This is that moment.
She had beaten you. Hard. Precisely. Kicked you until you staggered. Then stretched you out on the ground. You lay defeated and slightly dazed on the fighting mat, the air tearing in your chest, the taste of defeat already on your tongue. You never would have thought this woman could be so brutal. That she would finish you like this. That so much cold determination sat behind her gaze.
Now you lie there. Motionless. Small.
You feel only this pressure. This warm, sweaty, smelling sole that settles heavy on your face. The scent is dense, salty, after hours of effort, after skin and victory. Her toes claw into your cheek, into your forehead, looking for purchase in your face as if it were her property. She presses with all her strength. Your face is forced into the mat. The world becomes narrow.
Through the tight gaps she still leaves you to look up, you see her above you. She stands in her victory pose. Chest lifted, gaze downward, as if she had finished something that no longer deserves attention. To her you are only the defeated victim now. No opponent anymore. No person who counts.
The sign of her absolute superiority is exactly this: that she brutally plants her sweaty foot on your face and leaves it there. That you no longer matter to her.
You are the victim.
Defeated.
Nothing but floor.
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