AU: I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE Moulin Rouge.can you tell? Lol
Its possibly my favorite movie of all time, and I just can't get enough of
it.it would scare you how much I watch it.but lets not go there. So I guess
this is the story of Satine.but I'm not gonna say too much now. I think
I'll just let you figure it out as you read. Reviews are welcome, so let me
know what you think. Its my first MR fic.my second fic altogether. Enjoy!
****
They can't see the scars-never have, never will. None of them know, except Harold, and he doesn't even know the half of it. He saw them long ago, but never understood them-and he still doesn't. He doesn't know that just because he can't see them anymore, doesn't mean they aren't still there. And her certainly never knew the story behind them. They are hidden under her skin, carved into her heart, her mind, her soul.
How much pain did it take to make her like this? Just how many scars does she have now? How many tears have been shed since the first time she was hurt? And she wonders too, how many pieces of her shattered heart have been raked across the stage in all her days at this place? She doesn't know, and does not care to find out.
The pain, the scars, the tears, have molded her into a perfect image. She is like a porcelain doll, with her long flowing hair, like dark silk against her alabaster skin. She dances and twirls in her shining dress, glimmering, sparkling-The Sparkling Diamond. Her eyes are like diamonds too, they twinkle, while at the same time, they are cold.
How many nights will she keep up this elaborate façade? Though it is not so elaborate any more. She is a fine actress, and it comes easily. She may sing like an angel-she always does-and put more passion into the dance than anyone has ever seen-they have come to expect it of her-but it is nothing now. It was in the beginning, but now its just a living, it's a way to stay alive. The only way to stay alive. She can even keep her act alive, becoming bright and bubbly, a wilting flower, or the smoldering temptress at the drop of a hat of at Harold's command.
But now she wonders why she wants to stay alive. There is nothing for her. It has always been like that, and she does not expect it to change. How could it change? What good could come from this-her life? She is empty and incomplete, only the pretty face they all see. She feels that there is nothing inside of her. What little remains of her heart is slowly melting away into the black void of all that she does not have, all that she wants, needs, and all that has been lost. And in that vast emptiness, there is nothing to catch the pieces. Soon she will be little more than the hollow shell of a woman. Is there any way to stop it? She does not think so, and she has no one else to think for her. She has no one to console her, to give advice, and guidance when she is in need, to dry her tears when she cries. But she will not cry again for a very long time, because her tears are all gone.
And so she has no one.
No one but the blade in her hands.
No one but the sharp edge against her wrist.
****
They can't see the scars-never have, never will. None of them know, except Harold, and he doesn't even know the half of it. He saw them long ago, but never understood them-and he still doesn't. He doesn't know that just because he can't see them anymore, doesn't mean they aren't still there. And her certainly never knew the story behind them. They are hidden under her skin, carved into her heart, her mind, her soul.
How much pain did it take to make her like this? Just how many scars does she have now? How many tears have been shed since the first time she was hurt? And she wonders too, how many pieces of her shattered heart have been raked across the stage in all her days at this place? She doesn't know, and does not care to find out.
The pain, the scars, the tears, have molded her into a perfect image. She is like a porcelain doll, with her long flowing hair, like dark silk against her alabaster skin. She dances and twirls in her shining dress, glimmering, sparkling-The Sparkling Diamond. Her eyes are like diamonds too, they twinkle, while at the same time, they are cold.
How many nights will she keep up this elaborate façade? Though it is not so elaborate any more. She is a fine actress, and it comes easily. She may sing like an angel-she always does-and put more passion into the dance than anyone has ever seen-they have come to expect it of her-but it is nothing now. It was in the beginning, but now its just a living, it's a way to stay alive. The only way to stay alive. She can even keep her act alive, becoming bright and bubbly, a wilting flower, or the smoldering temptress at the drop of a hat of at Harold's command.
But now she wonders why she wants to stay alive. There is nothing for her. It has always been like that, and she does not expect it to change. How could it change? What good could come from this-her life? She is empty and incomplete, only the pretty face they all see. She feels that there is nothing inside of her. What little remains of her heart is slowly melting away into the black void of all that she does not have, all that she wants, needs, and all that has been lost. And in that vast emptiness, there is nothing to catch the pieces. Soon she will be little more than the hollow shell of a woman. Is there any way to stop it? She does not think so, and she has no one else to think for her. She has no one to console her, to give advice, and guidance when she is in need, to dry her tears when she cries. But she will not cry again for a very long time, because her tears are all gone.
And so she has no one.
No one but the blade in her hands.
No one but the sharp edge against her wrist.