Boys

A short story

by Carol Emshwiller

We need a new batch of boys. Boys are so foolhardy, impetuous, reckless, rash. They’ll lead the way into smoke and fire and battle. I’ve seen one of my own sons, aged twelve, standing at the top of the cliff shouting, daring the enemy. You’ll never win a medal for being too reasonable.

We steal boys from anywhere. We don’t care if they come from our side or theirs. They’ll forget soon enough, which side they used to be on, if they ever knew. After all, what does a seven-year-old know? Tell them this flag of ours is the best and most beautiful, and that we’re the best and smartest, and they believe it. They like uniforms. They like fancy hats with feathers. They like to get medals. They like flags and drums and war cries.

Their first big test is getting to their beds. You have to climb straight up to the barracks. At the top you have to cross a hanging bridge. They’ve heard rumors about it. They know they’ll have to go home to mother if they don’t do it. They all do it.

You should see the look on their faces when we steal them. It’s what they’ve always wanted. They’ve seen our fires along the hills. They’ve seen us marching back and forth across our flat places. When the wind is right, they’ve heard the horns that signal our getting up and going to bed and they’ve gotten up and gone to bed with our sounds or those of our enemies across the valley.

In the beginning they’re a little bit homesick (you can hear them smothering their crying the first few nights) but most have anticipated their capture and look forward to it. They love to belong to us instead of to the mothers.

If we’d let them go home they’d strut about in their uniforms and the stripes of their rank. I know because I remember when I first had my uniform. I was wishing my mother and my big sister could see me. When I was taken, I fought, but just to show my courage. I was happy to be stolen—happy to belong, at long last, to the men.

· · · · ·

Once a year in summer we go down to the mothers and copulate in order to make more warriors. We can’t ever be completely sure which of the boys is ours and we always say that’s a good thing, for then they’re all ours and we care about them equally, as we should. We’re not supposed to have family groups. It gets in the way of combat. But every now and then, it’s clear who the father is. I know two of my sons. I’m sure they know that I, the colonel, am their father. I think that’s why they try so hard. I know them as mine because I’m a small, ugly man. I know many must wonder how someone like me got to be a colonel.

(We not only steal boys from either side but we copulate with either side. When I go down to the villages, I always look for Una.)

“TO DIE FOR YOUR TRIBE IS TO LIVE FOREVER.” That’s written over our headquarters entrance. Under it, NEVER FORGET. We know we mustn’t forget but we suspect maybe we have. Some of us feel that the real reasons for the battles have been lost. No doubt but that there’s hate, so we and they commit more atrocities in the name of the old ones, but how it all began is lost to us.

We’ve not only forgotten the reasons for the conflict, but we’ve also forgotten our own mothers. Inside our barracks, the walls are covered with mother jokes and mother pictures. Mother bodies are soft and tempting. “Pillows,” we call them. “Nipples” and “pillows.” And we insult each other by calling ourselves the same.

· · · · ·

The valley floor is full of women’s villages. One every fifteen miles or so. On each side are mountains. The enemy’s, at the far side, are called The Purples. Our mountains are called The Snows. The weather is worse in our mountains than in theirs. We’re proud of that. We sometimes call ourselves The Hailstones or The Lightnings. We think the hailstones harden us up. The enemy doesn’t have as many caves over on their side. We always tell the boys they were lucky to be stolen by us and not those others.

· · · · ·

When I was first taken, our mothers came up to the caves to get us back. That often happens. Some had weapons. Laughable weapons. My own mother was there, in the front of course. She probably organized the whole thing, her face, red and twisted with resolve. She came straight at me. I was afraid of her. We boys fled to the back of the barracks and our squad leader stood in front of us. Other men covered the doorway. It didn’t take long for the mothers to retreat. None were hurt. We try never to do them any harm. We need them for the next crop of boys.

Several days later my mother came again by herself—sneaked up by moonlight. Found me by the light of the night lamp. She leaned over my sleeping mat and breathed on my face. At first I didn’t know who it was. Then I felt breasts against my chest and I saw the glint of a hummingbird pin I recognized. She kissed me. I was petrified. (Had I been a little older I’d have known how to choke and kick to the throat. I might have killed her before I realized it was my mother.) What if she took me from my squad? Took away my uniform? (By then I had a red and blue jacket with gold buttons. I had already learned to shoot. Something I’d always wanted to do. I was the first of my group to get a sharpshooters medal. They said I was a natural. I was trying hard to make up for my small size.)

