The too common Hallelujah breaker of violence against women is considered in another woman

Here is the second part of another window into Michelle’s life. 

( For the first piece of the story, see:   Quiet Rage, part i .)

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!


_quiet rage, part ii_


“Just let me know where it hurts,” Dr.  Williams instructed.

She neither stirred nor opened her eyes.  She felt him draw back the starched, white sheet.  Cold air assaulted her mid section as he pulled up her gown.  He pressed her stomach in several places.  She groaned when he touched her for the fourth time.

“I know you’re sore, Hon.  You’ve got two cracked ribs and a nasty cut down here.  I want to make sure there’s no signs of internal bleeding or infection.”

She gritted her teeth again in an attempt to swallow her sobs.  Tears escaped from her tightly squeezed eyelids.

“I’ll get you something for the pain now,” Dr.  Williams said as he pulled her gown back down and replaced the sheet.  “I’ll send your parents back in too.”

She felt another gentle squeeze on her good hand and heard his steps move away.  She listened as the door swished open and creaked shut slowly, it sounded like the door of a school bus.  She heard the door open again.  She waited for the footsteps to approach her bedside.

“We’re back, Kitten,” Daddy’s voice said.  “Dr.  Williams said you could talk to our friend here while he got you some pain medicine.”

She opened her hazel eyes to see another stranger’s face next to Daddy’s and Mom’s familiar ones.  A pair of huge, brown, doe eyes met her curious gaze.

“Hi, my name is Officer Linda Kozickowski,” the round face said.  “I was hoping that you could tell us what happened to you the other night.”

This time she cast her blank stare like a net toward that new, round face.  She guessed that Linda had just gotten a perm; her chocolate-brown hair was a bouquet of short, tight curls that could only come from a salon.  Her large nose was crooked, and looked as if it had once been broken.  Her lips were painted a frosty pink and gaped open slightly like a microphone head, greedy and anxious to record every grisly detail.

“Can you tell us?”  Officer Kozickowski asked.

She looked up again, this time noticing her navy uniform top  and the gold MPD patch on her right shoulder.

“I’m going to turn this tape recorder on so I can get everything at once,” Officer Kozickowski explained patiently.  “Just talk like you do every day and ignore it, okay?  I’ll start.”

“This will be a taped statement, a case of rape.  The date is August 20, 2003 at 1:40 p.m.  This is Officer Linda Kozickowski in the hospital room of the victim, and with me is Michelle, M I C H E L L E, middle initial L, as in lilac, Larson, L A R S O N.  DOB August 18, 1986, address of 824 Bayview Drive, Millpoint, MA, 01775, phone, 978-897-5531.  There is no one else in on this interview besides Michelle, her parents, and Officer Kozickowski.  Michelle, starting from when you left your place of employment two nights ago, would you tell me in your own words what happened to you.”

Michelle let out a weary, exasperated sigh, clenched her teeth, and stared at Officer Kozickowski.

“Can you tell me what he looked like, Michelle?”  Officer Kozickowski asked.

Tears polluted Michelle’s vision.  Her parents’ faces appeared hazy and blurred as if she looked at them through carnival glass.

“Did you see his face?  Did you see the knife?”  Officer Kozickowski drilled.

Michelle slammed her swollen and bruised, hazel eyes shut and clenched her good fist.

“Where did the subject first approach you?”

Michelle turned her face away from her interrogator.  Her chest started to hitch up and down like an overtaxed furnace.  She lay there keening, her eyes squeezed so tightly shut that her brow and nose appeared to almost meet.

“Michelle, we need your help so this doesn’t happen again.”  Officer Kozickowski lectured.

Like a station transformer had been hit, Michelle went dark and became still.  She laid as stiff and unyielding as a fallen oak downs power lines.  She lay there unmovable and broken.  Her swollen, bruised face was drenched in tears and mucus, causing the cut which ran from her right earlobe to the center of her right cheek to sting even more.

“Look at me, Michelle, talk to me.”

Michelle refused to move or open her hazel eyes again.  She began to grind her teeth like an earnest apple press.  The frequent sniffling of her nose provided a somber wind accompaniment to their percussion.

“It’s only just begun,” Officer Kozickowski said, “She is going to have to face it.”

“That’s enough!”  her father spat.  “Get out, get out and take your fucking tape recorder and notepad with you.”

“Shh, Baby.  It’s okay, Michelle,” Daddy said.  “She’s gone.  We’ll take care of you.”

“It’s too late for that,” Michelle whispered hoarsely.  “It’s too damned late now.”