Wicked Girl (THE FIRE Book 1)

by Mcebo Michael Metfula

  In the article, he narrated that Grace and I always look for stuff to please each other. Honestly, I was wowed just like the public. He said we live like we were still in the honeymoon phase. Most importantly, he mentioned our tragedies: Leon’s death, my shooting and lengthy hospitalization, my insanity phase, and my death and coming back to life. Yes, most people didn’t buy the dying and rising part of our story but they mentioned in their reviews that if anything they wished to be like us.

  So if the affair thing came out, I would be doomed. I woul –

  “Are you still there my friend?” Nick said.

  I almost dropped the cell phone, bewildered where that voice came from. “Oh my God! Sorry, Nick. I forgot I was talking to you. Sorry. How long have I been silent?”

  “El, it doesn’t matter. It’s about a minute or two, maybe.”

  “That long! Sorry man. It’s the –”

  “Amnesia, I know. That’s why I didn’t even remind you. I was giving your brain muscles a little exercise.” He coughed. “Sorry. Yeah, there is nothing much on the Facebook page. Yes, people are still giving clues, but even the well-wishers are still there – few though. What I like is Detective Howell’s attitude towards the page; he takes it seriously.”

  “Oh, you also noticed. I loved that too,” I said, desperate for tricks on how I could cut short Nick’s call. We were no more on the same page. He was still enthusiastic about finding Grace but I wasn’t. Yes, I appreciated his help. He was truly a friend in need. But –

  “Oh yes, another big thing. Yesterday, I was driving downtown Manhattan. My friend, her face is everywhere. Every corner. Every building. Every tree. The volunteers kept their word…”

  3:12 PM

  I switched my cell phone off soon after finishing the long boring conversation with Nick. It was meant to do well but it achieved the opposite. As a psychologist, he was trying to boost me psychologically and emotionally. Unfortunately, we were no more on the same page. He was still crazy about finding the MISSING GRACE and I wasn’t. One thing buzzing in my head was the divorce and my heart was occupied with deep pain and sorrow.

  I held my hot head certain that the only thing preventing me from stroking and dying was that I had divorced Grace in my heart already. Otherwise, the journal was deadly – extremely brutal. Brutal enough to hurt me even though I was done with her.

  ~~ Wednesday, July 25, 2012 ~~

  Travie, darling. What can I say? They call you their boss. They also assume you’re my boss too. I say nah, nah, nah, you ain’t my boss. You used to be. Now you’re the boss of my heart. You regulate its rhythms. When you want it to beat faster you do your magic and I struggle to remain alive. You will kill me one day. Do you know that? Do you even get close to understanding that? You’re too much of a goodie. You never cease to amaze me. Does your wallet ever run dry? Oh my gosh! It is an evergreen jungle. Who can ever spoil a girl with a thousand dollar meal? A seafood you never forget. Mouthwatering and all. Definitely worth every penny. Thanks, babe. Thanks, Travie, you rock dude. You are my life.

  Elijah Turner. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. Why do you even click in my head? And at a golden moment of reminiscing about a real man, not a broke fool who is always praying, or nursing that pathetic little company. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. Oh my God, this one is really funny – how does a whole man celebrate over making a lousy hundred dollars. Loooooooooooooooool. Pliz, Elijah, buckle up. This is life. It’s serious, it’s fast. It needs a loaded man. A man who can spoil a girl until she feels vulnerable. Vulnerable enough to let him do all he wants to her. She finds –

  I sighed and closed the journal. I looked at the two others, realizing how difficult the task ahead was. Reading a detailed account of how your woman was sleeping with another man is worse than death. Your heart dies within you but you have no way of taking it out of your body for burial. You just become a helpless walking dead man.

  I turned and faced the ceiling. Tears flowed on both sides of my face and soaked the bed below. Somehow, I viewed it as a blessing that I discovered all that when Grace wasn’t around. The intensity of the rage I felt in the morning would probably make me a murderer, instantly. And I would languish in prison for something I never thought I would ever do. But I have always known that one should never taint his name by killing a whore – you divorce her right away, not kill her.