The night my mother came she lifted me in her arms. There, against her breasts, I thought of all the pillow jokes. I yelled. My comrades, though no older than I and only a little larger, came to my aid. They picked up whatever weapon was handy, mostly their boots. (Thank goodness we had not received our daggers yet.) My mother wouldn’t hit out at the boys. She let them batter at her. I wanted her to hit back, to run, to save herself. After she finally did run, I found I had bitten my lower lip. In times of stress I’m inclined to do that. I have to watch out. When you’re a colonel, it’s embarrassing to be found with blood on your chin.

· · · · ·

So now, off to steal boys. We’re a troop of older boys and younger men. The oldest maybe twenty-two, half my age. I think of them all as boys, though I would never call them boys to their faces. I’m in charge. My son, Hob, he’s seventeen now, is with us.

But we no sooner creep down to the valley than we see things have changed since last year. The mothers have put up a wall. They’ve built themselves a fort.

I immediately change our plans. I decide this will be copulation day, not boys day. Good military strategy: Always be ready for a quick change of plan.

The minute I think this, I think Una. This is her town. My men look happy, too. This is not only easier, but lots more fun than herding a new crop of boys.

Last time I came down at copulation time I found her—or she found me, she usually does. She’s a little old for copulation day, but I didn’t want anybody but her. After copulation, I did things for her, repaired a roof leak, fixed a broken table leg.… Then I took her over again, though it wasn’t needed, and caused my squad to have to wait for me. Got me a lot of lewd remarks, but I felt extraordinarily happy anyway.

Sometimes on boys night I wonder, what if I stole Una along with boys? What if I dressed her as a boy and brought her to some secret hiding place on our side of the mountain? There are lots of unused caves. Once our armies occupied them all, but that was long ago. Both us and our enemies seem to be dwindling. Every year there are fewer and fewer suitable boys.

Una always seems glad to see me even though I’m ugly and small. (My size is a disadvantage for a soldier, though less so now that I have rank, but the ugliness … that’s how I can tell which are my sons … small, ugly boys, both of them. Too bad for them. But I’ve managed well even so, all the way up to colonel.)

Una was my first. I was her first, too. I felt sorry for her, having to have me for her beginning to be a woman. We were little more than children. We hardly knew what we were doing or how to do it. Afterwards she cried. I felt like crying myself but I had learned not to. Not just learned it with the squad, but I had learned it even before they took me from my mother. I wanted to be taken. I roamed far out into the scrub, waiting for them to come and get me.

The pain in my hip started when I was one of those boys. It wasn’t from a wound in a skirmish with the enemy, but from a fight among ourselves. Our leaders were happy when we fought each other. We’d have gotten soft and lazy if we didn’t. I keep my mouth shut about my injury. I kept my mouth shut even when I got it. I thought if they knew I could be so easily hurt they’d send me back. Later, I thought if they knew about it, I might not be allowed to come on our raids. Later still I thought I might not be able to be a colonel. I don’t let myself limp though sometimes that makes me more breathless than I should be. So far it doesn’t seem as if anybody’s noticed.

· · · · ·

We regroup. I say, “Fellow nipples and fellow pillows.… ” Everybody laughs. “When have they ever stopped men? Look how womanish the walls are. They’ll crumble as we climb.” I scrape at a part with the tip of my cane. (As a colonel, I’m allowed to have a cane if I wish instead of a swagger stick.)

We’re not sure if the women want to stop copulation day or boy gathering day. We hope it’s the latter.

Boost up the smallest boy with a rope on hooks. The rest of us follow.

I used to be that smallest boy. I always went first and highest. Times like this I was glad for my size. I got medals for that. I don’t wear any of them. I like playing at being one of the boys. Being small and being a colonel is a good example for some. If they knew about my bum leg I’d be an even better example of how far you can get with disabilities.

· · · · ·

We scale the walls and drop into the edges of a vegetable garden. We walk carefully around tomatoes and strawberry plants, squash and beans. After that, raspberry bushes tear at our pants and untie our high-tops as we go by. There’s a row of barbed wire just beyond the raspberries. Easy to push down.

