Disclaimer: All the Moulin Rouge characters and the Moulin Rouge storyline
belong to the one and only and immensely wonderful we-all-know-who - Baz
Luhrmann, as well as to Craig Pierce. To me belongs the unborn child, which
in does not have a name, yet. It will in chapter three, so be patient :o)
Timeline: After "Spectacular Spectacular", with the ending somewhat altered, for a bit at least.
A/N: once I found the WONDERFUL world of Moulin Rouge fanfics I didn't really plan to write one, coz I didn't wanna write a fanfic for the sake of writing one and then I got this idea and thought I would pursue it. That's one of the reasons that I don't' have other Moulin Rouge fanfics, but who knows, I might get another good idea.
The title of the fanfic is the title of a Shakira song as well which I ADORE (there's an English as well as a Spanish version for which she got a Latin Grammy!!!) and the title of PART 1 is of a 2Pac song. It just totally fit.
One more thing, I would really appreciate any feedback, if you don't' like it, feel free to express your opinion, just don't flame too much, please. I would also appreciate any constructive criticism as well as positive feedback. Thx :o)
EYES LIKE YOURS
~ by Alicia Jo Twain ~
PART 1 - LETTERS TO MY UNBORN CHILD
Chapter 1: MY PAST
March 23rd, 1900
My dear child.
I'm not quite sure where to start. I never thought I'd be writing letters to my unborn child, I never planned it, but that was before. before. before I found out I was dying. Yes, that's right, I'm dying. I don't even know how long I have left. Not that I would care since my life is not worth all that much, no one would miss me, really. Well maybe not no one. But it's no secret I haven't really done anything great with my life. The best thing I'd have to look back on, when I die, is having you. That is, if I make it, if both of us make it. [the handwriting somewhat smeared by tears] .to the end.
You're probably more confused than I am, at this point, so why don't I start from the beginning. I am your mother. This sounds so strange; it's been ages, literally, since I've thought about, since I've let myself imagine being a mother. Not that I stopped wanting to have a child, it just wasn't the right time. I wasn't living in any appropriate conditions, not even close, to raise a child in. And then your daddy came along, and here you are, stuck with poor old me, at least until I come to term.
I don't know where or who you'll be with when you read this, so for the record - it's another rainy day here in Paris, today, where I live. Now and always. I've been in Paris my whole life, was born, raised, lived and will certainly die here, in the city of light, as the many tourists who come here call it. I'm in the elephant - my working and private chambers - looking out the window at all the people scurrying along the wet, muddy streets of Montmartre, the center of the Bohemian revolution, which means the center of all nightlife in Paris, for the moment, anyway. I look at the street-people with their bare shaking hands, palms open, hoping to get a sou or two from the rich folks, to buy a crust of bread, or perhaps even a sugary croissant most of them have never tasted in their lifetime. I feel sorry them, all of them, every person in this world who has to live on the street. It's about the worst thing that could happen to a person. Not knowing where one belongs; roaming the streets in search of shelter, if only for the day; praying to God the rain would stop; clinging on to your wet clothes in fear of catching pneumonia or something even worse. And I should know, for that's how I spent the first 13 years of my life, surviving day by day, with no clue as to what horrors tomorrow might bring. You wouldn't think that, if you saw me now. Now, I am the Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge, with beautiful dresses, living in a carefully catered elephant with satin curtains and silk sheets, whose every whim is indulged, or so it seems. That's what the outer world thinks of me, but the underworld knows better, because we're all in the same position. Not very different from where we came from - the street - with a roof over our heads and enough food to keep us alive, the rest is unchanged, we are still just as lost, if not more so, not belonging anywhere, clueless to what hardships the next day will bring. If business goes down, we all go down. We could all be back on the street in a day, not a nice way to live, y'know. That's why we are more careful.
I pray to God you'll never have to go though that. I want a good life for you, a better one than I've had. I want you to know that I'd do anything to keep you from that kind of fate, but it's not up to me. not anymore. [more tears smearing the ink]
I'm not exactly sure when I was born, I suspect it was sometime in 1877, but I do know that I was born in a dark alley on the night of the full moon. This is what she told me. She was walking alone to the place where she and a couple of other women spent rainy nights. It was an infamous neighborhood where all the streetlamps had been destroyed by the homeless kids, but the only place they had found shelter in. It had begun to rain heavily, and my mom, which means your grandma, tried to hurry up, but she was already over 8 months pregnant with me, and her feet trembled more and more and she had to stop to rest and catch her breath. She felt really strong contractions and she couldn't walk anymore, so she lowered herself to the ground and screamed the hell out of herself. She was scared and cold and alone, and then one of her street-mates showed up and helped her through the delivery. So she had me, in some dark alley, who knows where. It was so dark she couldn't even see my face. And then for a couple of seconds the moon shone so brightly that my face, she said, was illuminated and she said that mine was the most beautiful face she had ever seen but, y'know, all mothers say that. It's a story my mom told me over and over and over again. When I asked her why she kept repeating it over and over she said that she didn't know how long she was going to be around, but that I always had to remember that the moonlight shining on me was a sign from God that I was unique, and that I would do something special with my life. She told me to remember that, always. And so I have. My mother died of pneumonia, trying to keep me warm, when I was 4, and on her deathbed, which was a muddy Paris street, she made me promise I would do something with my life. Something better than she had - were her exact words. There is not a day that passes by that I don't look at the moon and remember my mother's words. As a child I used to believe that I truly would fulfill my promise, but as the years passed, I became less and less certain of it. After my mother died I became one of the many orphans who pick pocketed for their survival in the expensive city of fashionable Paris. Of my father I never knew anything and I didn't really care, I had my mother. She never talked about him and I never asked.
