Author's Note/Disclaimer: I do not own South of Nowhere, nor do I own Moulin Rouge, where majority of my story-line will be coming from. Certain things may be used from either SoN or MR; I will try to refrain from doing that as I do not wish to be sued, however, if it is necessary to the text then I will probably use it.
I will try to update as soon as possible, I can't promise anything, though.
I hope you all enjoy. =D And, if possible, I would love it if you could give me some feedback. However, it is not necessary.
A young woman is laying on a bed, she is curled up in a ball. The room is bathed in darkness, the only light provided is through the single window that the room holds, her form is illuminated by the moonlight that leaks through. The young woman has pale vanilla colored skin, and cornstalk colored tresses. She makes a slight movement, and reaches out to a makeshift end table and grasps a bottle; she slowly sits up, and tilts her head back, pouring the remaining liquid down her throat. She grimaces and shakes her head, then tosses the bottle across the room; it collides with the wall and shatters.
She sighs, and glances around. The room is a disaster, papers (crumpled and flat) litter the solid surfaces, and then some, same as the liquor bottles. Clothing is strewn about, she slowly puts her feet on the cool floor (the only bit that seems to be showing). She shivers involuntarily, and then moves over to the window. She glances outside and into the distance. She turns and looks down at the typewriter, it lays untouched, and collecting dust. She shakes her head as she grabs a piece of paper and slides it in and locks the mechanism, she then sits down in the chair and stairs at the blank page for a few moments. She begins to type, and the tears fall.
'The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.'
-
Spencer stepped off the train, luggage in hand, and she glanced into the distance. She couldn't help but smile. This would be her new home, and she would do what she's always wanted to do... Write. She exited the train station, and glanced left and right before crossing a street, cars were still fairly new, and not everyone had one, but she still checked, because she heard some stories about people getting hit, and she didn't like the outcomes. So, when she decided that the road was safe enough to cross she crossed and stopped in front of a man with a horse and carriage.
"How much to Montmartre?" She asked the gentleman; he glanced at her and her attire, looked up at her and smiled crookedly.
"Not one for the times, are you mistress?"
She glanced down at her shirt, slacks, and jacket and shrugged. "I'm not what you would call conventional."
He smirked this time, "It'll be three francs. Think you can afford it?"
She shrugged and reached into her pocket pulling out a wad of francs. She removed three and handed them to him.
His eyebrows rose, and he took the money, and opened the door for her. "After you, madam."
She nodded in approval and got into the carriage. He climbed up to the seat, grabbed the reins and off they went.
-
He dropped her off in front of the town entrance, and waved goodbye. She returned the nicety, and glanced about her. She smiled again, and wandered in while glancing this way and that. Finally after fifteen or so minutes she stopped in front of a small building, it was alright for what it was, but it could have been better. However, she realized that her francs were dwindling, and she was sure that the one room apartment would cost her about as much as she had, if not more. So it would have to do.
"What can I do ya for, lass?" A woman inquired from behind her, causing her to jump.
She spun around and faced the woman, "Uhm, I- I would like to rent an apartment, Mrs..." She trailed off, and waited for the woman to respond.
"Miss, actually. Hartford. Rebecca Hartford. And you are?"
She blushed and glanced down, "Spencer Carlin."
The woman laughed a bit, "A man's name, have you? It's a'right, deary. Father named you, I s'pose? After his father?"
She glanced up at Miss Hartford, and nodded. "How did you know?"
"Because a mother would never name her daughter something like that unless the father deemed it so. You were inquiring about a room?"
"Excuse me?" Spencer asked dumbfounded.
"Well, an 'apartment'? We don't 'ave any of those, lovey. You'd have to make do with a room."
Spencer considered this for a moment and finally nodded. "How much, for a month?"
The woman laughed again, almost scaring Spencer out of her wits from how loud it was. "A month, lass? Well, if you think you can afford it, 30 francs, miss."
Spencer reached into her pocket again, and pulled out the wad of francs, counted out 30 and handed them to the woman who in turn handed Spencer the key to her new apartment... Er, room.