The woman in white stood motionless in the window frame, the setting sun casting a radiant glow over her porcelain skin. The last few rays of light set her red hair a fire and her jeweled crown sparkled like diamonds. The gold embroidery of her silk gown twinkled and she practically glowed in those last few moments of sunlight. She spent those moments watching her lover mourn in the corner of his messy flat. The room wasn't the way she remembered it. The inside was dirty, cluttered with old absinthe bottles. Some were still half full, but most lie empty, broken and forgotten on the floor. The sheets of her lover's bed were wrinkled and had not been made in an obscene amount of time. The once immaculate desk that once only bore an equally pampered typewriter was riddled with empty bottles and glasses. A thick layer of desk covered the typewriter's keys. She remembered this room as a bright and sunny place filled with love and open windows. The room she saw now was dreary, its golden hues now changed to blue and gray to fit its only occupant's mood.
He was what had changed the most. Christian. The man she loved, with his once bright blue eyes and unimaginably handsome face. His smile was infectious, his laugh brilliant, and his voice beautiful. She remembered his poetry and the way he sang to her. She remembered her song and the way he danced with her. She remembered his shyness and his nervous composure. He had a way of making her smile with just a glance, and of making her laugh with just a smile. He used to be so naïve yet so earnest then, so full of love and imagination. He truly was the great Bohemian Revolutionary Toulouse had dreamt of.
She missed him. She missed his laugh and his smile and his eyes and his soft cheek and messy hair. She missed how late at night, when she would lay on his chest to listen to his breathing and pretend to sleep that he would know otherwise. He would stroke her hair gently, and hold her tight, and whisper how he loved her so and sing her lullabies of his own creation. She missed every bit of him, every last breath, just as he likewise missed her.
The man she studied now was not the Christian who bewitched her into loving him with his poetry. This man was broken and hollow, consumed by his grief for her. Christian was but a shell of his former self. He sat there, huddled in the corner of his messy room, alone. He wore only his trousers and an undershirt. It was evident he hadn't shaved in weeks because of that beard adoring his chin. His hair was messier then usual, his bangs shaggy instead of hanging playfully above his eyes. He sat with his legs pulled in close to his chest, his arms draped lazily over his knees and his head buried within them. He was hiding from the world, the sorrow, the pain, and most of all the loneliness. Every now and then his body would tremble when a new sob escaped him. Satine had been dead for months and still not all of his tears had been shed. They would never cease, not until he joined her.
Satine made her way cautiously through the drab room reaching her lover in a swift glide. She had once been the Sparkling Diamond, now she only sparkled in Christian's memory. Satine kneeled down beside him causing her white dress to fan around her. She laid both palms on Christian's shoulder, overlapping them, and rested her chin on the back of her hand. Her ruby lips hovered level with Christian's ear. She knew what had to be done. They had both made a promise to each other; Satine had made it with her last breath.
"Tell our story Christian. That way…I'll always be with you."
He hadn't written anything since her death, unable to find the inspiration. But on this not so very special day Satine intended to keep her promise to her lover. Thoughtfully she closed her eyes, a soft smile graced her lips and she whispered lovingly into Christian's ear, "Tell our story Christian."
When her words faded, Satine withdrew from Christian's shoulder. Gently, he raised his head to stare unblinking at the typewriter, sitting there undisturbed. His eyes were red and swollen and his cheeks were still wet with tears. Christian released the half empty bottle of liquor from his grasp, and lifted a trembling hand to wipe the streaks of tears away. He raised himself slowly off the floor and gingerly walked to the desk. He stood there, unmoving, for several minutes. Christian doubted if he had strength left in him to write again.
Satine followed Christian from his corner, and stood at his side. She watched him as intensely as he watched the desk. Satine smiled to herself again, he was going to need another push. She leaned in close gracefully holding onto to Christian's right shoulder and planted a soft kiss against his unfeeling cheek. Christian did not hesitate to sit down after that. An unknown power compelled him to raise his hands and feed a piece of blank paper into that typewriter. Fresh tears began falling from his eyes as he remembered the events from so long ago. He rested his elbows against the wooden desk and ran his fingered through his messy hair, not bothering to wipe away the tears before he started to write.
The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.
Satine watched closely as Christian typed the words he had often spoken; the words that were his greatest wisdom. She continued to peer over his shoulder as he wrote.
The Moulin Rouge. A night club, a dance hall and a bordello. Ruled over by Harold Zidler. A kingdom of night time pleasures. Where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. The most beautiful of these was the one I loved. Satine. A courtesan. She sold her love to men. They called her the "Sparkling Diamond", and she was the star... of the Moulin rouge.
At the mention of her name on paper Christian briefly closed his eyes. Satine could see the image forming inside his mind. She was hidden in shadow, he gaze directed downward. Her porcelain skin was white, contrasting against the black top hat resting on her head. She held a cigarette poised in her hand. Her hair was not visible through the black shadows, when her black lashed rimmed lids lifted to reveal her radiant blue eyes they were the only items of color in the mental portrait. For the first time she saw how Christian had always seen her, as the most beautiful creature in all the world. For the first time she saw the same shad of blue in her own eyes as she had always seen in Christian's.
The woman I loved is... Christian ceased typing for just a moment to glance longingly up at the red windmill outside his window, dead.
When Satine had passed she remembered being surrounded by a stunning white light. She was cold, the warmth of Christian's embrace had left her. She was given a choice while there it that bleak afterlife. She couldn't enter Heaven, she was sinner. A courtesan may have been a prettier word for it but the truth of it was that she was a whore. Satine couldn't escape that. Either she could simply be content with the idea of eternal damnation or she return to earth as something else. She had taken to latter choice, and it was now her duty to guide a man destined for Heaven, and to help him cause the impact on earth he was always meant to.
Satine allowed Christian to type in peace, his fingers feverishly racing over the keys. She sprawled herself over Christian's bed like she often used to, resting her back against his pillows. She was his muse in life and would forever remain his muse, even in death. She would always be with Christian, and so long as she was his inspiration would never die. They would fulfill each other's promises.
Christian would never be aware of Satine's presence. His grief and sorrow did not fade, at least not for some time. Satine's death had left a whole in the young writer's life that could never be replaced. Though sometimes, without warning, Satine's bird he had adopted would chirp frantically. At night, while he dreamt it was Satine who sang to him songs yet unwritten. Sometimes, during his longest moments of writer's block, he swore he could feel her lips on his cheek, her soft hair against his skin or the silk of her dress in his lap. Mostly he thought he heard her singing to him their secret song, and immediately afterward his inspiration and will to write would return. Christian longed desperately for Satine's voice to be real, but every time he was forced to brush it off as hallucination from the consumption of so much absinthe.
With Satine as Christian's muse the poet would never be at a loss for words. Even after he had finished their story Christian continued to write of freedom, beauty, truth, and above all things…love and diamonds.
Tell me what you thin, reveiws always appreciated.