...I think she misses him. People tend to like whats bad for them. The worse it is for them the more they crave it, it's like a drug.
He was bad for her, very bad. I used to hear their muffled arguments through the ceiling, like someone speaking to you when you're underwater, their voices angry distortions of the screams and rage flying about that tiny flat.
Then you'd hear the slap or a bang and it'd all go quiet...well for a bit, then slowly a tiny wimper would begin and the slow prowling creaks of heavy, angry feet on the floorboards. A cry, followed by a growl, the sound of furniture grating along the floor, something breaks, and it begins again in a crechendo until it seems like the walls, the floor, can't take any more. And the whole ceiling is moaning with the violent noise like it's going to come crashing down on you. Just a constant hail of shouting and screaming punctuated only by those eerie silences and you know when it's quiet again that he's hit her.
In those silences you freeze, you hardly breathe because you're convinced that somehow he'll hear you, somehow he'll know that you've heard everything he's done and then it'll be your turn. You sit there not daring to move, ears hearing only the fight until the door slams and the feet pound down the stairs, stopping on the landing outside the door. You can hear the sole of his trainer as it scuffs slowly over the concrete and the metallic scrape of a drinks can being pushed along the floor. Then you jump as you hear the click and whoosh of a lighter followed by a small cough and he's gone.