Evolution

A hand grabs my lower lip, pulling it away from my face. Another hand covers my eyes, at times flat across them, at times seeming to pinch them shut. Knees and arms pin my limbs to the ground. The hand is yanking my lip, tearing the pink threads that attach it to my mouth. I can taste my blood underneath my tongue. When the knife begins to slice through me I try to twist sideways and arch my back. But someone stamps down on my testicles and my scream, the retching forwards of my body, make it easier for the blade to finish its work. Now my mouth is full of blood, I'm choking on it, it curls and clutches at the back of my throat. They give me enough freedom to turn my head and spit. But I can't do it properly; blood only splutters and drools against my teeth without my lower lip to guide it. My eyes are open again, the hand has uncovered them, the black faces that fringe my sight are smiling. Something like a slug that tastes of salt is being dangled into my mouth. I know what it is, I don't want to eat it, but the pressure of a forearm tightens against my throat and my jaws open involuntarily. They seem to know everything, these soldiers; they can make any part of my body bend to their will. I am chewing now, while they hold the knife in front of my face. Next they will cut off my upper lip, my hands, penis, maybe my nose. When they are finished I will be what my people call a useless man. I will not even hate them for what they have done to me, because I will no longer have the strength or pride to do so. I will concede their right to rape my wife and female children, because I failed to protect them, will not condemn them for taking my sons to die in their army, because they are the vessels of my inferior genes. But anyway, why do I speak of right and condemnation? They have no place in this world and to dwell on them is only to invite ridicule, like trying to kiss someone when you haven't got any lips.