Brother Tedwell fell–
He winced at the sudden pain that shot up from his knees and palms. The asphalt dug into his flesh causing small white shreds to stand up on end. He gritted his teeth and forced himself back up. His lungs protested against his desperate gulping for air.
The Delta sun boiled at his skin, sweat stinging the cuts and scrapes from his dead sprint through the woods. Clearing onto the highway meant hope, it meant safety–it meant escape.
He jogged forward, begging Jesus for anyone to come down the road, anyone not from that church.
“Please–God–father–hear me–please–forgive me” he rasped, tears had already started to threaten the corners of his eyes. “Please–Oh Lord.”
His breath left his body. The shaded forest floor raced up to collide with his back– brambles and twigs tearing at his clothes and skin. He let out a strained cry– “Shit– no– no–”
In the sudden gloom there was the thick, metallic, rosy stench. The soft hands wrapped around his throat squeezed down, cutting off his voice. “Keep strugglin’” she hissed. “Won’t do nothin’ no way–’ ‘ Her small white fangs peered out from between her lips. “Some Man of God you are” her voice was laced with hatred. “Oh, but you like little girls, don’t you–”
Again, Brother Tedwell cried out, but her hands clenched down tighter, forcing him silent. The young woman’s bright, pinkish glare tore into him. “You thought little Heather’d make you a good wife, huh? Boy, I got a half-a-mind to make you suffer good–Maybe rip your skin off until you die from the pain–” She licked her teeth “But Paw-Paw said I gotta make it quick–”
He groped at her pudgy arms–her skin was like concrete–she wasn’t relenting. He gagged and coughed trying to relieve the pain, begging for air.
His head jerked upward, scalp popping free from his skull, hair tangled in one of her fists. The knife-like pain that burned into the side of his neck cut his screech short.
Cold–
Everything was cold–
He stopped fighting, stopped flailing– his body lay limp.
Within a few days, the headlines rippled through the International Pentecostal Union, Brother Michael Tedwell found dead somewhere in the woods of Shaw, Mississippi–Suspected suicide–there were whispers–rumors–but nothing concrete was ever fully investigated.
There was a funeral held at his home church–members from that church stood at the back, unblinking, whispering amongst themselves–and within their huddle–the girl who baptized herself in his blood.
