Hello, everyone! This is my first Moulin Rouge fanfiction, written because it was requested of me by my friend, Spellcaster. It's very short, as I didn't know what exactly to write. I just noticed when I watched the movie the second time that what Christian did on stage was identical to what he had written for the play, and so this short little ficcy came to existence. Moving on... I only own this short little ficcy, the video CD and the soundtrack of this fabulous film. I still have to find a way to get my hands on the second soundtrack, though. *sighs* See? I'm so poor I can't even buy the second soundtrack, so don't bother suing me!
Dedicated to my sister, RaineSolo. Thanks for everything; you're great.
Isn't It Ironic?
© Kaz, 2003
He stared at the dry-colored ceiling.
Lost in his own thoughts.
He bit his lip, shut his eyes, and attempted to drive the pain away. But his efforts were all in vain. The voice of the woman he loved continued to echo inside his head, repeating over and over the painful truth that he could not accept. The truth? The truth is I am the Hindi courtesan. And I choose... the Maharaja. That's how the story really ends.
"No!" he yelled, his beautiful eyes snapping open to look at the empty space that was in front of him. Then, he sighed, as he was obviously defeated. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone else could do. It was just like what he had written for Spectacular Spectacular, only that it had a happy ending.
What he had written...
"Tell me you don't love me!" Mad with jealousy, the evil Maharaja forces the courtesan to make the penniless sitar player believe she doesn't love him. "Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!" says the penniless sitar player, throwing money at her feet and leaving the kingdom forever!
Mad with jealousy...
Maharaja...
Forced the courtesan...
Make the penniless sitar player believe...
She doesn't love him...
It hit Christian like a lightning bolt, and he half-jumped out of his bed, determination surging through him like a powerful electric current. He wanted what to shut out what Toulouse said when the little guy stood by his side --- that Satine loved him --- but now, he was filled with doubt. There was only one way to be sure.
And he was determined to find out.
I'm going back, he told himself firmly as he walked towards the table on which his typewriter was placed on. He looked at his prized possession intently before he picked it up gingerly with both hands. He did not want to do it, but he knew that it was the only way to be sure of anything, to be sure of everything. I'm going back to see her. One last time.
Just like what he had written.
... Isn't it ironic?