I feel sad that the women want to keep us out so badly. I wonder, does Una want me not to come? Except they know we’re as determined as mothers. At least I am when it comes to Una.

· · · · ·

Una has always been nice to me. I often wonder why she likes me. I can understand somebody liking me now that I’m a colonel with silver on my epaulets, and a silver handled cane, but she liked me when I was nothing but a runty boy. She’s small, too. I always think Una and I fit together except for one thing, she’s beautiful.

· · · · ·

We swarm in, turn, each to our favorite place, the younger ones to what’s left over, usually other young ones. But then here we are, swarming back again, into their central square, the place with the well, and stone benches, and their one and only tree. Around the tree are the graves of babies. The benches are the mourning benches. We sit on them or on the ground. There’s nobody here, not a single woman nor girl nor baby.

Then there’s the sound of shooting. We move from the central square—we can’t see anything from there. We hide behind the houses at the edges of the gardens. Our enemy stands along the top of the wall. We’re ambushed. We flop down. We have no rifles with us and only two pistols, mine and my lieutenant’s. This wasn’t supposed to be a skirmish. We have our daggers, of course.

Those along the wall don’t seem to be very good shots. I raised my pistol. I’m thinking to show them what a good shot really is. But my lieutenant yells, “Stop! Don’t shoot. It’s mothers!”

Women all along the wall! And with guns. Hiding under wall-colored shields. Whoever heard of such a thing.

They shoot, but a lot are missing, I think on purpose. After all, we may be the enemy, but we’re the fathers of many of their girls and many of them. I wonder which one is Una.

The women are angrier than we thought. Perhaps they’re tired of losing their boys to us and to the other side. I wouldn’t put it past them not to be on any side whatsoever.

Our boys begin to yell their war cry but in a half hearted way. But then … one shot … a real shot this time. Good shot, too. One wonders how a woman could have done it. One wonders if it was a man who taught her. The boys are stunned. To think that one of their mothers or one of their sisters would shoot to kill. This is real. We hadn’t thought they’d harm us any more than we ever really harm them.

It was my lieutenant they killed. One bloodless shot to the head. For that boy’s sake I’m glad at least no pain. He was wearing his ceremonial hat. I wasn’t wearing mine. I never liked that fancy heavy hat. I suppose they really wanted to kill me, but had to take second best since they couldn’t tell which one I was. Una would know which one was me.

The boys scatter—back to the center square with its mourning tree. The women can’t see them back there. I stay to check on the dead lieutenant and to get his dagger and pistol. Then I limp back to where the boys are waiting for me to tell them what to do. Limp. I relax into it. I don’t care who sees. I haven’t exactly given up, though perhaps I have when it comes to my future. I’ll most likely be demoted. To be captured by women.… All twenty of us. If I can’t get out of this in an efficient and capable way, there goes my career.

I hope they have the sense to come rescue us with a large group. They’ll have to make a serious effort. I hope they don’t try to fight and at the same time try to save the women for future use.

But then we hear shooting again and we look out from behind the huts near the wall and see the women have turned their guns outwards. At first we think it’s us, come to rescue us, but it’s not. That’s not our battle cry, not our drum beats.… We can’t see from behind the walls so some of us go up on the roofs. There’s no danger, all the rifles are facing outwards, but our boys would have braved the roof without a word, as they always do.

It’s not our red and blue banners. It’s their ugly green and white. It’s the enemy come to take advantage of our capture. We wish the women would get out of the way and let us go so we could fight for ourselves. Those women are breaking every rule of battle. They’re lying flat along their wall. Nobody can get a fair shot at them.

It goes on and on. We get tired of watching and retreat to the square. We reconnoiter food from the kitchens. We eat better than we usually do. The food is so good we wish the women would let up a bit so we can enjoy it without that racket. Where did they get all these weapons? They must have found our ammunition caves and those of our enemy, too.

· · · · ·

The women do a pretty good job. By nightfall our enemy has fled back into their mountains and the women are still on top of their wall. It looks as if they’re going to spend the night up there. It’s a wide wall. Not as badly built as I told the boys it was.

We find beds for ourselves, all of them better than our usual sleeping pads. I go to Una’s hut and lie where I had hoped to have a copulation.

