This world is not my home
Tristan found Amy slumped in front of a canvas in the spare room of their flat when he got home. It was exam time, and the other flatties were at the library studying, but it was Tristan's turn to cook tonight so he was home early- Amy had stayed home with the flu today.
"Amy... Are you okay?"
Amy sniffed as a gravelly voice came out of the crackly speakers on the coffee table in the room- the only piece of furniture besides a lone mattress for guests. They'd thought of renting the room out after a flatmate had left earlier in the year, but it didn't feel right. Not just yet. Besides, this way they could have friends stay whenever they liked and not worry about waking up awkwardly spooning.
Amy just nodded with great effort and continued moving her brush in great, chaotic strokes over the canvas.
Tristan slowly shut the door and sat down opposite the canvas when he realised there was an open bottle of whiskey next to Amy.
"I thought you'd given up drinking, Amy?" he asked softly, looking to Amy's red, blotchy face to try and gauge her level of intoxication.
Amy nodded quickly and strongly again, a loud sniff followed by a sharp breath coming from her mouth.
"Amy... What's wrong?"
She just shook her blond hair quickly as she covered the canvas in dark browns and muddy greens.
It was strange to watch her paint. There was often no method to her madness, and it was always a surprise to see her results.
Tristan reached across the canvas and placed his index and middle fingers under her chin, tilting her face upwards.
"Look at me." he told her.
Amy's body shuddered briefly as she dropped the paintbrush onto the canvas. The song stopped and she glanced at the stereo.
Music was integral to how Amy worked. Tristan knew that. He pressed onto the floor to help himself get up and restarted the song again, knowing how Amy's obsessions with songs went.
He sat on the floor again, this time next to Amy as the cigarette-stained soul howled out of the speakers once again. He gently moved the bottle of whiskey out of Amy's reach.
Tristan clasped Amy's hands as she began to speak in slow, shuddering gasps.
"Do you ever wonder if people will realise-" she stopped to sob a little and continued, "how lost they are?"
Tristan's right eyebrow twitched as he tried desperately not to raise it and ask Amy what on earth she was talking about.
"Um..." he began eloquently.
"There are all these people," she continued, her voice wavering, "that I love- and cherish... and..."
She went to move her hand from Tristan's towards the bottle again but he gently (and firmly) held her hand tighter.
"And they don't believe the same things I believe, and it kills me." She cried as she moved closer and leant her head on Tristan's chest.
Tristan patted Amy's short hair awkwardly now.
"Amy... Amy, you know I don't believe... I mean... You know I'm not..."
Amy nodded forcefully again.
"I know," she sobbed, "I know. And that's what's so hard, because," she hiccuped now and held his hands tighter, "because, I love you so much and I'm so scared of the future."
Tristan had no idea what Amy meant, but pulled her onto his lap on the floor. He sat there for the next hour, stroking Amy's hair and replaying the wailing, scratchy song for her whenever it finished, feeling slightly scared and not completely sure why.
"Amy... Are you okay?"
Amy sniffed as a gravelly voice came out of the crackly speakers on the coffee table in the room- the only piece of furniture besides a lone mattress for guests. They'd thought of renting the room out after a flatmate had left earlier in the year, but it didn't feel right. Not just yet. Besides, this way they could have friends stay whenever they liked and not worry about waking up awkwardly spooning.
Amy just nodded with great effort and continued moving her brush in great, chaotic strokes over the canvas.
Tristan slowly shut the door and sat down opposite the canvas when he realised there was an open bottle of whiskey next to Amy.
"I thought you'd given up drinking, Amy?" he asked softly, looking to Amy's red, blotchy face to try and gauge her level of intoxication.
Amy nodded quickly and strongly again, a loud sniff followed by a sharp breath coming from her mouth.
"Amy... What's wrong?"
She just shook her blond hair quickly as she covered the canvas in dark browns and muddy greens.
It was strange to watch her paint. There was often no method to her madness, and it was always a surprise to see her results.
Tristan reached across the canvas and placed his index and middle fingers under her chin, tilting her face upwards.
"Look at me." he told her.
Amy's body shuddered briefly as she dropped the paintbrush onto the canvas. The song stopped and she glanced at the stereo.
Music was integral to how Amy worked. Tristan knew that. He pressed onto the floor to help himself get up and restarted the song again, knowing how Amy's obsessions with songs went.
He sat on the floor again, this time next to Amy as the cigarette-stained soul howled out of the speakers once again. He gently moved the bottle of whiskey out of Amy's reach.
Tristan clasped Amy's hands as she began to speak in slow, shuddering gasps.
"Do you ever wonder if people will realise-" she stopped to sob a little and continued, "how lost they are?"
Tristan's right eyebrow twitched as he tried desperately not to raise it and ask Amy what on earth she was talking about.
"Um..." he began eloquently.
"There are all these people," she continued, her voice wavering, "that I love- and cherish... and..."
She went to move her hand from Tristan's towards the bottle again but he gently (and firmly) held her hand tighter.
"And they don't believe the same things I believe, and it kills me." She cried as she moved closer and leant her head on Tristan's chest.
Tristan patted Amy's short hair awkwardly now.
"Amy... Amy, you know I don't believe... I mean... You know I'm not..."
Amy nodded forcefully again.
"I know," she sobbed, "I know. And that's what's so hard, because," she hiccuped now and held his hands tighter, "because, I love you so much and I'm so scared of the future."
Tristan had no idea what Amy meant, but pulled her onto his lap on the floor. He sat there for the next hour, stroking Amy's hair and replaying the wailing, scratchy song for her whenever it finished, feeling slightly scared and not completely sure why.
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