Fist Versus Foot

Free-flying fists were common among my siblings. Though I deserved these blows as the youngest, I was no longer the weakest. Having overtaken Libby, the oldest sister, years before, Sarah remained untoppled. One celebrated day, the glory was not hers, even as she employed new weapons (mouthwash in the eyes). Floor-bound, eyes aching from the antiseptic, her knees in my chest, I bent my leg around, awkwardly placing my bare foot upon her face, squishing in her nose, pressing toes into her squinted-up eyes. Though retaliation surely is imminent, I consider myself the victor, queen of all that I see.