Rosary

Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
Ephesians 6:10-20

It’s always a peaceful quiet of Sunday afternoons in this place. A fireplace is lit in the sitting room, it’s warm glow softly illuminating the drawn once-upon-a-time yellow curtains, worn out sofas, chairs and wrinkled faces resting in them.

In the far corner there is an alcove with two ancient chairs facing over a low table. Most days see a game of checkers being played here, but not today.
A young man sits stiffly in one of the chairs, leaning forward as if ready to pounce. He hangs on to his companion’s every word.


"She isn’t large but imposes largeness on one’s mind, with her huge breasts, heaving even when still, her wide, heavy set hips, swaying even when seated, her soft hair, her wicked eyes, her…everything. She is young, I can tell these things, she is young, but experienced young. She is wise in the ways of the world. Pulses quicken when she looks at you with those emerald jewels of hers, full chest trust out purposefully, teasing. She knows what she has and how to use it.

I take a deep breath and open my eyes. I know, as soon as I turn back to look at her, she will get her special charms out once again and I will be lost. I must resist. It is not what I want.

I fear for her.

He’s been looking at her too, I can feel the desire dripping from him. It feels as if a heavily pulsating core inside him is throbbing as fast as a hummingbirds’ heart. It cannot bode well, this.

He looks pleasant enough, some would even say handsome. His hair is chestnut curls softly set on boyish face. His mouth is a soft, pink rosebud, delicately pursed, almost girl like. He is tall. Well dressed. His eyes two dark pools of hell.

He is a nurse like her. Unlike her, he is cold and uncaring. There’ll be a linen cupboard to tell a tale or two. Second floor. Near the fire exit.


She is crossing and uncrossing her legs, soft curve of her hips bobbing up and down as she shifts in her seat.
I can feel her every move deep inside me. Her breasts quiver gently as she moves sending waves of resonance through me.
Overwhelmed, I cannot pay attention to him. I resist her delectable pull and focus on him once more.


I can see her talking to him, smiling, her left breast lightly brushing against his arm. I want her to stop and leave him now.
He is strangely calm. His gaze slightly unfocused, body released of tension. Is he asleep? Standing like that?

I shake my head vigorously to clear my thoughts and when I look up they are gone.
Where are they? I cannot see them and panic.

Deep breaths, take it easy. There’s a whisper in my head, I’m not sure if it’s her or me. She’ll come to me, I just heave to breathe..and I see her!

I see her. She seems oddly passive, her usual vibrant posture slouching, as if receding into the ground. There is no emotion. I try and look harder but they are walking away and it’s foggy. I don’t know where they are. It’s grey and dunk and industrial. It can be anywhere.

Him. I see him and he is mildly excited but there is no heart in his acts. His body moves to some rhythm, a pulse quickened by blood, some inner demon making him twist and writhe. I can feel his clammy skin under the fashionable clothes, his stale breath falling on her neck.

Her head is turned left as far as it would go and she is still. Placid and motionless, she is unrecognisable. Is it really her?

I search out her eyes and two shiny emeralds flicker at me feebly.

It’s her. He grunts and mumbles as he presses into her, one hand holding her arm down, other pointing a hunting knife to her throat. I’m terrified he will slip, enraptured and hurt her. She is calm, unafraid. His mind is frighteningly focused, each task allocated sufficient focus. He is alert and unfeeling. Why does he do this? There is no satisfaction for him, just a void inside growing deeper and darker.

She is still because she believes it will be over quicker that way. She may feel soiled and hurt for a day or two but then it will pass and she will forget. She’s been with men who left her unmoved. This is the same for her. It’ll pass.

I know differently. Frantically, I search around with her eyes, scan inside her mind, recent memories, some clue, a sign, colour, scent, anything. My eyes, her eyes, dart around a storehouse, cast-iron beams under the ceiling, grey stone walls, hard cement floor underneath, a whiff of sea coming through from somewhere.

He’s getting up, her eyes are closed, she doesn’t want to face him. He is walking around her, now kneeling above her head, his knee rested on her beautiful, soft hair. If she is to get up now, she will be yanked back and may hurt her head on the hard floor. He doesn’t make her get up, he, he..

It’s dark. I am tossed about in a sea of nausea. Waves of anguish hurl at me until my insides melt. The terror I feel is the same every time. Theirs, mine, I don’t know.
I pause, gasping for breath. It never got easier, only more familiar, like an old enemy who’s weakness you know as well as his strength.


That’s as far as I can go."


Opening her eyes slowly, the old woman releases the rosary from her gnarly fingers and nods slightly at a young man sitting anxiously across from her. She sits back in her chair and closes her eyes once again. This time, for rest.

The young man raises and departs very quietly, collecting a photograph that fell to old women’s feet. He glances at the young Australian nurse smiling expansively at him, ravishingly beautiful and full of life.

“Godspeed Detective O’Connell,” soft voice calls after him. He pauses on the doorstep before closing the door behind him and, eyes cast down, murmurs “Thanks, Ma”.

The old woman sighs heavily, and gathering the rosary from her lap chants in monotone voice: “HAIL, HOLY QUEEN, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope! To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. ”