Wicked-Woman

Wicked Woman 8

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As continued from Part 7

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ELIJAH

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

2:40 PM

The morgue was hopelessly dim since the windows were small and closer to the roof. Even the air we inhaled was hopeless. It was not bad odor, but one that means nothing like the smell of clean human hair. I followed the mortuary attendant in a white lab-coat and the two detectives with feeble knees and a dead soul. I felt like the men, women, and children in the huge refrigerators on my left for I was dead too. A dead man walking. The ones in the refrigerators were even better if they believed in God – they were in a better place where dying and pain doesn’t exist. They had parked their bodies like one parks a car in a garage and left this world of sorrows.

I was still unable to believe I was there to confirm Grace’s body. That’s why I prayed a prayer of desperation deep in my heart.

On the wall on my right I saw a big sticker that says, I WISH I LISTENED.

“This way please,” the attendant said.

We followed him in to another room with a few beds most of them with black body bags. I prayed in my heart, asking God to do a miracle. If he did it for Lazarus, he could do it for my love.

At that moment it dawned in my troubled mind that better is the stifling suspense that comes with a missing person ordeal than the closure that comes with finality of death. The stifling suspense does give one a room to hope. But death is final.

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“Yes, this is the one. Bed 9,” the attendant said, looking at Detective Howell. “Should I uncover her?”

All of them turned towards me at the tail of the bed. I nodded, because I couldn’t talk – tears ran freely on my cheeks.

Slowly he unzipped the body bag. I cried the more when I saw the brown hair. I started feeling like I would collapse – the floor was moving. But as soon as I saw the entire head my strength came back to me. That young lady wasn’t Grace. She looked like her, but it wasn’t her. Besides the looks, Grace never used lipstick nor cutex on her fingernails.

I sighed. “My God.”

I drew closer to her head. Indeed it was not her. They all looked at me. “Yes, this is not my wife.”

Read Part 9 Here

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Mcebo Michael Metfula

Mcebo Michael Metfula

My name is Mcebo Michael Metfula from Piggs Peak, Swaziland. I am an author of nine books – in both fiction and nonfiction spaces. I love writing about the Lord Jesus and his limitless power and wisdom. I also run a website: www.edenthree.com.

Follow me on Twitter

About Author

Mcebo Michael Metfula

Mcebo Michael Metfula

My name is Mcebo Michael Metfula from Piggs Peak, Swaziland. I am an author of nine books – in both fiction and nonfiction spaces. I love writing about the Lord Jesus and his limitless power and wisdom. I also run a website: www.edenthree.com.

Follow me on Twitter

About Author

Mcebo Michael Metfula

Mcebo Michael Metfula

My name is Mcebo Michael Metfula from Piggs Peak, Swaziland. I am an author of nine books – in both fiction and nonfiction spaces. I love writing about the Lord Jesus and his limitless power and wisdom. I also run a website: www.edenthree.com.

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