This is a little something I dreamed up while listening to the Moulin Rouge Soundtrack. Love it or hate it, it's just a little brain spurt.
Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge, Zidler, Christian, Satine, Toulouse, the Duke or the Narcoleptic Argentinean. I do own the Duke's Son, his Wife, the Narcoleptic Argentinean's wife, and Zidler's son.
"The End."
With those two words he sealed the story, ending it on that tragic, sacred note. All his sorrow, all his love, all the torn fabric of his soul wrapped in a hundred pages and sealed with the beautiful bow of "The End".
That was years ago.
Things had moved on. There was a new star in the Moulin Rouge, now run by Zidler's bastard son, who was the product of a drunken night with one of his Diamond Dogs. Christian never returned there, but the other Bohos did, and he kept contact with them until one by one they died.
Toulouse had never found the love he yearned for. He lived his life as a mediocre artist, scraping his way through sex, paint and booze until he met his demise at the hands of syphilis. In the end the disease drove him mad, so that he did not recognize any of his old friends. He may as well have died alone.
The Narcoleptic Argentinean was well acclaimed for his part in "Spectacular Spectacular". The show ran for years, but not quite the fifty they had promised the Duke. A new woman replaced Satine, a girl who wore heavy makeup and died her hair to imitate the glorious red of the Sparkling Diamond's. The two acted in the play for most of its vast run, and found love in each other. The Argentinean was killed when he fell asleep during a drunken brawl. His wife later moved to America, and no one had heard from her since.
The Duke found another woman. They had married and had a child, but it was the Duke's temper that drove them apart. In the middle of an argument, the Duke pulled out a knife and threatened her. It wasn't long before she took their son, only six at the time, and left him. Distraught, he had hung himself in the Gothic Tower. Since no divorce was ever filed, his widowed wife and fatherless son had inherited the money and the title. The Young Duke now was a large benefactor of another whorehouse, and was slowly driving the Moulin Rouge into ruin.
Zidler was still alive. He was now very, very old, a widowed man who watched his only son drown in alchahol as he lost control of the once proud brothel.
So many lives, so many dark, unhappy endings. Christian's book sold like dry grassland burns; fast and hot, until there was nothing left. He never lived the life of a penniless writer. He squandered the money on gifts and beer, and small sparkling trinkets to place before the alter of Satine. As soon as the money was gone more came to fill its place, and he soon gave up spending it, and allowed it to fill a small trunk under his bed. One would never guess that he possessed such wealth if they saw the state of his home; scattered papers, empty bottles, dead stubs of candles thrown haphazardly on the floor, and dust piled thickly on forgotten manuscripts. He never wrote for the Moulin Rouge again, and no other story sold like his first.
And here he was now, alone in his life. A secluded artist. The gray ran rampant in his beard and hair, and his eyes were fogged with age. He leaned his thin body against the rail of the balcony. A green bottle dangled from his fingertips. The glowing windmill of the Moulin Rouge spun lazily before him. Memories. Ah, the memories. Clear as though they were yesterday, though yesterday was foggy at times. There were moments when he started out the door for a drink with Toulouse, and would be halfway down the street before he remembered that Toulouse was dead.
Christian turned and went inside. He paused at the fireplace mantle. A framed picture of Satine stood proudly in the center. Candles burned steadily beside it, casting romantic light onto the sparkling jewelry that adorned its sides. Diamonds were a girl's best friend, and he knew Satine had always lived by that mantra. He touched her image. He had felt it for a while now. He had felt so close to Satine, so close to her love.
They wouldn't be apart for much longer.
He sat in front of the fireplace and closed his eyes. He could hear her now. Her golden laugh. Her silver song. He could hear her.
One day I'll fly away…He could see her. Her red hair flashed in the light. Her pale skin glowed. She held her hand out to him.
Leave all this to yesterday…He took her hand, and she led him into the light.
"I believe you were expecting me."
My sister did some research, and found a real Marie-Toulouse-Latrec- Mongfar (Or whatever his name is), and it turns out he was an artist, and really did die from a mix of syphilis and alcohol. That also helped inspire this.