O V E R M Y
D E A D B O D Y
J. J. S E W E L L
Over My Dead Body
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, institutions or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by J.J. Sewell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Dedicated to my readers; thanks for taking time out of your busy lives to read my story.
WHOEVER SAID: two wrongs don’t make a right, must of been a Jesus freak; I know, I used to be one too. You see, for the majority of my life, I’ve been a devoted Christian; I dedicated my life to Jesus Christ; I attended church every Sunday—even tithed; I ministered to lost souls; I waited until marriage to have sex; I even forgave those who trespassed against me, wholeheartedly. Now don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t perfect, but I repented for all my sins and truly strived to be a true man of God.
Prayer became a daily practice of mine and for the most part, God answered my prayers. However, when it came to one prayer request in particular, God had let me down. The one request that I truly cried out to God for had fallen on deaf ears. I couldn’t understand why; I mean, I kept God first in my life, walking by faith and not by sight, and trusted him to provide my every need.
According to the Bible, God will put no more on us then we can handle, but what had happened to me, overwhelmed me, and hurt me to the point that I had lost all faith in God. So, as I stood over the campfire with my parents, channeling all of my anger towards those who trespassed against me, I made a vow to myself that from now on, I’d take matters into my own hands. Revenge never tasted so sweet.
“What were you thinking, son?” Father asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead, adjusting his faded Braves cap. “Nothing good will come of this.” He put his arm around my shoulders—like always, whenever he felt the need to have a heart to heart with me. “Now let's go back home and figure this whole thing out, before we make matters—”
“Nonsense.” Mother interrupted, with her raspy voice. “Don't listen to your father. What we are doing must be done.” She jabbed her finger at my father. “Stay out of this, Joseph.”
Father fished a Newport from his flannel shirt pocket, dug his lighter out from his pants pocket, and lit up. I followed suit, puffing a Black and Mild of my own.
“Now, now,”—mother shook her head— it’s bad enough your father smoked his life away; now you too?” She sighed. Her breath smelt of Red Hots—her favorite candy. “Just wait, you'll end up dying of lung cancer, too. Better stop while you’re—”
Father waived his hand, silencing mother. This method only worked about eighty percent of the time. He flicked his Newport, stomping it into the wet, brown leaves. “Cigarettes are the least of our worries right now.” He pointed to the lake. “Somebody is going to find that car, before the night’s over, and then what?”
Mother responded. “And then, we'll be on our way out of the country.”
Father shook his head.
The two of them went on and on about what we should and shouldn't do at this point. I—myself—just wanted this whole thing to be over with. Vengeance was mine and I held on to it tight—with Satan’s assistance. That oldie, but goodie song, The Message, came to mind.
Don’t, Push, Me . . . Cause, I’m, Close, To, The . . . Eeeddggeee.
I gazed at the sky, Mother Nature’s cool, dry air caressing my face. The crescent shaped moon created an ominous portrait across Lake Oconee which had—by then, swallowed the rental car.
Hidden in the Blue Ridge mountains, I felt a sense of security I had once felt from God. It was me and my parents, along with those irritating crickets and frogs serving as a reminder that the night was still young.
Fear and anxiety haunted me the same way it did when I had got in trouble for forging my 3rd grade progress report. I remember repenting and praying to God to keep my mother from killing me and it worked. Even though, I had suffered a beating similar to Christ.
“Beloved?” Mother’s raspy voice jerked me back into reality. “We have to go soon.” She took me by the hand, clearing her throat. “Now come on and get changed. We’ll throw away these,”—she examined my clothes— “filthy, rotten clothes.”
At mother’s request, I changed; throwing those filthy, rotten clothes into a Hefty bag, along with the dirty, over-sized hiking shoes. The casual outfit I had on did little to shield me from the night breeze. I grabbed the Hefty bag and joined my parents at the dirt path cutting through the woods.
Mother smiled. “You look so handsome.” She coughed, bundling herself up inside her leopard print designer jacket. No matter where she went, my mother always made sure she looked her best. Everything had to be coordinated—from head to toe.
“See there, Margret,” —father put his arms around my mother— “I told you that jacket wouldn't keep you warm. You just don't listen.”
Mother melted in my father’s arms. “Oh, hush your fuss. Besides, that's what I have you for.” She kissed his cheek. “Now listen here,” —she signaled for me to come closer as if we were in a football huddle— “I'll meet you guys back at the cabin. I can't run in these heels. So Joseph, make sure ya’ll get rid of the evidence like we discussed. Okay?” Father nodded. “Good. Don't worry about me. I'm tougher than Teflon.” Her raspy voice sounded scratchy towards the end. She cleared her throat. “Now, don't just stand there, shew!”
***
Father and I traveled the dirt path through the woods along the Oconee River. Wet leaves littered the dirt path, making jogging—let alone running—nearly impossible. Without the aid of a flashlight, we suffered endless abuse from the surrounding woods.
