He hit her.
She screamed in shock.
I was waking up from my afternoon slumber.

He hit her.
She grabbed the edge of the sofa for support.
I was rubbing my eyes and wiping saliva from the corner of lips.

He hit her.
She was sprawled on the floor.
I was trying to move my frozen legs.

He hit her.
She tried to push him away.
I was shouting, asking him to stop while his mother, immersed in schadenfreude, contentedly kept watching .

He hit her.
She just told me to go to the other room.
I was wildly trying to pull him away, getting singed by his seething eyes.

He hit her.
She began to wail as he pinned her down to hold her in place.
I was enveloping my small palm around his fist, vainly trying to soften the blow on her bare back.

He hit her.
She was writhing in pain.
I was yanking him by his white vest, ripping it from one side to the other.

He hit her.
She was spitting out blood with every jerk.
I bit his forearm, making it bleed and stopping him for a while.

He left with his well worn pretense, victim cards and an adhesive band-aid .
She was left with a broken back, unpaid bills and a stained sofa cover.
I was merely left with vivid memories of that afternoon.

My father had hit only my mother that day.
But was she the only one hit that day?

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