All of our sisters are terrorists.

My sister was the group of girls that were fighting against the rapist.

They shot the rapist in the chest 27 times at close range. No one else was injured.

Except the other boys, the other boys who told this boy that it was OK to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. These other boys were cornered, one shot in the cheek, his cheek so large that the bullet lodged in the fat, the surgeon later told him that he's lucky he's such a big kid, the bullet should have gone straight through his face, horizontally, cheek to cheek, blown right through.

Luck, he is so lucky. All those boys are so lucky.

They are lucky my sister and her friends didn't shoot them to death, too.

Another boy got a bullet in his dick, one of my sister's friends pointed the gun right at his dick and fired. It hit his leg and knicked a ball. 

A list of many other girls were made, girls that they told to stay home that day, including the victim of the attack.

No one else was injured.

No one else was injured.

These girls in the news, in the newspaper. Their long hair and their cold stares, looking right into the camera, we had to move, to move to this place, where my sister the gang leader becomes my sister the terrorist becomes my sister the caretaker in this desolation.