“We’re on a path of destruction.” Father struggled to catch his breath. “You don’t have to do this, son.” Father added, in his frustrated tone.
Father was right. But at this point, I didn’t care about being righteous; all my life I had been righteous. It was time to be wicked for a change. At the end of the day, I’m a man. Sometimes your manhood gets tested, and if you show any sign of weakness, you’ll end up being a doormat for society. Mother taught me that. You teach people how to treat you, was another one of Mother’s gems.
The half a mile trip through the woods brought us to the foot of a hill. Father waited, while I hiked up the hill. Once I reached the top, I got down on my knees and used my hands to uncover the hole I had dug earlier. I placed the Hefty bag in the hole, covered it back up, and returned to the dirt path. For some odd reason, the bottomless pit came to mind. I guess it was God’s way of warning me. Still, I held vengeance tight.
***
Oconee River Bend was a hidden cabin tucked in the Blue Ridge Mountains in which lovers frequented to escape the stress of everyday life while indulging in the true essence of Mother Nature. Despite only being approximately ninety miles north of Atlanta, it felt like I was millions of miles away. The environment, the people, even the quality of air was like night and day, compared to Atlanta.
I had arrived in Blue Ridge, a week earlier for a mini-vacation, before all hell broke loose. I took a train ride through downtown, browsed the antique shops scattered
amongst Main Street, enjoyed a mouth-watering Brasstown Farms Burger at the Harvest on the Main, went hiking, and stood over the blue line that divided Georgia and Tennessee with one foot on each state. The rage inside of me had started to fade, until I received the text message from S.O.S.
“Son?” I snapped back into reality. Father had his arm around me. Tree limbs danced around us, and leaves floated to the ground. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” I nodded. Father grunted, removing his arm from around me. “You are making a terrible mistake. I mean, look what happened earlier? Lord knows what’ll come next.” He grasped me by the shoulders, locking eyes with me. “Now I’ve pretty much sat back this whole time, hoping you’d come to your senses. But I guess that isn't going to happen. So here's the deal,” —father’s bright eyes widen— “it ends here, right now.”
“Joseph?” Mother’s loud, raspy voice echoed from the cabin. She stood over the wrap-around porch.
“Hey! Keep your voice down, loud mouth.” Father responded, his voice just as loud as mother’s.
I spoke up before the two could get to arguing again. “Knock it off, you two. Now dad,” —I freed myself from his vice grip— “if you didn't want to be a part of this, you should've stayed home, and mom,”—turning to her— “keep your voice down and wait for us inside. Okay? I need the both of you to get it together. We're almost done. Okay?”
My parents didn't like it when I corrected them, and neither did I, but I had to say something, before I lost my marbles. Mother went back inside, mumbling under her breath. I glanced at my watch and felt the most excruciating knot in my stomach ever.
“What’s wrong, son?”
“We gotta go, dad!” I ran towards the Honda Accord parked in the driveway.
It didn't take long for me to unload the duffle bag from the trunk of the car—no thanks to my father, who went on and on about how God’s wraith would come upon us. All he had to do was: keep a look out. He kept a look out alright, for God. Father followed me inside the cabin.
***
I tossed my duffle bag on the living room floor, rushed over to the fire place to warm my hands, and then sat beside my mother on the squeaky couch. Father paced back and forth in front of the flat screen television nestled in front of the window next to the entrance.
“Joseph?” Mother sucked her teeth. “Why don’t you go outside and smoke?”
Father waived his hand, carrying his nerves outside. I grabbed the duffle bag off the floor, placing it in my lap and unzipped it, checking its contents: a bottle of Sangria, two plastic wine glasses, the typed love letter I had prepared the night before, rose pedals, a set of candy apple-scented candles, several phones, my favorite bathrobe, and my iPod.
“Is that everything?” Mother asked. I shrugged my shoulders, after all, she was the mastermind. “Oh beloved, what am I going to do with you?” She sucked her teeth. “Well, do you at least know what to do next?”
Now that I remembered, I fished the Tracfone out the duffle bag, powered it on, and pulled up the remaining text messages.
Me: U free this afternoon?
S.O.S: Sort of. Y?
Me: I really need to c u.
S.O.S: Idk. I got a lot of work to do.
Me: Please…
S.O.S: Just kidding. Lol. I’ll meet you ANYWHERE. U name it.
Me: Tks luv.
I deleted those messages, powered off the phone, removed the battery, put them back inside my duffle bag, and placed the bag on the floor.
“Good boy. Now check and make sure she’s on her way, and how far. We must move quickly.”
The she my mother referred to was my wife, Trina. Earlier, we had made plans to meet up here for a very special night—one like never before.
Mother thought it would be a good idea to take some time out to do something special for Trina. In fact, everything that took place today would all add up to one big surprise for my wife.
I texted Trina from the Samsung Galaxy 6 holstered on my hip to check on her whereabouts. She texted back, letting me know she was about twenty minutes away.
Mother swatted me off the bed. “Quick, beloved, set everything up before she ruins her surprise.”
