Adventitious
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Adventitious
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Adventitious

Adventitious

by Walter R. Norris
Adventitious

Adventitious

by Walter R. Norris

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781449003968
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 03/18/2010
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 160
File size: 241 KB

Read an Excerpt

ADVENTITIOUS


By Walter R. Norris

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Walter R. Norris
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4490-0394-4


Chapter One

It was a cool autumn night, October 4, 2005, not unlike any other night. For Gwendolyn Harris, a voluptuous, chocolate skinned, 26 year old, it was the eve of a new beginning. Tomorrow she would begin her new position as a computer programmer at one of Memphis' largest corporations.

After two years of school, sacrifices, and drama, it was finally over. The events of the past years did not seem so bad now, tuition, saving, and wrapping pennies, for food and gas money, not to mention putting up with dead end relationships.

After graduating from high school, Gwendolyn was not sure of what she wanted to do in life. College was not a prospect for her. She had toyed with the idea of being a fashion model. Then she met Angelo. He played football for Manassas High School and later attended Tennessee State University. She was very much in love with Angelo. This was one of the reasons she became pregnant, the other was, her pregnancy, gave her a sense of being, a direction to follow - a future. Angelo thought marrying her would be the right thing to do. That meant he had to quit school. After the baby was born, she recalled, she was so happy. Even Angelo, who was visibly disappointed for having to drop out of college, was proud and happy with his new son. There was a renewed drive in him.

Then that morning came, that morning that she would never forget. She had awakened to feed the baby. Normally, the baby's cry would awaken her at daybreak. However, on this morning, it was different. When she picked the baby up from his crib, it was cold and stiff. That coldness went through her body, where it has since remained. The death certificate said it was Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). It was also the end of her marriage. Angelo had begun to blame her for all of his misfortunes, for causing him to quit school, even for the death of their son. That was a tough pill for a nineteen year old to swallow, she thought. Angelo finally left her and they got a divorce. That was seven years ago.

She had not realized it but tears were streaming down her face. "Girl, stop that," she said to herself, wiping her face with her hand. "That was then and this is now," she said aloud as her thoughts returned to the present situation. She was also pregnant, but she had a solution. Her friend was coming over and they would discuss it tonight. He would have to agree with her. She was not going through the heartbreak connected with child rearing. After all, her relationship with the father was a dead end.

Peering through her closet, she pulled out one outfit after another. What must I wear, ran through her mind, the mauve or the red? The excitement made her feel like a teenager. The whishing of the garage door as it raised interrupted her thoughts. There was also the sound of a car entering it. The anticipation of the next day left as quickly as it came. For a moment, she had been able to put her problem out of her mind. She knew only one person had access to her garage remote. The kitchen doorbell rang. She knew what she had to do. How would he take what she had to say; would he make a scene; am I making the right decision? The questions tumbled through her mind, while turning the key to open the door.

It was her friend, whom she had met at a local club. Briefly, she recalled their chance meeting. He had come along at a time when she needed that extra boost, mentally and financially. The stresses of school had begun taking its toll on her. She had to get out of the house and let her hair down. Therefore, she and her girlfriends took a night out on the town. There was a new band at the club on Beale Street and she felt like dancing. That was when he came to the table and asked her to dance. It was hard not to like him. He was unpolished, but still somewhat of a gentleman. Over the past few months, she had grown to trust him, perhaps a little too much. At the onset of their relationship, he had told her that he was married and had two children. Yet he would take time out to spend with her. He even took her on a couple of trips out of town. She knew that their relationship could not go any farther than it had. However, she was fond of him, and it fit her agenda. Contrary to that, she had not planned on pregnancy.

She stood back holding the door, allowing him to enter. The garage was completing its mechanical cycle as it closed, separating them from the outside world. After closing the door, she turned, only to be startled as he enfolded her in his arms. She could feel a slight chill from his jacket; the warmth of his body radiated from his arms. For a brief moment, everything was all right.

"You said you needed to talk to me," he said. "What's up baby? Before you start, congratulations on your new job."

She replied, "Thanks, but that's not what I called to talk about. I went to the doctor Friday. I am pregnant!"

He grabbed both sides of his head with his hands, as in disbelief, turning away from her. He then turned facing her, shaking his head and hands in unison. He exclaimed, "How do I know it's mine? For all I know it could be that sadistic boyfriend of yours."

