Boys of every color and ethnicity, age and social status took to their feet and lobbed food, milk cartons, and trays at James. Chase turned back, as a frisbeeing steel tray caught James in the temple and pinwheeled him sideways into a group of Latinos.

  Murphy screamed into his radio.

  “Backup! Backup! Code ninety-nine!”

  Marlon lunged and grabbed Murphy by his face. They tumbled together to the floor and disappeared into the melee.

  Officers stormed the cafeteria more like Keystone Cops than trained anti-riot police. Billy-clubs smashed against knees and lower backs as steel trays clanged against officers’ helmets and visors. A cacophonous roar of a hundred angry inmates bled into the corridor Chase and Chuck escaped through.

  Left turns and right, Chuck waddled as fast as his arthritic hips would allow.

  “Wait,” Chase said. “Discharge is this way.” He pointed to the corridor that fell away. “I know. I’ve been to the Discharge Lady a lot.” Chase held up his fingers.

  “First things first,” Chuck huffed. “In here.”

  He shoved Chase into the storage closet at the end of the hall. Chase tripped over the slop bucket and gallons of bleach in the far corner.

  “You’re gonna have to make it quick. Those fuckin’ moulinyans killed the clock for me.”

  Chuck slammed the door. The bolt didn’t catch, and he didn’t hear the creak as it eased open a few inches over his huffing.

  He forced Chase to his knees with one hand and struggled with his belt buckle stuffed deep under his overhanging gut with the other.

  “You were a good boy in minding your own business. Especially after that other Bunkie of yours tried to say I hurt him. Not my fault he couldn’t fit the ol’ Italian sausage,” he panted.

  Tears squirted from Chase’s lids. He clamped them shut and hoped, prayed this was all just some horrible nightmare. His mouth quivered open, and clear snot dribbled into his open maw.

  “Come on, baby! We wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think you were pretty,” Chuck smirked.

  The remaining contents of Chase’s bladder expelled, and the malodorous scent floated to his nostrils. The throbbing pulse in Chuck’s slacks didn’t notice as his stubby fingers struggled against the brass buckle.

  Chase jerked back. A deafening thud whipped the solid oak door open as it crashed into the supply shelves. Cleaner spray-bottles, paint scrapers and boxes of rubber gloves tumbled to the floor.

  “What the fuck’s going on in here,” a man’s voice commanded.

  Chuck choked on his own saliva as his hand jammed into the open zipper. Either to hide his unwavering bulge or fondle it.

  “Help me,” Chase whimpered.

  The officer yanked Chase back by his khaki shirt collar. Chuck babbled and grunted.

  “You’re a fucking dead man, Clementé!”

  “But, Xavier! It wasn’t my fault! He wanted this,” Chuck said.

  “Where’re you supposed to be, son?” Xavier said, still scowling at Chuck.

  “Dis— Dis— Discharge,” Chase wept. “Chuck said I was going home.”

  Xavier’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re the Romano boy?” he said. He returned his revulsion to Chuck. “I was supposed to escort him, you sick bastard. You’re intake. Caught you red-handed this time, Clementé! Red-fuckin’-handed.

  “Let’s go kid. Your family’s waiting.”

  He took Chase by the hand and stepped out of the storage room. He turned back.

  “I’d kill myself if I were you, Chuck. Attempted sodomy on a five-year-old? Holy shit, that’s gonna be fun to explain at Rikers,” he finished and pushed into the waves of storming police.

  Chase gazed back one last time and gawked as Chuck the Fuck raise one of the Clorox bottles to his lips.

  III

  Although they had previously met on three occasions in between other families, Chase shot into the Discharge Office and plunged into the arms of his new Foster-mother, Linda O’Connor. She cast aside her flowing tress of raven-colored locks and smiled. But her deep blue eyes never upturned with her ruby red lips. Chase sensed the disconnection but ignored it under his own desires.

  “You’re going to feel very safe with this family, Chase. Mister— sorry, Bruce here is a police officer,” the rotund woman behind the massive, mahogany desk said. Chase smiled and turned to the girl.

  His Foster-sister, Stephanie, frowned and folded her arms across her K-Mart bargain, flowery dressed chest. Her head swung to the side and swept her golden hair over her shoulder.

  Her father, Bruce gazed at the HANG IN THERE, BABY poster above the wall of file cabinets, the kitten nauseatingly cute in its stupid innocence, with disinterest. Linda cleared her throat and Bruce smacked his daughter’s bottom. She hopped up.

  “Smile wide, Steph. Say hi to your new brother,” he said dourly.

  The woman at the desk frowned. Her hand-drawn eyebrows shifted. They morphed into straight lines and her nostrils flared.

  “What’s that smell?” Leticia, the Discharge Coordinator said. She ripped Chase by the arm from Linda’s grasp.

  “Did you piss yourself, you little maricón?”

 
Chase shook. Leticia’s snarled lips reluctantly strained into a grin as she considered Linda.

  “If you needed to use the potty, Chase, you should have just asked.”

  “It’s fine,” Linda said. “Probably just as nervous as we are. Isn’t that right, honey?”

  Bruce continued to stare at nothing in Stephanie’s direction. Linda noticed and ignored it.

  “Leticia,” Xavier interrupted, “Get this kid discharged. We have severe issues that need immediate attention.”

  “What kind of—”

  “Chuck the Fuck wanted me to—” Chase’s eyes glazed over and Xavier threw a finger to his lips.

  “Not now, Romano. You’re going home,” he said.

  Chase tasted his sorrow as the corners of his lips curled up.

  “I’m going home.”

  ROBBIE

  I

  The driver slammed the rear doors of the ambulance and scuttled to the front of the truck. He shook his head as recollections of emergencies he had responded to over the last several years raided his awareness.

  “There’s a first for everything,” his instructor told the class. “And you’ll never be prepared. Whether it’s a call from an elderly man that lodged a mayonnaise jar in his rectum, a teen overdosing on heroin or a three-day-old, auto-erotic asphyxiated suicide where paramedics discovered the victim’s face was eaten by his chihuahua, your lives will never be the same. The only thing you can prepare yourself for is that nothing will make sense anymore. This isn’t a job for the weak. You are not weak. You are first-responders. You are also one of the last responders. You are the ones who remain with, transport, revive, resuscitate or scrape up the remains of your fellow New Yorkers when they need help the most.”

  He hopped into the driver’s seat, closed his eyes, and prayed. It was a habit he picked up shortly after his first week when a nine-year-old was crippled by a drunk motorist who careened up the sidewalk and pinned the kid between his bumper and a telephone pole.

  A rap at the window snapped him out of his silent devotions. Considering the uncompromising posture of the towering, African-American police officer, he lowered the window.