Cats prowl and yowl. All sorts of things live with the women. Goats wander the streets and come in any house they want to. All the animals expect food everywhere. Like the women, our boys are soft hearted. They feed every creature that comes by. I don’t let on that I do too.

This whole thing makes me sad. Worried. If I could just have Una in my arms, I might be able to sleep. I have a “day dream” of her creeping in to me in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t even care if we had a copulation or not.

· · · · ·

In the morning boys climb to the roofs again to see what’s up. They describe women lying under shields all along the walls and they can see some of the enemy lying dead away from the walls. I need to climb up and see for myself. Besides it’s good for the boys to see me taking the same chances they do.

I send the boys off and I take their place. I look down on the women along the wall. I see several rifles pointed at me. I stand like a hero. I dare them to shoot. I take all the time I want. I see wall sections less crowded with women. I take out my notebook (no leader is ever without one) and draw a diagram. I take my time until I have the whole wall mapped out.

I could take out my pistol and threaten them. I could shoot one but it wouldn’t be very manly to take advantage of my high point. Were they men I’d do it. But then they do the unmanly thing. They shoot me. My leg. My good leg. I go down, flat on the roof. At first I feel nothing but the shock … as if I’d been hit with a hammer. All I know is I can’t stand up. Then I see blood.

Though they’re on the wall, they’re lower. They can’t see me as long as I keep down. I crawl to the edge where boys help me. They carry me back to Una’s bed. I feel I’m about to pass out or throw up and I become aware that I’ve soiled myself. I don’t want the boys to see. I’ve always been a source of strength and inspiration in spite of or because of my size.

One of those boys is Hob, come to help me, my arm across his shoulders. I lean in pain but keep my groans to myself.

“Sir? Colonel?”

“I’m fine. Will be. Go.”

I wish I could ask him if he really is my son. They say sometimes the women know and tell the boys.

“Don’t you want us to.… ”

“No. Go. Now. And shut the door.”

They leave just in time. I throw up over the side of the bed. I lie back—Una’s pillow all sweated up not to mention what I’ve done to her quilt.

Una can make potions for pain. I wish I knew which, of the herbs hanging from her ceiling, might help me. But I’d not be able to reach them anyway.

I lie, half conscious, for I don’t know how long. Every time I sit up to examine my leg, I feel nausea again and have to lie back. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to lead a charge or a raid for boys or a copulation day. And I always thought, when I became a general (and lately I felt sure I’d be one) maybe I’d find out what we’re fighting for—beyond, that is, the usual rhetoric we use to make ourselves feel superior. Now I suppose I’ll never know the real reasons.

· · · · ·

The boys knock. I rouse myself and say, “Come.” Try, that is. At first my voice won’t sound out at all and then it sounds more like a groan than a word. The boys tell me the women have called down from the wall. They want to send in a spokesman. The boys want to let him in and then hold him hostage so that we’ll all be let out safely.

I tell them the women will probably send in a woman.

That bothers the boys. They must have had torture or killing in mind but now they look worried.

“Tell them yes,” I say.

It must smell terrible in here. I even smell terrible to myself, and it’s uncomfortable sitting in my own mess. I prop myself up as best I can. I hope I can keep to my senses. I hope I don’t throw up in the middle of it. I put my dagger, unsheathed, under the pillow.

At first I think the boys were right, it’s a man, of course a man. Where would they have found him, and is he from our side or theirs? That’s important. I can’t tell by the colors. He’s all in tan and gray. He’s not wearing any stripes at all so I can’t tell his rank. He stands, at ease. More than at ease, utterly relaxed, and in front of a colonel.

But then … I can’t believe it, it’s Una. I should have known. Dressed as a man down to the boots. I have such a sense of relief and after that joy. Everything will be all right now.

I tell the boys to get out and shut the door.

I reach for her, but the look on her face stops me.

“You shot me in the leg on purpose, didn’t you! My good leg!”

“I meant to shoot the bad one.”

She opens all the windows, and the door again, too, and shoos the boys away.

“Let me see.”

She’s gentle. As I knew she’d be.

“I’ll get the bullet out, but first I’ll clean you up.” She hands me leaves to chew for pain.

As she leans, so close above me, her hair falls out of her cap and brushes my face, gets in my mouth as it does when we have copulation day. I reach to touch her breast but she pushes me away.

