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But there was no need. Modesty and shame had become only words to me. Achingly small, and weak, and meaningless words. Laughter and guttural jests in the other rooms of my home were punctuated by the crash of breaking furniture and glass. But here it was quiet. My eyes still fixed on the wall, I waited. Moments passed and the quiet endured. When finally I turned, the soldier was still on his knees by my bed, his face buried in his hands as he silently wept. For a flittering moment I felt the urge to reach out and touch him on the shoulder, until my anger flared and crushed the despicable notion. To evoke such a feeling of compassion was a violation as despicable as that of those others, and perhaps even more so! I wanted to kick him. To scream and punch. To hurt him in every possible way. He looked up then and met my eyes. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a folded photograph. He looked at it with loving melancholy and held it for me to see. I wanted to turn away, to deny him. "Shit", she said to herself, hopped up, and stood in front of her mirror. She looked herself up and down, and was largely pleased with what she saw, until she came to the petticoat. She was short and curvy, with flawless chocolate skin. Her lips were full and sensuous, her hair glossy black and shoulder length. Her breasts were large, and perfectly proportional to her voluptuous figure. The petticoat only accentuated her thin waist and her wide, delicious hips. She turned slowly, looking for something she might have missed. But there was nothing.She couldn't miss school tomorrow. It was her senior year and tomorrow was the last day to take the SAT's, but she certainly couldn't go like this. She looked at her clock. 10:20. She needed to come up with a solution before it got too much later. Her eyes wandered from her clock to the cup, stuffed with pens and pencils...and a pair of scissors. She smiled and rushed across the room, petticoat bouncing, and picked them up. First she tried to.
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