Father blurted, “This isn’t right. No good will come of this.”
“Oh, shut up and go back outside, party pooper.”
“You’re going to get us all in deep trouble, Margret. Is that what you want for us? For our son?”
“Yea, yea, yea,” Mother sucked her teeth. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Now hush up and be a sweet little husband and—”
Father waived his hand again. “You got it all figured out, huh? You’ll see. I know one thing though: I won’t stick around to—”
“Oh, put a sock—”
“You better—”
“You don’t—”
“I’m sick of your—”
An apocalyptic roar escaped my mouth. All the stress of the day collapsed on me at once, crushing my foundation of sanity. I buried my forehead in the palm of my hands. After gaining composure, I headed to the master bedroom, duffle bag in hand.
***
Mother Nature whistled her ghostly tune, filling the master bedroom with night air. The shear curtains from the window in the master bedroom waived at me. I shut the window. Nestled on the nightstand, lie the love letter and two plastic wine glasses. I grabbed the bottle of Sangria out the mini-refrigerator and filled both glasses. My Samsung chimed.
Trina: U like?
Curiously, I waited for my Samsung to finish downloading the media. A picture of Trina’s ample breast tucked in a black, pink-laced bra filled the screen. Blood rushed through my mid-section and my heart pounded out of my chest.
Me: WOW!
Trina: ;) Almost there luv.
Hastily, I holstered my Samsung Galaxy, covered the bed with rose pedals, grabbed my iPod and set it on its dock station—which rested on top of the computer desk— and selected Keith Sweat’s Greatest Hits. I littered the room with burning, apple-scented candles, turned off the lights, and then headed for the bathroom to shower. But first I texted Trina back.
Me: Great. Just come on in. I’ll be in the shower.
My parents stood at the entrance to the master bedroom. Mother took my father by the hand. “Come on, Joseph. Our work here's done. We’ll be in the quest room if you need us, beloved.”
They left.
I took a swig of wine straight from the bottle, grabbed my favorite bathrobe, along with my iPhone 5c and Samsung Galaxy 6, and rushed to shower.
The night is still young.
***
After a much needed shower, I stood by the bathroom door in total silence, listening out for Trina. Other than Keith Sweat begging himself senseless, there were no other human voices.
Satisfied, I walked over to the steamy bathroom mirror. I used a towel to wipe the steam from the mirror and examined myself. The purple bruise on my right shoulder stood out like a blacked eye. I tried massaging the soreness out of it, but the pain overwhelmed me.
Besides the bruise on my shoulder, and a few minor scratches on my forearms, I think I came out pretty good, considering the events that took place earlier.
On top of the counter, lie my favorite bathrobe; I put it on, shrieking from the pain in my right shoulder. A low thud came from outside the bathroom. Slowly, I cracked the bathroom door just enough to spy on Trina. Her red dress barely covered her curvy backside and it was so low cut in the front that when she bent over to grab the love letter from the nightstand, the tiger tattooed on her left breast growled at me.
“Aww . . .” —Trina smiled— “you’re so sweet.” She did a seductive dance similar to straddling a horse. “Dis my jam too . . .” She added, singing along with Keith Sweat. “Nooobooody bae-bay.”
Anxiously, I watched as Trina sat down on the bed, opening the letter—her back facing me. She read the letter, held it close to her heart, stuffed it inside her purse, and fished
out her cell phone, texting away. I eased the door all the way open. My bathrobe vibrated and chimed. Trina jumped up from the bed, turned around, and stood frozen with a look on her face as if she saw a ghost. Smirking, I fished my iPhone from my bathrobe pocket and viewed the message.
Trina: Hey dear. I won't be home till morning. Lots of work to do. Miss u. Love u. ;)
I texted her back.
Me: Ok beloved. miss u, luv u too. :(
Trina viewed the message on her phone. She responded with a nervous grin. “David? Now before you—”
I waived my hand—just like father taught me, tossed my iPhone on the bed. “Well,” I walked over to the nightstand, “what a pleasant surprise.” I stopped in front of her, undressing her with my eyes. “And look at you . . . all dressed up—sexy as ever.” I smirked, running my fingers down her skimpy dress. Trina cringed, slowly relaxing her muscles as my fingers left her dress. “Don’t you think it’s a little cold for this?” I added, with a look of disgust.
Trina stood there, mouth wide-open; it was as if I was staring at a statue of my wife. She forced her lips to move, uttering empty words before finally finding her voice again. “David,” Trina says, her facial expression similar to those kids you see on a sponsor a child commercial. “Let me explain . . . I know what you’re thinking, but—”
“Come here.” I extended my hand.
Hesitantly, Trina took my hand. I pulled her close to me, the sweet scent of Vince Camuto sent chills up my spine. Trina trembled in my arms as if she were freezing, yet her body felt so warm and was soft as a hotel pillow. I pulled back from her, still holding her close, gazing into her beautiful, brown eyes, and kissed her moist lips.