Sister Satan (Part IV)

One Saturday afternoon during my sister’s first summer home from college, Dad, my brother, sister and I were all sitting in the living room watching television.  My sister was being snotty towards my brother about something designed to make him think she was better than him and their altercation turned into a wrestling match. 

Dad was sitting in his recliner and I on the sofa.  There was lots of name calling and pinching and biting and punching until my brother got her in a headlock.  She was immobilized and he didn’t move.  His face was red.  Dad was still watching silently.

“Bitch!”  My brother was saying.

“Mrgmble gamgble,” was all she could manage in reply. My brother had a crazy look in his eye as he held her, silent.

“Grmlblm mmgmble gmm mm gm!”  She said.

She was immobilized.  At 15, my brother had finally outgrown her and with the help of a workout system dad had gotten for him, he’d gotten pretty strong.  His eyes squinted in concentration and resolve as his arm tightened around her neck.

After a minute or two of this, dad said quietly, “Son.  Her face is turning blue.  I think you’re killing her.”  My brother looked at him, moving nothing but his eyes.  Dad said, “I think it’s time to let go.”

When he did, my sister tore away like a feral cat spewing all sorts of vile commentary like, “I can’t believe you sat there and let him attack me like that!”  And “You are such an asshole!  Now my neck is all bruised and it’s going to be that way for a week!”

He said nothing.  She never attacked him again.

My big day came later that year when I was sitting in mom’s chair with the remote, watching a children’s show.  She was home for the weekend.

“Why are you watching that?”  She sneered, hovering over me.

“Mostly because I feel like it.”  I didn’t look at her.  I was thirteen at the time. 

“I’m going to tell your friends that you were watching a children’s show.”

“Fine.”  I’m sure my face scrunched up in a what-the-hell expression and I shook my head.  “They’re definitely not going to care.”

“I don’t want to watch this.  Give me the remote.”  She grabbed at it.  At me.  Our arms were tangled and I still had the remote.

“No!  Get away from me you weirdo!”  I kicked her and she shrieked. 

“What the hell!”  She was looking at me, eyes wide, and coddling her arm.  “I’m bleeding!”  She looked at my leg, my feet.  “It’s your fucking toenail!  Don’t you ever cut your toenails!?  Mom!”

When mom came in she had a small, barely perceptible grin on her face.  She suggested I trim my toenails more regularly and told my sister she got what she deserved.

She never laid a hand on me after that. 

I recently recounted my victory story for her.  She said, “See?  All you had to do was fight back instead of sitting there and cowering!”