Disclaimer:
I do not own any rights to Moulin Rouge (because of a certain brilliant
writer/director), only one character belongs to me…blah,blah,blah…go on and
read already. ^^
The
few stars glittered in the late night sky that hung so dismally over the Moulin
Rouge. The rain fell in curtains, thunder crashed, and lightening struck, the
bright white lights from the club hard to be seen under the lightening.
Christian ran a hand through his hair, from his neck forward, until he reached
his forehead and let his hand rest there. It was dampened in a slick sweat, a
sweat he'd been unable to keep dry for over a year.
His room was littered in yellowed, aged papers,
scribbles and scrabbles decorating each one in a fine artistic manner. The old
and melting candles flickering in the cool gust of wind that was creeping it's
way in from under the chipping shudders. He stared horribly intent at the stack
of papers that had yet been yellowed, burned, or strewn about his filthy room. The
Moulin Rouge.
It had been a long time since then. A year at
least. But the pain still shot through his heart when he awoke each day, to
find his bed empty, his life no longer having meaning. He had dreams about her
almost every night, and despite what Toulouse said, he wouldn't never rid of
them. Her skin, her hair, her icy blue eyes, her red lips, long fiery hair,
long smooth legs, sweet and caring heart. No, he would never forget them, no
matter how hard he tried, how long it had been.
Christian fell on his
bed, shivering and not bothering to cover up. This was when he fell asleep, his
heart still broken, no one to put together the pieces.
In over a year, the Moulin Rouge had never been
closed. Not since…not since Satine had gone. But today, the rain, so horrible
and frightening, kept the dance hall empty, the elephant dark and secluded. The
dancers lay in their small, but comfy bunks that lined the backstage and
crowded prop rooms. Only Arcee lay in her own bed, listening intently to the
snickers and giggles of the girls in the other room. The rain was drowning the
voices so much that she had slipped from her bed, empty for once, and gently
pressed her ear to the door. When she
still couldn't hear them, she pressed harder, until the left side of her face
was flat against the door. She pulled away, shivering on the floor in her
nightgown.
She didn't need to hear them. She knew what they
were talking about. It was what they always talked about when Arcee was unable
to 'perform' that night. When the Moulin Rouge was vacant of eager and lustful
men, who came to see the 'Sparkling Diamond'. A tear rolled coldly down her
numb cheek that had been crammed so hard against the door, and she flicked it away
with a graceful sweep of her fingers.
She had missed Satine too. She had loved Satine as
if she were her own sister too. Except of course for Ninni, who didn't like
anyone who was in the limelight instead of herself. Her own heart had broken
that awful night, when she had crept into the Moulin Rouge and hid behind
curtain to watch the spectacular performance of 'Spectacular Spectacular'. She
had been caught halfway through the show and been shuffled out the door into
the cold weather by an older woman by the name of Marie. As a little girl, she
had always been fascinated with the Can-Can dancers, the sparkling lights of
the Moulin Rouge, she loud, enchanting music that exploded into her ears. She
never told her mother she spent every night at the club, watching and waiting,
until she would too be old enough to dance there.
In her young mind, it was
a magical place, filled with nighttime pleasures she would never know about
until the day she came to the Moulin Rouge, a young woman in search of a job.
She was 19 now, still young, but old enough. She never would have dreamt she
would have taken Satine's title, something she had been terrified of. Zidler, a
kind, heavy set fellow with fiery red hair and bright blue eyes, had caught a
glimpse of her standing alone in the hall, dancing alone, to a symphonic
symphony in her mind. She hadn't meant
to get caught. She hadn't meant to be beautiful. And she never meant to become
Satine.
The rain had slowly stopped, until only the
darkness remained. Christian rolled over once, his black hair hung over his
eyes. He wiped the strands away. He sat up slowly, as if it pained him to do
so. His white shirt, and black sweater, his black slacks, and black socks,
rumpled and damp. He went to the window and pried open the shutters, a cold
gust of wind knocking him backwards, the papers that painted his walls,
fluttering about. He stepped onto the balcony and almost mechanically scanned
over the city. He looked everywhere but
there…the gigantic, towering elephant, the bright, creaking windmill that
reflected everything he was trying to forget.
He hummed lightly the words to a song he had sang
once, long ago…
"Seasons may change, winter to spring…but I love you…until the end of
time…"
But he couldn't help but look. His eyes cast a sad
glow over the elephant, a room he had once stood in, a room he had fallen in
love in. He couldn't tear his eyes away…
Until he saw something. He squinted, trying to make
out the slim silhouette in the room. It moved, and Christian blinked. Who was
in the elephant?! The curiosity was maddening… who was in the elephant? He
turned away, at the sound of a knock on his door, and called out, "It's open."
Toulouse bustled in, mumbling sleepily about something
that Christian was ignoring. He turned back to the Moulin Rouge and squinted
again, his brow furrowing. Deep inside
the elephant, a mirror was reflecting the figure, and he couldn't quite make
out the picture. Then the figure disappeared, and from the split second it took
for Christian to blink, a tall, thin, elegant figure stood in the heart shaped
opening. His heart wrenched and he stepped back horridly from the balcony into
the room, almost tripping over Toulouse.
He gasped and spun to face Toulouse. "I saw her,
Toulouse! She's there!"
"Who?! Cwistian! You saw who?" He lisped.
Christian turned to point at the elephant and was
shocked to find it empty, as if it had never been touched. He allowed Toulouse
to nudge him in bed, and then heard the door shut, a quiet, lisping Toulouse
pitying Christian. He had seen Satine…he couldn't have been wrong. Why
would he have had that feeling, otherwise?
More chapters to come…