Disclaimer: I do not own the character of Christian. I may love him dearly, but it was not I who invented him.
A Broken Man
Rain poured down from the sky, drenching the town with dispair. Lights shone in his weary eyes, blocking out every other sight besides the old theatre. Feet carried themselves closer and closer to the entrance as events from the past flashed before him.
The Moulin Rouge hadn't changed one bit since that fateful night, five years ago. The dance floor had never been restored. It still remained a wonderful theatre, where dreams were shattered and futures destroyed. Zidler had said that it was in memory of Satine, but he knew differently. Everything made sense now. Satine had never existed.
Footsteps echoed throughout the theatre as Christian stepped through the doorway. Dust had overcome the place, and he felt his heart protest against the cage of ribs, but paid no attention to its plea. He had to go through with it. He had to know for certain that this woman in a flowing red dress, this woman that stuck so vividly in his waking memories and dreams, was a hallucination.
Her eyes, the smell of her hair, the feeling of her skin… her touch, her voice, everything about her was a sad dream of a lonely man. A lonely man who had never known love, but wished with the entirety of his heart to one day succumb to its wonderful embrace.
Shadows danced across the moth eaten curtains, and a breeze blew past him. A strong sense of foreboding flowed through his veins, as though his entrance were untimely. But still he pushed onwards, through the rows of seats, onto the stage, and through the velvet curtains. And there he stood, alone again as he had been his entire pitiful existence. The darkness ate away at his soul, or at least whatever was left of it.
For the past five years Christian had confined himself to his quarters, eating only when the pangs of hunger were so unbearable that it was impossible to produce a thought, bathing only when the smell of his clothing and skin attracted flies which also distracted the flow of intelligence through his brain. Now that his heart could not feel, he relied solely on the steady stream of consciousness through his skull.
A woman, dressed in a rather provocative corset and leather skirt, with blond hair and makeup painted onto her stunningly beautiful features, walked out onto the stage. Her weight made the aging wood creak, and Christian's stomach flip. The smell of her perfume entered his nostrils and, almost unconsciously, he turned to face her. His arm reached out of its own accord and wrapped itself around her exposed hipbone, drawing her closer to him. No words were exchanged, but he knew that every bone in his body was deeply, madly in love with this woman. He had known her his whole life, it was certain.
She led him towards the back of the stage. The two of them walked through a painted door, and up a flight of stairs. The memories of this place faded into the shadows, and this woman he'd been thinking of continuously for the past five years suddenly vanished. Christian knew that Satine was dead. Not only in the physical sense. His fears were clarified; she had never existed. In fact, he couldn't even remember her name now. The person he'd been in love with was, without a doubt, the woman who was now leading him upwards, to the top of the world.
A room, a brilliantly decorated room, came into sight. Reds and oranges and yellows and blues and purples exploded at him and a sudden passion overcame him. He wanted to sing, to force words from the depths of his throats and belt them for the world to hear. He wanted to cry, to fall down onto his knees and sob uncontrollably until the world came to and end. But most of all, he wanted to take advantage of this woman. The undying love he had felt for her mere minutes ago was replaced with hate. He didn't want to love her, or for her to love him. Love was such a silly imagining. It was the imagining of a sick man.
He slammed the door behind them and immediately began to rip off her clothing. His lips forced themselves against hers, nearly suffocating her. Yet she didn't fight back. Or perhaps she couldn't. Perhaps she too didn't exist. Perhaps nothing did.
As Christian collapsed onto the bed and pulled her on top of him, her makeup staining his dark face and mingling with his tears, time stopped. The world stopped turning. Nothing was what it seemed, nor would it ever be again.
When love is ripped away from a human being at its peak, humanity is taken with it.
Author's Note:
I finished the book 1984, and for some reason, I had the urge to go immediately to my computer and write this. It's just a short one shot that may not make sense to you unless you've read 1984 and understand the complete lack of understanding a person has to suffer after the loss of love, or identity.
Please read and review. It would be much appreciated.