Even after meeting him, she continued her affair with John. Somehow, John had discovered she had a new friend. He had become jealous to the point of becoming violent. Although she had terminated the relationship, he continued to come by, uninvited. Friday night, she had witnessed a frightening side of him. The police had to remove him, physically, after he had pried her bedroom window, and threatened her with a crowbar.

"Are you listening to me?" he shouted.

"No, you listen to me; I haven't been with anybody but you," she cried. "I told you I have not slept with him in four months. I am two months pregnant."

After pacing around the room, he began walking towards the kitchen door. Turning towards her, he said, "I've got better things to do than listening to your lies. I am not going to stand here and argue with you."

"We can work this out, just listen," she said pleadingly.

"I don't want to hear nothing you got to say," he shouted, staring at her cold-eyed.

How could she discuss the abortion if he would not listen? How could he treat her like this, she thought. She would never try to hurt him. Why was he treating her like trash? His verbal abuse increased her anguish. Somehow she had to maintain her composure if she was to get her point across.

He was still pacing the floor raving inaudibly. "I've got better things to do than listen to your lies," he repeated, again walking towards the kitchen door. "I'm not going to stand here and argue with you."

She had accepted her problem with equanimity, but her composure collapsed like the cone of a volcano, spurting forth its contaminants. Gwendolyn reached for the telephone attached to the wall. She began dialing, as the tears flowed from her eyes. "Maybe your wife would like to know she's going to be a stepmother," she said.

Rage overcame him as he rushed towards her, grabbing at her arm. Her clutch tightened on the phone, struggling to maintain control. "Call my wife, bitch I will kill you!" he shouted. Forcibly, he pulled the receiver from her hand and struck her in the forehead. She fell to her knees. She reached for the phone cord, as the receiver hanged, twirling at its end. Again seizing it, she brought it to her ear.

He began dragging her towards the living room. Again shouting at her, "let go of the phone bitch or I'll kill your ass." Drawing his hand back, in an arcing motion, he swung forward slapping her above the right eye. The phone dropped from her hand onto the floor. Her body tumbled as she went reeling across the floor. She felt woozy, struggling to her knees, trying to rise to her feet. Again, she fell to the floor, but managed to get to her feet, hurrying into the living room. There was a stinging pain above her right eye. Blood flowed into it like water over a broken dam. The pain caused her forehead to throb. She staggered against the wall, trying to steady herself, turning to focus her vision in the direction of his voice.

"I wasn't going to call her," she cried out, "I was not going to call her. I just want you to listen to me." She looked up at him. His eyes were beginning to water. A blank stare of unconsciousness covered his face. All sense of understanding and reasoning had departed. This was not a good sign, she thought. There were tears in his eyes.

"Naw bitch, you meant it," he shouted, "ain't no time out. I have spent all my "motherfucking" money on you. I treated you like a queen, bought you clothes, paid your house note, and utilities. Now you gonna try to put a baby off on me. Hell no, ain't no time out he continued shouting. You ain't no better than that bitch at home." The fervency of his emotions seared all vestiges of his moral and spiritual upbringing. Lowering upon him was a blank sheet, white and empty, separating his world from another, one that would take him to hell. He had lost himself, oblivious of all that was occurring. The veins in his fist protruded as he struck her in the nose. A loud cracking noise preceded a stream of blood as it gushed from her broken nose.

Gwendolyn scrambling to her feet began begging, "Just listen to me, please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, she cried out. Please don't ..." Before she could finish her sentence, he pounded her in the mouth, sending teeth clattering, like a strand of broken pearls, dancing across the floor. Again, she plummeted to the floor. He wanted to stop, but a strange sensation seemed to urge him on. With all the force he could muster, he began stomping her face and head uncontrollably. She threw her hands up, trying to protect her face from the unrelenting attack. Finally, she was unable to. With her inability to put up a defense, she lay cringing from the pain of each stomp, each kick. She could hear the bones within her body cracking, sending its echo of horror into her soul. Was he through, she asked herself? She could see his leg moving, striking her body, but she felt no pain. Calmness came over her; she was ready for whatever came next. For some strange reason her eyes were drawn to the clock hanging on the wall. She smiled, remembering her mother had given it to her as a house-warming gift.

Thus, she lay, listening to her heart, ticking rhythmically, co-existing with the rhythm of the wall clock. She became oblivious to the assault inflicted upon her. Slowly, her heart began to loose its synchronization with the clock. Life and pleasure, she thought, an ephemeral. The ticking of her heart ceased, and life abandoned her as quickly as her last transient thought.

