In an instant, though an instant too late, the red haze of rage cleared. I could see.

My arm hung in an arc before me, graceful in its brutality. A stray string of spittle was making a complimentary arc above it, the punctuation to an ill-chosen string of obscenities. The tattoo on my wrist flashed back at me from beneath the tattered black sleeve of Harley Davidson T-shirt, black flames to reflect my black heart.

And there she was, dumbstruck and wide-eyed in the path of my backhand fury. I’d missed how matted her dirty blond hair was, the effect of too many missed nights’ sleep. I hadn’t seen the cracks in her chapped lips, her neglected care. I had utterly failed to note that the red in her eyes was not anger at me but a bloodshot testament to tears shed before I blundered back into the house.

Now before me she was reduced again to a small child, her face fallen, defeated. I saw that I wasn’t just hitting a woman but taking her dignity. I was killing her.

But I saw it too late.