In Pieces
© 2002 Black Tangled Heart
I own nothing from Moulin Rouge.
Dedicated to Karilyn because she's an absolute genius. I love her.
~*~
I descend the steps of the stage, feeling my fragile heart pound inside my chest. It shatters a little more with each rhythmic pulse, the crystalline shards falling in scarlet fragments into the hands of the Duke.
He has truly bound me to the Underworld, chaining my flesh to his teeth and tongue, my soul to his repulsive gifts, my life to a contract, signed by the man I had come to trust and love like a father: Harold Zidler.
In the rosy twilight, his ruddy face is creased with pain that fills me to the core. My visage will never reflect torment; ruby lips and alabaster skin will always glow, cerulean irises will never be clouded with tears. The show must go on.
My footsteps reverberate off the walls of the hauntingly barren theatre. I must find strength within my soul. In the face of cruel adversity, I will always love the boy with blue-grey eyes and naïve charm. If our trembling lips never meld in a passionate kiss, if his fingers don't tousle my brittle hair ever again, there will still be our promise. Beneath the lie I am about to pierce his soul with, there will be the undying truth of our love. He will be saved. Come what may…
I reach the edge of the theatre and pause, breathing deeply, as if to cleanse my psyche, to wash away my sin. It is a futile, vain attempt that won't last forever. A diamond is eternal, but human frailty is not.
There is loneliness in Harold's eyes that has never shone through until now. I stand close to him, but remain untouchable because of the façade I smooth across my face. It's become second nature to me, but he seems to ache as I raise my head high, and stare past him, unseeing, to the courtyard.
I do not see the cerise roses and jade thorns. I cannot visualize the darkening sky above my head. I see only Christian's face.
I am walking away from Harold, who nurtured my broken wings. Now, his words have sliced them clean from my shoulders, leaving raw blemishes of anguish on my skin and in my conscience.
"We're creatures of the Underworld, we can't afford to love." His words are a paradox in my mind. I love Christian with fierce passion, and it has given me the world. Despite this beautiful relationship, I am still a possession in the eyes of an investor. I have loved, I do love, I will love, or it will cost me my life. His proclamation is a harsh truth that burns me like fire.
I step away from Harold, severing the last lingering fragments of the bond we'd shared over so many years, since his rough hands had dried my tears, lifting me away from the sludge of Montmartre's streets, only to bring me inside the fabricated luxury of the Moulin Rouge.
I know that somewhere in his heart, he cares for me. He has been like a father to me, a father who pushes their child into inconceivably tarnished predicaments. I cannot look back, for if I do, he will see my tears. Try as I might, I cannot hold them in much longer. They threaten to dance across my face, shimmering and searing like diamond embers.
Harold was able to see something in me that many others could not: I'm a human being. I experience joy and sorrow like every other soul that wanders this Earth. Only in his world, emotions are quickly downtrodden by greed.
Christian does not have francs to offer to me, and that is why his love is pure, unmarred by a thirst for power. I must see a crestfallen expression and hear pleading words escape his mouth to know that I have saved him. I must shelter him from harm the only way I know how.
I am a creature of the Underworld. I will pay the price for love.
The show must go on.
~*~
© 2002 Black Tangled Heart
I own nothing from Moulin Rouge.
Dedicated to Karilyn because she's an absolute genius. I love her.
~*~
I descend the steps of the stage, feeling my fragile heart pound inside my chest. It shatters a little more with each rhythmic pulse, the crystalline shards falling in scarlet fragments into the hands of the Duke.
He has truly bound me to the Underworld, chaining my flesh to his teeth and tongue, my soul to his repulsive gifts, my life to a contract, signed by the man I had come to trust and love like a father: Harold Zidler.
In the rosy twilight, his ruddy face is creased with pain that fills me to the core. My visage will never reflect torment; ruby lips and alabaster skin will always glow, cerulean irises will never be clouded with tears. The show must go on.
My footsteps reverberate off the walls of the hauntingly barren theatre. I must find strength within my soul. In the face of cruel adversity, I will always love the boy with blue-grey eyes and naïve charm. If our trembling lips never meld in a passionate kiss, if his fingers don't tousle my brittle hair ever again, there will still be our promise. Beneath the lie I am about to pierce his soul with, there will be the undying truth of our love. He will be saved. Come what may…
I reach the edge of the theatre and pause, breathing deeply, as if to cleanse my psyche, to wash away my sin. It is a futile, vain attempt that won't last forever. A diamond is eternal, but human frailty is not.
There is loneliness in Harold's eyes that has never shone through until now. I stand close to him, but remain untouchable because of the façade I smooth across my face. It's become second nature to me, but he seems to ache as I raise my head high, and stare past him, unseeing, to the courtyard.
I do not see the cerise roses and jade thorns. I cannot visualize the darkening sky above my head. I see only Christian's face.
I am walking away from Harold, who nurtured my broken wings. Now, his words have sliced them clean from my shoulders, leaving raw blemishes of anguish on my skin and in my conscience.
"We're creatures of the Underworld, we can't afford to love." His words are a paradox in my mind. I love Christian with fierce passion, and it has given me the world. Despite this beautiful relationship, I am still a possession in the eyes of an investor. I have loved, I do love, I will love, or it will cost me my life. His proclamation is a harsh truth that burns me like fire.
I step away from Harold, severing the last lingering fragments of the bond we'd shared over so many years, since his rough hands had dried my tears, lifting me away from the sludge of Montmartre's streets, only to bring me inside the fabricated luxury of the Moulin Rouge.
I know that somewhere in his heart, he cares for me. He has been like a father to me, a father who pushes their child into inconceivably tarnished predicaments. I cannot look back, for if I do, he will see my tears. Try as I might, I cannot hold them in much longer. They threaten to dance across my face, shimmering and searing like diamond embers.
Harold was able to see something in me that many others could not: I'm a human being. I experience joy and sorrow like every other soul that wanders this Earth. Only in his world, emotions are quickly downtrodden by greed.
Christian does not have francs to offer to me, and that is why his love is pure, unmarred by a thirst for power. I must see a crestfallen expression and hear pleading words escape his mouth to know that I have saved him. I must shelter him from harm the only way I know how.
I am a creature of the Underworld. I will pay the price for love.
The show must go on.
~*~