A/N This was written all in one sitting... like, right now, so don't expect anything too impressive!
Disclaimer- Not mine.
Some nights she stayed in her worn-down cottage, admiring the small chipped ornaments she had found here and there to decorate her little home. Ilse had stolen a vase for the wildflowers she'd found in a meadow, and she proudly showed off her hand-embroidered tablecloth to anyone who'd listen (the artists weren't too interested, but one or two of them would smile at her handiwork before pulling her over to the couch). She had one of Gustav's paintings hung up (though really, it was strange and a bit unsettling- "abstract", he called it- and she didn't like to look at it very often). There was a rag doll perched on a shelf that made her think of happier, simpler childhood days.
Some nights she kept the door open and let the whistling wind blow in while she labored over the stove. She'd stir up a batter, mixing in the eggs she took from a farmer's unlocked henhouse, the sugar she had begged from a charitable woman down the way, and any other ingredients she could find around the camp. She'd set the batter in shapes, and sometimes it came out like puffy cookies, or scones, or muffins, but they always tasted delicious. She'd laugh as her kitchen filled with handsome young bohemians, all of them exclaiming over her skills, teasing about what a lovely housewife she'd make if only they could afford a ring, sweeping her up in their arms and kissing the crumbs from the corner of her smile.
Other nights she'd draw the curtains and put on a colorful dress and call out to random passersby to join in the music and dancing. There was a group of tipsy people within her tiny living room, swaying with scarves and spinning skirts. Laughter filled her home, giggles and low voices, smoke and hazy air taking up the empty space in her cottage. With the oil-lamps and music, she could lose herself in it all.
But some nights she just closed the door, pulled down the shade and wept. It was empty and pitiful, a shabby little excuse for a home. There were no friends who dropped by for tea and friendly chat, only eccentric men who left with the morning light. There were no children laughing and romping about the home, only those sad nights where she stared down her old doll before taking the ragged thing in her arms. Ilse was surrounded by these people who barely knew her, and distanced from those childhood friends she'd grown up with.
In truth, she was hopelessly alone.
Rather sad, wasn't it? :( But not always- sometimes Ilse's happy with her wild life.
(and I can't quite remember- was it Gustav or Johanne that had the paintbrush? and which one had the ether? I didn't take the time to look it up, so I apologize for any small inaccuracy that might've been made)
Reviews, if you please?