For Travis Kasperbauer’s fourth birthday, his parents gave him a set of 120 Crayola crayons. That was more than any of his pre-K classmates had. More, in fact, than he had ever seen before in one box.
He was thrilled, to say the least.
He took the box of crayons with him everywhere and, after only a few months, had memorized all 120 colors. His favorites included Leather Jacket, Fuzzy Wuzzy, Granny Smith Apple, Macaroni and Cheese, and Razzmatazz.
Though Travis was never a particularly social child, this obsessive relationship with his crayons only further alienated him from other kids. Girls thought he was weird, and boys thought he was, in the eloquent words of classmate Ben Benson, a “freakin’ pansy.”
His own father often criticized him for spending entire weekends inside with his crayons rather than playing with the neighborhood boys like a normal kid.
Travis never paid much attention to anyone else, and on the rare occasion that he did, he didn’t realized that they were insulting him. For example, Travis thought nothing of Ben’s remark because, then, he associated the word “pansy” only with the lovely crayon color Pansy Purple, and thus took no offense.
But on April 12, 1998, when Travis was in the first grade, Ben finally made his disdain for Travis perfectly clear.
Every day, the students of Prado Elementary School were given 45 minutes of recess after lunch, and every day, Travis spent those 45 minutes on a small, wooden picnic table, coloring with his now very short, overused crayons.
Absorbed by the scene on his paper, Travis didn’t notice Ben take a seat across from him at the table.
Once he finished coloring a red car, he placed the Rusty Red crayon back in its usual place in the box (second row, sixth column) and reached for his all-time favorite color, Timberwolf, but soon realized that its respective place was vacant.
He scanned the box for the missing crayon, and gasped when he realized that it was not simply misplaced, but that it was actually not in the box at all. Panicked, he looked up and saw Ben holding his beloved Timberwolf. With an index finger and a thumb on either end of the crayon, Ben tilted his head to the side and asked: "Looking for this?"
Travis sighed in relief. "Oh, thanks Ben," he said. "I thought I lost it."
As he extended his arm to accept the crayon, a devious smile spread across Ben’s face, and Travis watched helplessly as Ben very deliberately snapped his precious crayon in half.
"Freakin’ pansy, he said with a laugh.
Travis was speechless. His mouth hung open as he tried to process what had just happened.
"Eeeaaauuuhhh..." Travis couldn’t form words; the only sound he could produce was a groan of pain.
He suddenly realized that “Pansy” was not a compliment, that Ben was definitely not his friend, and that, at that moment, he wanted more than anything to hurt that smug little boy sitting across from him.
So when Travis watched Ben walk away from the picnic table, he felt an unfamiliar sensation in his gut that gradually made its way down to his toes. The feeling grew stronger with every step Ben took.
Pushing himself up, he rose from his seat. It wasn’t really a conscious action; it just kind of happened. Then he was running. Sprinting, even. Never in his life had he moved that fast.
Seeing Travis, Ben took off down the blacktop. Ben had always been one of the fastest kids in the class, but today, Travis was faster.
Ben flung himself at the ladder of a nearby play structure in a desperate attempt to escape his pursuer, but before his foot made contact with the third rung, Travis grabbed hold of the back of his shirt and forcefully pulled him to the ground.
Travis Kasperbauer kicked the shit out of Ben Benson. Literally.
Almost 14 years later, on Thursday December 22, 2011, when Travis made eye contact with the man who must have been Laney’s kidnapper, he felt a similar sensation in his stomach. It was like butterflies, but not the kind you get when you’re excited.
He was thrilled, to say the least.
He took the box of crayons with him everywhere and, after only a few months, had memorized all 120 colors. His favorites included Leather Jacket, Fuzzy Wuzzy, Granny Smith Apple, Macaroni and Cheese, and Razzmatazz.
Though Travis was never a particularly social child, this obsessive relationship with his crayons only further alienated him from other kids. Girls thought he was weird, and boys thought he was, in the eloquent words of classmate Ben Benson, a “freakin’ pansy.”
His own father often criticized him for spending entire weekends inside with his crayons rather than playing with the neighborhood boys like a normal kid.
Travis never paid much attention to anyone else, and on the rare occasion that he did, he didn’t realized that they were insulting him. For example, Travis thought nothing of Ben’s remark because, then, he associated the word “pansy” only with the lovely crayon color Pansy Purple, and thus took no offense.
But on April 12, 1998, when Travis was in the first grade, Ben finally made his disdain for Travis perfectly clear.
Every day, the students of Prado Elementary School were given 45 minutes of recess after lunch, and every day, Travis spent those 45 minutes on a small, wooden picnic table, coloring with his now very short, overused crayons.
Absorbed by the scene on his paper, Travis didn’t notice Ben take a seat across from him at the table.
Once he finished coloring a red car, he placed the Rusty Red crayon back in its usual place in the box (second row, sixth column) and reached for his all-time favorite color, Timberwolf, but soon realized that its respective place was vacant.
He scanned the box for the missing crayon, and gasped when he realized that it was not simply misplaced, but that it was actually not in the box at all. Panicked, he looked up and saw Ben holding his beloved Timberwolf. With an index finger and a thumb on either end of the crayon, Ben tilted his head to the side and asked: "Looking for this?"
Travis sighed in relief. "Oh, thanks Ben," he said. "I thought I lost it."
As he extended his arm to accept the crayon, a devious smile spread across Ben’s face, and Travis watched helplessly as Ben very deliberately snapped his precious crayon in half.
"Freakin’ pansy, he said with a laugh.
Travis was speechless. His mouth hung open as he tried to process what had just happened.
"Eeeaaauuuhhh..." Travis couldn’t form words; the only sound he could produce was a groan of pain.
He suddenly realized that “Pansy” was not a compliment, that Ben was definitely not his friend, and that, at that moment, he wanted more than anything to hurt that smug little boy sitting across from him.
So when Travis watched Ben walk away from the picnic table, he felt an unfamiliar sensation in his gut that gradually made its way down to his toes. The feeling grew stronger with every step Ben took.
Pushing himself up, he rose from his seat. It wasn’t really a conscious action; it just kind of happened. Then he was running. Sprinting, even. Never in his life had he moved that fast.
Seeing Travis, Ben took off down the blacktop. Ben had always been one of the fastest kids in the class, but today, Travis was faster.
Ben flung himself at the ladder of a nearby play structure in a desperate attempt to escape his pursuer, but before his foot made contact with the third rung, Travis grabbed hold of the back of his shirt and forcefully pulled him to the ground.
Travis Kasperbauer kicked the shit out of Ben Benson. Literally.
Almost 14 years later, on Thursday December 22, 2011, when Travis made eye contact with the man who must have been Laney’s kidnapper, he felt a similar sensation in his stomach. It was like butterflies, but not the kind you get when you’re excited.
He recognized the feeling; it was a kind of butterflies he'd had only once before, when he was six years old. It was the kind of butterflies you feel when anger takes over, when you get the uncontrollable urge to break something, when you become some kind of hulkish version of yourself and all you can do is scream.
Then he was running.
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