  I heard Chloe’s footsteps coming to my bedroom. I quickly wiped the tears and pretended I was sleeping. I concluded she had come to beg me to eat lunch as she had noticed that even breakfast was untouched. Or somebody wanted to speak to me on the telephone after failing on the cell phone. I couldn’t imagine myself talking, strategizing with Nick for another hour. Even Detective Howell was no more useful to me.

  Chloe knocked and walked in. But I was already snoring softly. She walked around the bed and studied my eyes.

  She took a pen, wrote a note and put it in front of my face. Then she stole my perfume and sprayed thrice. With one eye, I saw her changing poses in front of the mirror – both hands on her waist – mouth pouched. I almost laughed but I wouldn’t dare. It was funny to see someone pose whilst in an old yellow apron and a lousy brown dress.

  When she had left I read the note.

  El,

  Pls, come down and eat lunch, it’s ready. You didn’t even eat your breakfast. Don’t do this to your body. Please.

  Also, pls, call Detective Howell when you wake up. He had called. I didn’t wake you because he never said it’s urgent.

  Lastly, the rent guy from MH Properties called, angry. But I’m sorry, I lied, I said you went to Boston.

  3:59 PM

  I locked the door and lay on the bed again for another round of torture. Surprisingly though, the torture was healing in a way. Yes, I would cry after reading the brutal truth about my cheating wife, but afterward, I would feel much lighter.

  Since I had blundered and switched on my cell phone it rang. It was Detective Howell. I contemplated taking or ignoring it. A bigger part of me – if not the whole of me, didn’t want to hear anything about Grace. Her death or whatever. I didn’t care anymore.

  “Detective.” I took it to avoid him coming to bore me about Grace in my house.

  “Hello, Mr. Turner. I just wanted to give you an update. I know how even petty updates could be helpful to the victim’s relatives. We haven’t made an arrest, but we have a promising lead. I won’t say more for now.”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  “One thing I wanted to confirm from you is if you know Carol, a surgeon in Bronx Clinic.”

  I sat up. “Hmm, yeah, I know her.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “We were together at college and after some time, she became my girlfriend.”

  “When did you break up.”

  “Oh, it’s many years. We were still at college in fact, in our final year.”

  “Why? Who initiated the breakup?”

  “Ah, it was her. She said she had met someone better than me. And she also wanted to study abroad for many years, something I never approved of.”

  “I see. Thanks, Mr. Turner, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Mr. Howell. This lead, have you arrested the suspect?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Turner. We’re questioning her. I promise to keep you updated as much as possible. But please don’t give anything I tell you to the media. I do this to help you and the entire family psychologically and emotionally.”

  “Thanks, detective.” I threw the cell phone on the bed angry they got that lead. I also feared they would also discover that I knew everything Carol did but never shared it with them. Above all, I didn’t want anything related to Grace that would use up my focus and energies. The only strength I had for Grace was one for divorcing her.

  But I was also confused how they got the lead.

  Before he mentioned Carol, I suspected that their new suspect was Travis. I thought probably, they had discovered the affair and were able to establish that Travis could have a motive if Grace was pu
shing for marriage. He was married and wouldn’t let Grace ruin his marriage.

  I opened the journal and proceeded.

  ~~ Saturday, July 28, 2012 ~~

  Elijah and his unending prayers. Elijah and his Book of Life nonsense. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. He claims to have a big calling. He claims he is a prophet. I say no, he is not. He is just a fake prophet, a false prophet, a dreamer. Nothing he says or does works. I’m glad I pulled out to get a real man. Somebody who makes things happen. I’m tired of wasting my time and life.

  It’s a lovely day. Stupid me, I’m thinking he will take me for tennis and drinks in the afternoon. What does he do? What does he say? He makes me pray for three hours. Three! Praying for victims of some typhoon flood in Asia and their families. Who cares about dead strangers and their families? I’m a girl dude, make things happen for me here, right now.

