SHATTERED CRYSTAL

The classroom was atwitter with the chatter of children from 6 to 12 years old.  It was an experiment in education, that classroom.  Each child was receiving individualized instruction, based entirely on their progress, not their age.

I looked over my animated charges and smiled.  I had never worked harder, but I had never been prouder of my work.  These kids were lapping up their lessons like a kitten at a saucer full of milk.

“Ms. Lezlie, please come to the principal’s office immediately.”  The antiquated PA system in that rickety old Catholic school building crackled loudly above the din.


I was startled.  This had never happened before.  Sister Agnes preferred to wait until recess breaks or lunchtime so as not to cause the teachers to leave their classrooms unattended.

“Jason, as the oldest student in the room, I am going to ask you to be in charge while I run down the hall.  Everyone else is to respect my appointment of Jason and treat him as you would treat me.  I’ll be right back, so carry on with whatever you are working on.  Try to keep it down to a dull roar, please Jason.”  Giggles from all corners tickled my ears.

As I rushed through the door of the Principal’s Office, the look on Sister Agnes’ beautiful face was telling.  Something was very wrong.  At 26, I still felt sudden fear the way a child does.  I held my breath.
“Your 7-year-old, Crystal, is in the hospital, Lezlie.  That’s why she’s absent today.”

“What happened?!”  I almost shrieked this.  Crystal was among my secret favorites, something I dared not admit to my boss.

“Sit down.”  Sister folded her hands on her desk and stared at her soap-scrubbed hands as I pulled the chair closer to the desk.

“Crystal was raped last night.”

“Raped?” I shouted in a hushed whisper.

“Her injuries are so severe she required extensive surgery to repair her vagina and anus.”

I began to sob.  I felt unspeakable horror and disbelief.  Who would do such harm to anyone, much less a 7-year-old little girl?  My stomach lurched in forewarning of its intended upheaval.

Sister Agnes anticipated my unspoken question.  She sighed deeply.

“Her mother has decided not to press charges.”

I leaped out of my chair, deserting decorum.

“You have got to be kidding me, Sister!  Why the h… ? In the name of God, what is she thinking?

“He was drunk.”

“Who was drunk?  Who is this monster? Since when is being drunk an excuse to rape a child?”  I was screaming with righteous indignation, pacing the floor.

Sister Agnes swiveled her chair around and stared out the window overlooking the playground where a group of kindergarten children played Simon Says.

“Her father.”

Regrettably, this is a true story.