She saw him there- in the deep end of the pool. Amy had watched him swim for what seemed like hours, eyes damp and hair unkempt. The Doctor was drowning, with every stroke he made, every breath he took, and in every unyielding wave he became lost. So tired, Amy thinks. I'm so very, very spent.
Something catches her eye as she begins to turn away- heading for her own room seemed like such a welcoming idea- and she starts. The Doctor is crying. A tug on her ever-mending heart. Amy sits once again, just outside his view and a lifetime away, to watch him bleed his past on the tiled floor. He told her once the ceramic had been Greek, that he had been gifted pretty, blue tiles in honor of some silly misunderstanding that painted him as a hero. My lonely god.
A soft whimper breaks the silence and Amy looks on in her quietness. She daren't move, lest she put an unwelcome stop to his catharsis. She wants him to breathe, she needs him to weep and let himself be weak this night.
Darling Doctor stands on shaky knees, hands trembling in tandem with his breath, and squeezes his eyes shut so that he may not see the horrors flashing before his eyes. It doesn't work, Amy knows, it never works. They are always here, the monsters from our past.
Another whimper, a forlorn moan.
This time, Amy sits heavier on the floor, her back pressed hard against the plaster wall. She fists her hands and shuts her eyes, just a tad overwhelmed with the urge to run, to touch, to pet and to soothe.
But she does not, because she knows this man is fragile in his retrograde motion, and she cannot push herself upon his desperation.
Releasing her tension now, she hears him exhale a final, determined breath. I will go on, it seems to say, I will not let you win this day.
Footsteps in her direction, softly padding on the floor.
Amy's breath hitches in her throat and she pushes herself off the floor, quiet as a whisper, and slips away.
Around the corner she still hears his soft, strangled sounds echo in her mind.
Resigned to silence, she steps softly in the direction of her room, shrouded in the cold, blue light thrown off the surface of the pool.
I can never know his pain, I can never touch what lies so deep inside. I will never know anything but my own, wretched nightmares.
Later, when she looks at herself in the mirror above her sink, she sees cold eyes staring back at her. Devoid of emotion and thoroughly pointless.
She has emptied herself.
She is alone.