  But at least I was able to pretend I was going to check on Mila after lunch and ran to my man. A real man. He didn’t waste time but jumped on the trigger. Before I knew it I was in a Porsche taking selfies with my man – before I knew it I was in a glamorous Wine Tasting Event in East Bronx Hotel. The array of white wines was splendid, but my favorites were the red ones. Unfortunately, we were strained on time, Mila was clear she would cover for me only five hours. We wasted no time after the wine tasting and cut to the main event on a king size bed in East Bronx Hotel suite, room 413.

  What a hotel! What a suite! What a bed! King plus size! What a man! He swept me off my feet. I couldn’t help but feel like I’m floating in space – no gravity pulling me down. He threw me on the bed. I couldn’t help but giggle. He took off his jacket and shirt fast like he had seen a huge scorpion crawl in them.

  9:30 PM

  I put aside the last journal and turned to face the ceiling, avoiding the light. Lying on the bed, facing up had always been my favorite, most effective, relaxing position. But I didn’t experience the relaxation. The merciless pain in my heart was unbearable. Before going to sleep, Chloe and Kim reminded me a dozen times that my dinner was getting cold, but I couldn’t carry myself to join them. Unfortunately, even my supply of tears was finished. Several times, my face constricted to let out a cry when the pain reached its peak, but tears never showed up. Eventually, no crying occurred but the pain roasted my heart anyhow.

  I blinked, thinking I felt my eyes moistening, but I was wrong. When I rubbed my fingers over them, they didn’t get even a tiny drop of tears. And the pain never subsided. It became worse instead. The flashes in my head of Grace doing it all with another man killed me terribly. I even regretted consuming every page of the three journals. After all, I had gotten the pattern of their game. I don’t know why I continued reading. I had learned that he would always take her out to some nice event, restaurant, casino, hotel and then wrap up each day on some bed in some fancy hotel in New York City. Occasionally, Jersey City and Boston would show up. Chicago, L.A, and Miami, only showed up when they wanted more time. The conference or workshops excuse was enough to calm the fool called Elijah. I slapped the bed numerous times and kicked the air.

  I sat up and prayed. “Lord God, please rush to my heart and comfort it. Unattended, it will definitely kill me. Rescue me from me. Attend to it, Lord, please. You are the only one who has complete access to it, for even I don’t have access to it anymore. Yes, it is inside me, but it is extremely far from me.

  “Lord, please don’t force me or even ask me to remain married to that woman. I have no ability in me to continue with her. Just like you when you threw all the devils out of your territory, your heaven, I also cannot stay with a cheater. It can kill me. Please don’t force me. Please don’t even ask me. Also, you know, my Lord, that every man wants a woman who believes in him. Clearly, Grace doesn’t believe in me. She deeply believes I’m a fool consistently dreaming of being something I am not. A being I will never be. In her eyes, I’m a fake. I’m very tiny and insignificant. I’m only big in my own eyes. And in yours, Lord.

  “On another note, I must say I’m disappointed. Gravely disappointed. You had promised me Lord that Grace would be a wonderful wife, and we shall live a glorious life together. But as you have seen, she is not even close to my ideal kind of woman. She is nothing but a hypocrite who sleeps with the men she works with. Lord, I have always believed you don’t break promises – that your promises never fail – that they are yes and amen. However, this one couldn’t hold. Lord, this is confusing to me because whilst you were in the grave, dead, you recalled a promise you had made to your apostles and rose from death to fulfill it. You had promised to meet them in Galilee on the following week, but death came first on Friday. As I have said, on Sunday you rose to fulfill that promise. How come you recalled their promise whilst dead but you couldn’t recall mine whilst you live? I’m confused, my God.” I wiped the tears running down my face. “For once, Lord, please treat me like I’m human. I’m not as strong as you trust. Be gentle with me, please. The glimpses of power I bestow sometimes, are a result of being in your presence, otherwise, I’m weak like everybody else. I’m not strong as you think, Lord. Please understand that, and I will live.”

