Only the good die young


Summary: Christian's mind. Buckle up.
Disclaimer: No one belongs to me, but it is my birthday, so if you'd like to donate them to the me foundation, it would be appreciated.
Wow, that was short.

I've heard that before. Only the good die young. I never believed it.

Come to think of it, I still don't.

In my mind, I know Satine is dead. I know I am watching her being buried. I know I will never, ever hear her sweet voice again.

I sit here in my pew stoically, tearless. Some people think that is disrespectful, but I know Satine would rather have me sit hear in silence then wail hysterically like Nini, or sob like Mome Fromage, or whimper continuously like La Petite Princesse.

Yes, I can watch the priest talk (and dimly wonder where Ziedler found him) about Satine, I can watch Harold go up and speak. I can stare at the cherrywood casket so dark that looks like wine. I can hear the sniffles and weeping of all the other Moulin Rouge performers.

But to me it is not real.

Is this denial? I wonder. It must be. After all, I am very certain that Satine is being put down into the cold, unforgiving ground. She died in my arms, it would be pretty hard to miss a thing like that.

I can come in go as I please- just like she said I could- but I don't notice it. I am living in a perpetual fog, with a constant mist of Absinthe.

I can look at her grave marker, and savor her name. I can repeat it over and over. Roll it around in my mouth, speak them, write them, type them. I can scrawl it all over sheets of paper, I can write each letter deliberately and slowly or harshly and quickly.

I can scream her curses and sing her praises. I can suppress and liberate memories. I can blame her, I can blame myself, I can blame the Duke.

I can be plagued by guilt.

A person cannot live within a haze of guilt, no more than a flower could grow without sunlight.

I can sit at my window, staring at the place that brought me to her. I can mull over her words, my words, our actions.

I can do what I wish. My life is no longer my own.

Only the good die young, they say. It is true with her, gone at twenty-one.

It rings true for myself as well.