The Slap ( His version)

The vile words were shouted at such a high pitch
the neighbors banged on the thin walls.
The words were delivered from the heart,
full of abhorrence, strife and bitterness
joined to send his frenzy hotter.
The SLAP was a reaction to words he couldn’t think to say.
He couldn’t stop himself. The slap came so fast and with so much force
that he wasn’t sure at first that he had reached out to hit her. It was like it happened in slow motion, a frame by frame picture. She fell backwards on the floor hitting her head against the hall. He was so enrage it frightened him. The words he’d shouted at her were still ringing in his ears, burning hot. Words so ugly that he was surprised they’re coming from his mouth. She sat there looking stun, not at him but at their young daughter watching things unfold from the corner of the room. She was crying and it broke him deep.
He hadn’t known she was there, listening, watching her father hit her mother. How had he allowed it to get this far? How had he done this, lifted a hand against a woman? How had he put that look on his young daughter’s face? How had he become his father?
He swore he would never be the man his father was; he’ll never lift his hand to a woman. He’d promise himself that he would not put fear in his child’s eyes, like his father had on too many occasions. He’d hated his father for striking his mother, had even fought the man, now he was that man.  He watched as she stood.  He tried to hold her, to ask for her forgiveness, but she pushed him way to get to their daughter. He tried to talk, to plead with her that he wasn’t this man, but she wasn’t listening as she ran across the room. He yelled to her that he was sorry, but she was gone the door slamming in his face as tears fell from his eyes.