  When I raised my eyes, they landed on Grace’s clothes in the closet. It was as if they were mocking me that I was furious but she was not there to receive my rage. It’s pain upon pain to be angry at someone who isn’t there to receive the anger she brewed in you. The unleashed, unutilized anger starts destroying you, not the evil one. Some people kick and spit on graves for that reason. The naive think of them as crazy, but they aren’t. They’re utilizing the anger. Yes, the one who created it doesn’t receive it but his grave does.

  I jumped off the bed and threw everything that belonged to Grace on the bed. Clothes, shoes, handbags, photos, everything. Then I loaded that stuff in a big, blue trunk.

  My cell phone blinked. It was Elizabeth, Grace’s mom.

  “Hello, Elijah.”

  “Yes,” I said, noticing that my breathing was loud.

  “Son, I had a bad dream. I pray and hope my daughter is still alive.”

  I said nothing.

  “Are you still there Elijah?”

  “I’m here,” I shouted.

  “Okay. In this dream, I saw Grace in a thick jungle surrounded by four giant snakes. They looked like anacondas or even bigger.”

  “How are your dreams any of my business?” I cut the call and hit Grace’s clothes on the bed with the cell phone.

  I searched for a box of matches to burn everything that belonged to Grace. But I stopped when I realized I might burn the entire house if I let my rage flare anyhow.

  DAY 9

  ELIJAH

  Wednesday, January 25, 2017

  4:23 AM

  When I began digging the grave, I had the vigor and anger in me big enough to believe I could dig a six feet grave in the cold. But I changed my mind when it was my waist deep. The zeal was there but no strength to accompany it. I was finished. Betrayal and rejection by the one you love and trust pierce like a burning sword. The bad part is that it doesn’t kill you but pierces daily. It just finishes you somehow, but the bad part is you don’t get finished.

  Deep in me, I wished I was never fooled by Grace’s pretense. With deep sorrow in my heart, I wished I had gotten a special woman. Not a pretender. A woman who would hold on to me no matter what. The likes of Ruth in the Bible. Someone who held on to her marriage even though her husband was dead and buried. Grace failed to hold on to her marriage even though her husband was alive and sound. She couldn’t settle for poor love.

  The back door swung open and Chloe paced to me looking terrified and confused. “El, you are digging in the backyard, early in the morning. What’s happening? You’re scaring me. What are you digging?”

  “It’s a grave. Stop the billion questions and follow me.” I climbed off the pit and paced to the living room.

  “Help me with this trunk.”

  Chloe glared at me and at the trunk. “Elijah, you’re scaring me.” She bent and sniffed t
he trunk. “Do…do…do you mean Grace is in here? You killed her, Elijah?”

  “I said help me,” I screamed. “My God.”

  Chloe’s eyes bulged. She quickly grabbed the ice cold trunk and helped me take it to the shallow grave. “Don’t put it down. Let’s throw it inside.”

  It hit the bottom of the pit with a bang. I even feared the neighbors would wake up.

  Chloe sobbed. “You killed her, Elijah. You killed her.”

  I laughed.

  “How could you do this?”

  I stared at her. “Do what?”

  She gazed at me with glassy eyes. “Kill your own wife. I thought you truly loved her. I thought you were a true Christian.”

  “I didn’t kill Grace.” I picked the cold spade. “Grace is the villain here and I’m the victim.”

  “All cold-hearted killers say those kinds of things.”

  “I didn’t kill her. She is the one who killed me.”

  “But here you are speaking with me and we have laid your wife in her shallow grave.”

  “Chloe, I gave my heart to Grace and she threw it on the ground and trampled on it until it busted.”

  “Elijah, no matter what she did, you were not supposed to kill her.”

  5:32 AM

  Chloe hastened to the house when I was about to finish working on the grave.

  “Chloe,” I called her just before she disappeared into the kitchen. She came back.

  “What?”