Where are we. What the Hell is going on?
My eyes slowly opened up to find my sister smiling over my face with part of her dress torn. She was so beautiful and I am merely dust. There was a fight, I could tell by the blackness in her eye and the tear stains in her make up. She was older, wiser and yet I made the better choices. The dust has only just begun to form crop circles in the carpet. She sang to me as she tended to hers and my own wounds. Sinking, Feeling. I looked up to her and tried to stand, but my body was too weak. I was still fighting, my fight will never stop. I was sick, I knew I was sick, but no one else knew yet.
Spin me round again and rub my eyes. This can't be happening.
I let myself sink back into the dingy red couch in her dressing room. She was a dancer; a beautiful and flawless dancer. She was beauty in it's finest. I could only dream of that beauty for myself. Besides, I could never want dancing beauty, I wan actress beauty. I want to be able to be all forms of beauty. When busy streets a mess with people would stop to hold their heads heavy. She was scared. Her eyes, her lips, her body, her mind; they were all scared. I found the strength to stand again and I walked to her. As I touched her shoulder, the door opened and a man's angry voice was heard. We were veiled by a curtain. She ran behind her trunk, taking my hand so that I would follow, and behind a large costume trunk we hid from danger.
Hide and Seek. Trains and Sewing Machines. All those years, they were here first.
She was in trouble. This man was going to hurt her. My curious young eyes couldn't take it anymore and I found myself peering over the edge of the trunk to watch the male silhouette. He was angry, and drunk probably looking for one last dance. The Moulin Rouge was no place for a beautiful dancer.
And then the world was gone, all I heard was the music of my sister, the way she sang, and all I could see was her dance. Her beautiful dance, the dance that brought tears to your eyes, because you knew it was her last dance. She was found, she was hurt and she never spoke again. The man left me alone, and told me to dance and never look back at the people I dance for.
Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs.
Speak no feeling, no I don't believe you
You don't care a bit.
You don't care a bit.
You don't care a bit.
Harold Zidler pulled me to his office the night my sister was murdered. He told me her mistake, because is always your fault. She was beautiful. She asked for her death. Her smile was inviting, her eyes inciting; Her body was a drug and her voice was the addiction that every man suffered.
"But you, you are a different beauty. You could be beautiful, or you could be lovely, you could be anything." He said to me.
"I want to be an actress." I said back, young and innocent.
"And an Actress you shall be." He said, and handed me my first dress. I was a moulin rouge dancer at the age or 14. I was ready to be put on display, and let the world taste my beauty.