The spell binding effect, blood had upon sharks, was brought into perspective. It creates a temporary madness, alluring in its possessiveness, beckoning to its passion. It was as if he had lost all sense of time and awareness. Then, as suddenly as it came, the mesmerizing cloak of white nothingness, faded. The new picture emerging was one of repulsive horror. His stomach began to churn like a forge of hot melting steel, heating his body, and melting his legs under him. One hand went to his mouth, as the other to his stomach. Somehow, he made it to the kitchen. The brutality of his act was an aversion to all he believed in. The sickness manifested itself causing the contents of his stomach to spray into the sink. The puke would have been sufficient to purge his body had it been a poisonous substance; nevertheless, as he peered at the body on the floor he knew, there was no purging of this act. Slowly, he walked towards her. A mass of blood and ragged flesh had replaced her once beautiful face. Maybe it's a dream and I'll wake up, he thought; the faint sound of gurgling broke the quietness. Kneeling beside her, he lifted her limp wrist, hoping, however, doubtful that he would feel a faint sign of life. The chillness of death had quickly invaded her body and lowered its veil, pulling down its shade, inviting death's darkness, evident by the hazy film, which covered her partially closed eyes. Her eyes, the mirrors of her soul, penetrated him, as if in a plea, asking him to accept the responsibility, the guilt of what he had done. There was a hint of a smile across her lips as if concealing a secret.

Yielding to the agony, muttering in a sobbing voice, he cried, "Gwen I'm sorry; I didn't mean to hurt you; I'm sorry baby!" Seeking an escape, he jumped to his feet and ran into the kitchen. Was the room spinning or was it his head? The temperature about him seemed to elevate. "I need to sit down," he said to himself, pulling a towel from the rack above the counter. Making his way to the sofa, he tossed it as if it were a coin, turning in the air, and landing upon her head. Calculating his next move became the subject of his thoughts. Turning and looking upwards, his eyes fixed upon the clock, loudly ticking on the wall; the same clock that co-existed with Gwendolyn's final moments. It was now 11:30 p.m., he observed. Rising from the sofa, his hand reached slowly forward, parting the folds of the curtain. The uncertainty that darkness concealed eyes, peering at him from all directions, boosted his paranoia. Running from room to room, he stared out into the darkness, wondering if the neighbors had heard the commotion.

The towel hiding her face gave him an idea. What if he cleaned up and hid the body somewhere? Perhaps, it would give the illusion of an attack and robbery occurring elsewhere. That would probably work! The idea excited him, as he peeled off his outer clothing. Everything he needed was in the kitchen, a bucket, water, dishwashing liquid, and bleach. The thought of committing the perfect crime played on his mind, like that of a video recording. His shirt shielded his hand like a glove, as he turns the knob on the kitchen door, leading to the garage. The laundry room was to his left. He placed his outer clothing into the washer, adjusted the settings, and returned to the kitchen, clad in his underwear and shoes.

After removing his shoes, he continued down the hallway, into the bathroom, and collected his toothbrush and toiletries. Gwendolyn had purchased these as well as a bathrobe and house slippers. There was a plastic bag in the closet, which he stuffed the articles into and tied. Methodically, he wiped off the areas he touched with tissue. All he needed now was something to wrap around her body, something that blood would not seep through, perhaps a large piece of plastic. Maybe there was some in the garage, he thought. The shower curtain was ideal; it was long as well as wide enough for his purpose. He held it by the top end while unsnapping the retaining rings. It made a swishing noise, trailing him down the hallway into the living room. Cautious not to get blood on the curtain, he began wiping up the blood from the floor. There was more blood than he realized. After several minutes of mopping, the water was murky with blood. Barefooted, he returned to the kitchen, emptied the contents of the bucket, and replenished it with more solution.

At last, he was finished, the chore was tedious yet necessary. Carefully, he placed the shower curtain the length of the body and rolled her onto it. The scent of drying blood was beginning to nauseate him. Each end of the curtain, he tied around her head and ankles. Again, he peered at the clock; time was essential if he was to complete his task. "I must work fast," he decided. Lifting the lifeless body, he carried it gently and placed it near the kitchen door. He stood for a moment, visualizing the room, as it appeared when he arrived. Carefully, he wiped the telephone receiver with his t-shirt and placed it in its cradle. Everything seemed to be in its place. The only thing remaining was loading her body into the trunk.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from ADVENTITIOUS by Walter R. Norris Copyright © 2010 by Walter R. Norris. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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