Note: PLEASE review! This is my first fan fic! =)
My blood ran cold at her hurtful words: "I am the Hindi goddess… and I choose the maharaja."
How could she say these words to me? She who said that she would run away with me… would leave the Moulin Rouge and the Duke and begin a new life where all we needed was each other and now…. What was happening? I could feel my chest ache as she left my doorway and traveled down the staircase that would take her back towards the Moulin Rouge. It was the unmistakable feeling of my heart breaking.
Toulouse tried his hardest to convince me that Satine still loved me. I wanted to believe him. I wanted it so much that I could hardly breathe when I thought of her. But the memory of her hollow eyes peering at me as she told me that she was returning to the Duke filled me with a feeling of hurt and betrayal… a feeling I wanted to forget.
So I left Paris. I left the Moulin Rouge. I left behind my foolish past and went back to London, where my father was waiting with a smug look on his face. From then on I would do what he wanted of me. I didn't care anymore. Life was empty without Satine. I often dreamt of her descending from the ceiling, straight into my arms. I would reach for her cheek and she would rest it on my hand a little, while singing those words that had once meant so much to the two of us: "Come what may…" Then she would close her eyes and I would kiss her lightly, and suddenly the stars and moon appeared before us once again. I would grab her hand and we would soar through the sky- together… the way it was meant to be.
But it was just a dream. She was not in my arms now, and she never would be again. She belonged to the Duke now, and he would give her everything she always wanted. Everything I could not as a penniless sitar player with a silly infatuation. She would become a star and forget about me.
I considered killing myself.
But that was not the answer. I had to go on with my life, no matter how empty I felt inside. I became a rather successful banker at the encouragement of my father. I no longer wrote poetry; no words ever came to my head. Days turned into months, and months into years, and I found that I did not think of Satine quite as often, and the pain in my chest was not quite as large as it once was.
That is, until one day….
I had written to Toulouse the month before. It was the first time I had ever done so, because I had wanted to forget all that was associated with the Moulin Rouge. But Toulouse was still my friend, and I wanted very much to hear from him.
I received a letter that morning from Toulouse, and I was excited to learn how he and the other bohemian revolutionaries were. It was six years since I had left. I ran into my study, shut the door, sat down at my desk and hurriedly tore open the envelope.
But when I read his words I dropped the letter to the floor in shock.
My blood ran cold at her hurtful words: "I am the Hindi goddess… and I choose the maharaja."
How could she say these words to me? She who said that she would run away with me… would leave the Moulin Rouge and the Duke and begin a new life where all we needed was each other and now…. What was happening? I could feel my chest ache as she left my doorway and traveled down the staircase that would take her back towards the Moulin Rouge. It was the unmistakable feeling of my heart breaking.
Toulouse tried his hardest to convince me that Satine still loved me. I wanted to believe him. I wanted it so much that I could hardly breathe when I thought of her. But the memory of her hollow eyes peering at me as she told me that she was returning to the Duke filled me with a feeling of hurt and betrayal… a feeling I wanted to forget.
So I left Paris. I left the Moulin Rouge. I left behind my foolish past and went back to London, where my father was waiting with a smug look on his face. From then on I would do what he wanted of me. I didn't care anymore. Life was empty without Satine. I often dreamt of her descending from the ceiling, straight into my arms. I would reach for her cheek and she would rest it on my hand a little, while singing those words that had once meant so much to the two of us: "Come what may…" Then she would close her eyes and I would kiss her lightly, and suddenly the stars and moon appeared before us once again. I would grab her hand and we would soar through the sky- together… the way it was meant to be.
But it was just a dream. She was not in my arms now, and she never would be again. She belonged to the Duke now, and he would give her everything she always wanted. Everything I could not as a penniless sitar player with a silly infatuation. She would become a star and forget about me.
I considered killing myself.
But that was not the answer. I had to go on with my life, no matter how empty I felt inside. I became a rather successful banker at the encouragement of my father. I no longer wrote poetry; no words ever came to my head. Days turned into months, and months into years, and I found that I did not think of Satine quite as often, and the pain in my chest was not quite as large as it once was.
That is, until one day….
I had written to Toulouse the month before. It was the first time I had ever done so, because I had wanted to forget all that was associated with the Moulin Rouge. But Toulouse was still my friend, and I wanted very much to hear from him.
I received a letter that morning from Toulouse, and I was excited to learn how he and the other bohemian revolutionaries were. It was six years since I had left. I ran into my study, shut the door, sat down at my desk and hurriedly tore open the envelope.
But when I read his words I dropped the letter to the floor in shock.