I should kill her for the glory of it … the leader of the women. I’d not be thought a failure then. I’d be made a general in no time.

But, as she pulls away the soiled quilts, she finds my dagger first thing. She puts it in the drawer with her kitchen knives.

I think again how … (and we all know, only too well) how love is a dangerous thing and can spoil the best of plans. Even as I think it, I want to spoil the very plans I think of. I mean if she’s the leader then I could deal with her right now, as she leans over me—even without my dagger. They may be good shots, but can they wrestle a man? Even a wounded one?

“I chose you because I thought, of all of them, you might listen.”

“You know I won’t ever be let come down to copulation day again.”

“Don’t go back then. Stay here and copulate.”

“I have often thought to bring you up to the mountain dressed as a man. I have a place all picked out.”

“Stay here. Let everybody stay here and be as women.”

I can’t answer such a thing. I can’t even think about it.

“But then what else do you know except how to be a colonel?”

She washes me, changes the bed, and throws the bed clothes and my clothes out the door. Then she gets the bullet out. I’m half out of my head from the leaves she had me chew so the pain is dulled. She bandages me, covers me with a clean blanket, puts her lips against my cheek for a moment.

Then stands up, legs apart. She looks like one of our boys getting ready to prove himself. “We’ll not stand for this anymore,” she says. “It has to end and we’ll end it, if not one way, then another.”

“But this is how it’s always been.”

“You could be our spokesman.”

How can she even suggest such a thing. “Pillows,” I say. “Spokesman for the nipples.”

Goodness knows what the mothers are capable of. They never stick to any rules.

“If the answer is no, we’ll not have anymore boy babies. You can come down and copulate all you want but there’ll be no boys. We’ll kill them.”

“You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Not you, Una.”

“Have you noticed how there are fewer and fewer boys? Many have already done it.”

But I’m in too much pain and dizzy from the leaves she gave me, to think clearly. She sees that. She sits beside me, takes my hand. “Just rest,” she says. How can I rest with such ideas in my head? “But the rules.”

“Hush. Women don’t care about rules. You know that.”

“Come back with me.” I pull her down against me. This time she lets me. How good it feels to have us chest to chest, my arms around her. “I have a secret place. It’s not a hard climb to get there.”

She pulls back. “Colonel, sir!”

“Please don’t call me that.”

Then I say … what we’re not allowed to say or even think. It’s a mother/child thing, not to be said between a man and a woman. I say, “I love you.”

She leans back and looks at me. Then wipes at my chin. “Try not to bite your lip like that.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does to me.”

“I liked.… I like.…” I already used the other word, why not yet again. “I love copulation day only when with you.”

I wonder if she feels the same about me. I wish I dared ask her. I wonder if my son.… Is Hob hers and mine together? I’ve always hoped he was. She’s made no gesture towards him. She hasn’t even looked at him any more than any other boy. This would have been his first copulation day had the women not built their wall.

“Rest,” she says. “We’ll discuss later.”

“Is it just us? Or are you saying the same thing to the enemy? They could win the war like that. It would be your fault.”

“Stop thinking.”

“What if no more boys on either side, ever?”

“What if?”

She gives me more of those leaves to chew. They’re bitter. I was in too much pain to notice that the first time. I feel even sleepier right away.

· · · · ·

I dream I’m the last of all the boys. Ever. I have to get somewhere in a hurry, but there’s a wall so high I’ll never get over it. Beside, my legs are not there at all. I’m nothing but a torso. Women watch me. Women, off across the valley floor as far as I can see and none will help. There’s nothing to do but lie there and give the war cry.

I wake shouting and with Una holding me down. Hob is there, helping her. Other boys are in the doorway looking worried.

I’ve thrown the blanket and the pillow to the floor and now I seem to be trying to throw myself out of bed. Una has a long scratch across her cheek. I must have done that.

“Sorry. Sorry.”

I’m still as if in a dream. I pull Una down against me. Hold her hard and then I reach out for Hob, too. My poor ugly boy. I ask the unaskable. “Tell me, is Hob mine and yours together?”

Hob looks shocked that I would ask such a thing, as well he should. Una pulls away and gets up. She answers as if she was one of the boys. “Colonel, sir, how can you, of all people, ask a thing like that.” Then she throws my own words back at me. “This is how it’s always been.”

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake stop being so sorry!”

