The sound of the cup shattering was softer than he'd expected – more muted. Maybe it was because of the coffee that had still been in it when he threw it, or because the canvas had given slightly, like a rubber band, before stopping the mug in its trajectory and fragmenting it into tiny pieces. He watched the rivulets of brown running down the grey and red painting, examined the bits of red porcelain that had got stuck in the paint, and the larger pieces that lay strewn on the linoleum floor. Of course he knew it was dumb to thrown things. Childish and useless and he'd have to clean it up later. But at least he felt a little less pissed off now. He'd thought things were finally looking up after that day in the park – it had felt like a ray of hope, that sketch of the pond and the couple that wasn't dark or depressing or twisted, it had felt like maybe he'd be able to paint cheery things now, things that cheery people would buy at cheery galleries.
But nothing had changed. The two paintings from the park were hanging on his wall now, but instead of motivating him, they mocked him, taunted him. When he took up his brush now, all that came out of his brain were dark shapes against a red background, men fleeing the fire, men in overturned humvees, wounded men lying in pools of blood. Good men lying dead. Just like every single painting he'd painted these last three years since he'd come back, all he could paint were the nightmares turned flesh he'd experienced back there.
The only thing that was worse than the fact that nothing really had changed about his ability to paint was the fact that Alice's voice kept reverberating in his head and he had no way of finding her. He recognised the signs – he'd gotten obsessed with her in the week since he'd heard her voice, had stuck her on a pedestal for no good reason at all, except that she intrigued him. Stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do. If he ever saw her (like that was going to happen in the first place), he'd probably be disappointed anyways. Her voice wouldn't be as angelic as he remembered, her face wouldn't be as lovely as he imagined, and she probably wouldn't even recognise him in the first place. After all, he was just a stranger in a park that she'd talked to for about three minutes. They were both just strangers, and yet here he was, pining away for a girl that didn't even have a face in his mind.
He started picking up the shards of the cup and dumped them into the trash, then began mopping up the spilled liquid. Cursing lightly as he cut himself on a leftover shard, he lay down flat on the floor. Of course, he could have gone back to the park hoping to meet her. But every time he contemplated that possibility, he felt too pathetic to follow through with it, like a lovesick puppy. Then again, how much more pathetic could be possibly become? He already was a washed-up soldier who hung around all day trying to create art and only succeeding in shaping his nightmares onto canvas.
The phone ringing made him jump. He picked up without looking at the caller i.d., knowing only one person ever called him anyways.
"Hey Rose. 'S up?"
"Hey brother dearest. I was wondering whether you felt like stirring yourself out of your traditional languor and going out with me tonight. There's a costume party at the Scotch and Sofa."
Typical Rose, trying to get him out of the house. "You know I don't go out Rosie."
"Well, I thought you could make an exception because Emmett is busy and I promised to go and I don't want to go alone and you could wear a mask and nobody would realise it was you and then your image of the morose veteran who never leaves his studio won't be shattered" she reeled off, taking a large breath before continuing. "And it would make me really happy and who knows maybe you'll meet a muse that can amuse you and then you won't need to shut yourself up in your studio any more because you'll finally get happy again and paint happy pictures and sell stuff and become rich and married and never have nightmares any more and I would be eternally grateful if you just went out with me tonight." Jesus that girl could talk fast. She'd inherited the double dose of talking genes, leaving him the silent ones. He huffed.
"Is there any real point in trying to persuade you that I don't want to go?"
"No. I know you'll thank me for this later. I'll pick you up at eight?"
He gave up. "Fine. But you have to get me the costume."
"Yay!" he could practically hear her bouncing on the other end of the line. "I'll see you at eight."
A/N - more stuff coming up, of course. Please leave me a review to tell me what you think - because I still only have a general idea of where I'm going with this, so I can always use the input.