Disclaimer: The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).
Author's note: This is a day for the books, folks: Mary Helen has written a…short story!! My song, please don't steal it. :o)
I'm not saying this is how it would have gone, nor am I saying this is how it should have gone. No, this is only a way it could have gone. Enjoy.
You, You
The sun streamed down, illuminating Christian's face and shining on his eyes. Not into his eyes—not even the brightest light would penetrate there. Even if the sun in all its glory were to grace this earth and dance merrily before him…nothing could bring his glow back, or rekindle the fire behind his eyes.
Instead, it smiled upon him.
So joyful.
So cynical.
Christian had looked out his window at the inky black sky the night before. Then, at least for a moment, it seemed that the sun had shared in his despair; the stars had always been so clear, once one looked past the shroud of smoke that covered the Village of Sin.
At least, they always had before.
But now…now, they were gone—drowned out by the darkness. Perhaps never to return again. Now the stars were too dim, and the blanket too thick. Now, his sky was empty, and all that stared back at him when he opened his eyes was blackness.
Christian trudged along, murmuring a low, "'Scuse me, ma'am," or "Pardon me, Sir," on the frequent occasion that his eyes, downcast, lost focus on his surroundings. It made him dizzy, the color and action that whirled around him. And the sun was obviously less than willing to oblige. A bottle of Absinthe had become his best friend, as of late.
A poor replacement for the friend he had lost.
Its cold, hard effects were wearing him down. But it was all he could do to escape the frenzy about him. He didn't want to see the masked misery, the sardonic smiles, the artificial enthusiasm that radiated from the town he could never more call home. It was all so bitterly sarcastic.
And at the same time, the cheery façade was a taunting reminder of the love he had lost.
He hadn't always been like this, though that thought surprised him from time to time. The sun hadn't always been his rival, and the stars hadn't always hidden their faces. His hair had once been kept, his clothes free of alcohol stains and holes from a forgotten cigarette.
So much change in two short days.
No, memories of days and weeks before hadn't left him. In fact, it was they that kept him alive.
---
"You know, it really is quite lovely out here, once you break through all the filth and grime."
Christian nodded, staring about him in wonder at the sudden, drastic change of scenery. "You didn't do this justice when you told me about it…."
Satine giggled. "Well, you're the poet, darling."
In what seemed could be restricted to a matter of paces, the pair had stepped from the drab grays and browns of Montemartre, and, led by Satine, into a world of deep green hills, its grasses rippling in the wind; violet flowers, and crystalline skies, scattered with cotton clouds. Christian only believed its dreamlike glory about as little as Satine had, the first time she'd been pointed in this direction by an older girl while looking for a quiet place to be alone after a particularly mortifying night's work, so many years ago….
"Well, that's true." He grinned at her playfully, and she shook her head, smiling.
"Oh, Christian…." Then she sighed, staring up at the cloud-covered sky. "I'm sorry we couldn't have chosen a better day. It's more cheerful when the sun is out."
"It's quite bright enough for me, thank you."
Satine gave Christian a puzzled look, and his eyes gleamed.
"'Cause…baby…
You, you
You are my sunshine
You, you
You brighten my stars
You, you
You stole my heart, but
Baby, I, I
Wouldn't have it back!"
She simled as he spontaneously picked a flower, nestled it into her hair, then took off running through the overgrown grass, throwing a beaming glance behind him every few seconds as she tried to keep up.
By the time he stopped several seconds later, his cheeks were flushed, and his hair had sprung out in a most comical fashion. Even so, his voice rang through the open air, clear and true as he sang…
"You, you're
My field of flowers
You, you're
At my rainbow's end
You, you
You stole my heart, but
Baby, I, I
Wouldn't have it back!"
---
Christian climbed up the old wooden stairs to his garret with some difficulty, weighed down not only by the supply of alcohol he carried. Entering the small room, he set down his load and made his way over to the window. Outside, the sun had just begun to hint that its time was ended, and its position in the sky was drooping with defeat.
"The sun must die," Christian whispered, "as all things do. But me—it has left me behind." He glanced over to the dilapidated windmill, gone to ruins overnight. The dancing heels were trampling it to its death—all at once, the ceaseless crushing of bodies and souls inside its walls had left it to this fate, made apparent by the absence of upkeep in these last few days.
And the other girls, they had died. Though not physically, at least mentally. One of them had fled in tears the first evening without their star. Though she was hardened on the inside, her life was ruined as customers streamed from the Moulin, their sole purpose of coming crushed with the broken diamond. This woman couldn't feed her children—she had failed them, and herself.
Harold Zidler himself had died. Without his sparrow, he'd lost his promise of fortune. The show had been a disaster—nobody even dared speak of it. There was nothing left to say. And, though the words would never come to him, a part of his heart had died with her, also.
And through a haze of smoke, Christian thought he could make out the hills, now brown, and the flowers, now withered.
Yet, they all went on as though nothing had ever happened. Wearing their masks, trampling the Moulin. But the windmill knew. It knew, and it showed.
Perhaps tomorrow it would fall in ruins. Perhaps tomorrow the façades would shatter along with the souls inside. Perhaps tomorrow, the sun wouldn't rise. Or perhaps, they would set with it.
"I don't know what to think now
I don't know what to say
For you know I never dreamt that
It could ever end this way.
But looking at tomorrow
Makes me look at yesterday, and say…
You, you
You were my sunshine
You, you
You brightened my stars
You, you
You stole my heart, and
Baby, I, I'll
Never have it back."