Since Moulin Rouge is the best movie on the planet, I have written a story for it. It takes place after the movie, and follows our lovely Christian. For those of you who ignored the summary, here's the basic gist: After Satine's death, Christian began writing her letters. That's it. The rest shall unfold.
1.
The first letter he wrote to her was filled with every ounce of emotion he could pull from his ragged heart. He described the way he had held her for hours on that fateful night, sobbing until he finally passed out at four o' clock in the morning. He spilled out how much he loved her, how much he missed her. He begged her to come back. He pleaded with her to draw him out of the well of pain he was lost in.
When it was nearly seven pages in length, he forced himself to stop, telling himself that he could write her another letter.
He agonized for much of a day over how to sign it. Love didn't seem like enough. Yours forever didn't quite work either—in the end, forever hadn't been long enough for them.
Finally, he signed it with Yours, until the end of time and sealed it in an envelope. He put it in the one empty corner of his room.
2.
The next several letters were leaning towards journal entries. He told her about his work, how he was tracking down the people who had been involved in the story, getting the parts that he hadn't been there to see.
Only a little more, he wrote near the end of each one. Only a little more work and I can start writing our story; I can tell our story, just like I said…
As he sealed each letter and placed it on top of the last in the corner, he felt an inexplicable feeling of guilt.
3.
His next letter was painful and agonizing and guilty. He told her that it was impossible, that he couldn't do it. How could he write their story down? It put him through unbearable pain just thinking about it. There was no way he could ever write it.
The internal anger that had begun bubbling beneath the surface boiled over when he signed the letter I'm sorry. He took one look at it, then tore it to shreds and angrily tossed the pieces all around the room. He watched them scatter and fall, like flakes of snow.
When the last one had hit the ground and his yell had faded, he sighed. One by one, he picked up each piece. He put all the pieces in an envelope and put it on the stack.
4.
The next letter was apologetic. He told her he was sorry for being so weak. He commented bitterly that surely she regretted giving her heart to someone who couldn't even follow through with a promise.
His tone got softer after that, and he said that he didn't know when he would write again.
He said he was sorry, again.
This time, he signed the letter with a drop of his own blood, pricked from the knife that was sitting somewhere in the room. He let it dry before sliding it into its envelope and putting it in its place.
5.
For the next several letters—so many that he lost count—he was quiet and sad. He told her about the days he spent drinking alcohol, his face buried in his hands, occasionally looking up to stare torturously at his typewriter. He told of the way his fingers had developed a twitch—the twitch of fingers that longed to write a certain story, but were being deprived of that privelege.
He signed each letter with My love and apology, Christian, and stared at the sealed envelope long and hard before tossing it onto the pile.
6.
Finally, after endless months of hollow-eyed torture, his letters began to take on the tone of the revived writer.
He wrote that he had finally begun their story, and included samples with each letter. He asked her how it was.
His words got more and more optimistic, and the letters began to lengthen once more. He said "I love you" a lot more, too.
Every letter was signed with a flourish and placed lovingly into an envelope, and he kissed each one before placing it delicately on top of the stack.
7.
When the work was finished and mailed off, he wrote her an excited letter, and included the letter of acceptance he had received from the publishing house.
He thanked her, and apologized once more for ever being weak. He said that he had finally begun to live again. He said that he was so happy that their story was on paper, that the whole world would know.
In the last line, he said that he would always love her.
My love for you will never die, Satine, he wrote. As I said before…I love you until the end of time. I promise.
He signed it with simply All my love, Christian, and gently topped the letter stack with it. He left the room to buy food, humming a certain song under his breath—although he admitted to himself that it was rather lonely without the other half of the duet.
8.
From that point on, the letters were less frequent, but they never failed to shine with the same genuine radiance.
He told of the book when it sold, and how well it sold. He told of the Bohemians and Zidler and Marie, who had tearfully congratulated him. Somewhat more somberly, he told of how the Duke had come to his apartment one day, shook his hand, and said simply and quietly, "Well done."
He varied his signatures—sometimes they were long and extravagant, sometimes they were simple, but always they were filled with love. And always, each envelope got a kiss before being placed on the growing stack.
9.
Eventually—years and years later—his letters began to speak of his physical ailment—growing slowly, but steadily, the doctors said. He was slowly losing the use of his hands.
Such an ironic affliction for a writer, he commented.
In each letter, he promised that he would love her even in death. He swore that his love would go on until the end of time.
In addition to kissing them, he now hugged each finished and enveloped letter to his chest for endless lengths of time before adding them to the stack.
10.
Finally, the final letter came.
His hands were getting nearer and nearer to useless, he wrote—after today, the chances of him being able to write another letter were very slim.
The letter had lost the urgency of the previous letters. It carried with it the calm acceptance of a dying man with realization of his fate.
He didn't write a novel, as he half expected to. His letter remained just under two pages.
He wrote that in his will and testament, he had requested that the letters be buried with him. He had also requested that the lyrics of their song, "Come What May," be inscribed on his grave—and on hers too, if possible.
He had had a long and fruitful writing career, but when it came down to it, he knew that his last lines were his best and most dear.
In the darkest of my days, I often asked myself if I would change anything that happened. I wondered: If I had the chance to go back and fix time so that I never came to Paris, never came to the Moulin Rouge, never met you, would I take it? Would I save myself the pain at the expense of love?
No. I would never. My years since losing you have been long and hard, with more pain than most could bear. Still, I wouldn't trade them for anything. I leave this world with no regrets.
I love you, Satine. I love you. Even after all this time, you are my entire world. My heart, my existence, revolves around you. Although death is so near to me that I can feel it walking up to my door, my love for you will never die.
I will see you soon, my love. Wait for me.
I love you.
His signature was the simplest it had ever been.
Love, Christian.
With trembling fingers, he placed it in an envelope and brought the envelope to his lips, kissing it gently. For one long, agonizing second, he hugged it close to his heart.
Then he topped the stack with his final letter, and smiled as tears began to run down his face.
Aw. Isn't that just sad? I think so. But, then, I'm the author, so maybe I'm a bit biased.
RRE.