I suppose for her it was a kind of love...i don't know how she lived like that though, it was bad enough sitting here listening to it all unfold above my head, but to be there, to be her, to be in the thick of it...no, i couldn't do that.
How low must you have to be to crane out of your window, screaming, begging some man to come back to you even if you know that he's just going to smack seven shades of shit out of you when he returns? And she did it, she was there, tears running down her face in mascara tinted ribbons, her mouth wet with blood and spit, screaming at him not to leave her. The whole street was watching and she didn't care, she just didn't care anymore.
It's like he beat every scrap of spirit out of her, every tiny piece of self respect and self worth had gone, blow by blow, until all that was left was this broken and frightened child, too scared even to let go of this creature that had ruined her, too scared to be be alone.
Well that was a while ago, the only noises I hear now are the sounds of her sitting up there alone, crying at the television because she can see people who are happy and she doesn't know how to get that back. Occasionally there'll be some bloke she'll bring back from the pub and you can hear her up there hating every minute as he drunkenly slobbers all over her then falls aleep, farts and makes a quick exit padding down the stairs the next day before she wakes up.
Now that the violence has gone she just sits up there most nights on her own getting pissed on cheap drink and wondering where on earth it all went wrong.