She shoos the boys from the doorway but she lets Hob stay. Together they rearrange the bed. Together she and Hob make broth for me and food for themselves. Hob seems at home here. It’s true, I’m sure. This is our son.

But I suppose all this yearning, all this wondering, is due to the leaves Una had me chew. It’s not the real me. I’ll not pay any attention to myself.

But there’s something else. I didn’t get a good look at my leg yet, but it feels like a serious wound. If I can’t climb up to our stronghold, I’ll not ever be able to go home. I shouldn’t, even so, and though my career is in a shambles … I shouldn’t let myself be lured into staying here as a copulator for the rest of my life. I can’t think of anything more dishonorable. I should send Hob back to the citadel to report on what’s happened and to get help. If he was found trying to escape, would Una let the women kill him?

I try to get Hob alone so I can whisper his orders to him. Only when Una goes out to the privy do I get the chance. “Get back to the citadel. Cross the wall tonight. There’s no moon.” I show him my map and where I think there are fewer women. I want to tell him to take care, but we don’t ever say such things.

· · · · ·

In the morning I tell Una to tell my leaders to come in to me. I’m in pain, in a sweat, my beard is itchy. I ask Una to clean me up. She treats me as a mother would. Back when my mother did it, I pulled away. I wouldn’t let her get close to me. I especially wouldn’t let her hug or kiss me. I wanted to be a soldier. I wanted nothing to do with mother things.

All the boys are looking scruffy. We take pride in our cleanliness, in shaving everyday, in our brush cuts, and our enemy is as spic and span as we are. I hope they don’t launch an offensive today and see us so untidy.

I’m glad to see Hob isn’t with them.

I find it hard to rouse myself to my usual humor. I say, “Pillows, nipples,” but I’m too uncomfortable to play at being one of the boys.

I’d prefer to recuperate some, but the boys are restless already. I can’t be thinking of myself. We’ll storm the wall. I show them the map. I point out the less guarded spots. I grab Una. Both her wrists. “Men, we’ll need a battering ram.”

Wood isn’t easy to get out here on the valley floor. This is a desert except along the streams, but every village has one tree in the center square that they’ve nurtured along. As here, baby’s graves are always around it. In other villages, most are cottonwood, but this one is oak. It’s so old I wouldn’t be surprised if it hadn’t been here since before the village. I think the village was built up around it later.

“Chop the tree. Ram the wall.” I tell them. “Go back to the citadel. Don’t wait around for me. Tell the generals never to come here again, neither for boys nor for copulation. Tell them I’m of no use to us anymore.”

The women won’t be able to shoot at the boys chopping it down. It’s hidden from all parts of the wall.

When they hear the chopping, the women begin to ululate. Our boys stop chopping, but only for a moment. I hear them begin again with even more vigor.

Here beside me Una ululates, too. She struggles against me but I hang on.

“How could you? That’s the tree of dead boys.”

I let go.

“All the babies buried there are boys. Some are yours.”

I can’t let this new knowledge color my thinking. I have to think of the safety of my boys. “Let us go, then.”

“Tell them to stop.”

“Would you let us go for the sake of a tree?”

“We would.”

I give the order.

· · · · ·

The women move away from a whole section of the wall, they even provide their ladders. I tell the boys to go. There’s no way they could carry me back and no way I could ever climb to the citadel again.

No sooner are the boys gone, even to the last tootle of the fifes, the last triumphant drum beat.… (We always march home as though victorious whether victorious or not.) Hearing them go, I can’t help but groan, though not from pain this time. No sooner have the mothers come down from the wall, but that I hear, ululating again. Una stamps in to me.

“What now?”

“It’s Hob. Your enemy.… Your enemy has dropped him off at the edge of your foothills.”

I can see it on her face.

“He’s dead.”

“Of course he’s dead. You are all as good as dead.”

She blames me for Hob. “I blame myself.”

“I hate you. I hate you all.”

I don’t believe we’ll be seeing many boys anymore. I would warn us if I was able, I would be the spokesman, though I don’t suppose I’ll ever have the chance.

“What will the women do with me?”

“You were always kind. I’ll not be any less to you.”

What am I good for? What use am I but to stay here as the father of females? All those small, ugly, black-haired girls.… I suppose all of them biting their lower lips until they bleed.

The End