In spite of the fact that the streets were my home, that it was the only life I'd ever had and known, I longed to be one of those rich ladies, riding in big carriages, going to fancy balls, dancing with handsome respected gentlemen, even turning several of their marriage proposals down. What I wouldn't have given for only one of those gentlemen to ask me for one dance, let alone a marriage proposal. One day, as I was walking down the busy square, admiring a brand-new bride being helped into her carriage, wanting to be in her shoes more than anything, wanting to be any bride for that matter, I felt someone's gaze on me. I turned to face the person - it was a plump, mid-aged man, and his eyes were looking straight into mine, as if he was trying to figure out who I was. Then a stupid grin surfaced on his face. He started walking slowly, but steadily, towards me with that smile remaining firmly on his lips. As he got closer I started backing away and then suddenly I tripped over something and fell straight, arse first, into one of the muddy puddles the Paris streets are so full of. I felt the dirty liquid penetrate through my dress first, and then even through my undergarments. I felt so helpless and filthy, but most of all - wet. Before I had time to get up the bride's carriage sped by me, another muddy puddle, splashing the liquidy mud all over my clothes, face and hair. As I looked after the expensive carriage all I wanted to do was burst in tears. Just as they were forming in my eyes I noticed that the plump man was staring at me in amusement and I concluded he'd probably seen the whole thing. He had the weirdest expression on his face, something between surprise, pity and delight. I resented the pity in his eyes, and I wouldn't let myself be laughed at, by him, whoever he was, or by anyone. I blinked away my tears and instead I burst out laughing. His expression completely changed to utter shock and amazement, I was so happy I'd wiped that smug expression of his face that I laughed even harder. I must've looked like a madman, sitting in the mud, all covered in mud, leaning on my arms behind my back for support and laughing uncontrollably. People on the square stopped to stare at me, but I didn't give a damn, actually it amused me all the more. The only way to survive growing up on the streets, especially the ones of Paris, was by keeping your sense of humor. To always find something funny in your own misfortune. That's basically the only golden street-rule I've managed to stick to, the first being "Do anything to avoid from being caught." But everyone's broken that one, even the best of us, not purposely of course. My sense of humor is the only thing that's kept me going - the past few years. Well, my whole life, actually. Anyway, back to me sitting in the muddy puddle. I just sat there for a minute or two still laughing while the man kept staring at me, I must've been a very strange sight, indeed. After a bit my jaw started to hurt from all the laughing and I regained my composure. I tried to get up, clumsily, may I add, so the man, coming out of his staring daze, gave me a hand, and there we stood. Me, all muddy and wet, and him, looking all spic n' span. If he hadn't been that fat and old it would've been just like Cinderella, where the poor girl, falls for the rich and handsome guy. But that man, who later introduced himself as Harry Zidler, was nothing like my knight in shining armor, as I was soon to find out. For my own peace of mind it would've been better had I never met him. But it was destiny, just like I was meant to meet your daddy and like I was meant to have you. You are my only bright light at the end of this dark and winding tunnel. You are the reason I am still alive, even tho I can barely do anything. The doctor said I mustn't move around at all if I wasn't to risk losing you. That is never going to happen. I won't let it! I would have you if I had to not sleep for the rest of my life! So I will have you if I spend the rest of my life in bed!! [red spots of blood on the paper] So anyway, I was watching the other carriages speed away after the church wedding, when Harry said, "You want to have beautiful dresses like they do and have all the men fall at your feet?" I was very surprised by his question, but I silently nodded. It was what I had wanted all along.
"Well then, I know just the place for you!" he said, as he took my hand and pulled me with him. And I let him. Just like that! Little did I know he was taking me to the Moulin Rouge, the place where people were transformed into creatures of the underworld with no hope of ever returning to their previous existence. No person who has entered the dark corridors of the infamous nightclub has ever come out. Not in one piece, anyway. The diamonds, the glamour and the male adoration, which many mistook for love that they had so lacked in their previous lives, seduced girls, like me, into the Hades of Paris. For the first time we had expensive clothes and were adored by the whole male population of Paris, and we loved every second of it!!! But all that did not come without a price, the highest price a human being could ever pay: the loss of one's soul. That's what the Moulin Rouge took in return for shelter, food and all the superficial material things human beings are programmed to want - some more than others - they were the real diamonds that would bring in money for Harry Zidler, and I was one of them.
So Harry dragged me through the muddy streets of Paris, turned around this corner and that corner until we got to Montmartre. From beyond the houses I could see the red wings of the windmill turning slowly and in a few minutes we were in front of the MOULIN ROUGE!!! I was so excited I couldn't breathe! It was the most magnificent nightclub I'd ever seen, and windmill for that matter. I caught myself wondering if it was as pretty on the inside as it was on the outside. Harry took me inside and it was beautiful: velvet curtains covering the stage (it wasn't open yet since it was still morning), pretty wallpaper, and a whole balcony for the musicians, who were rehearsing, as well as the dancers. The can-can music was deafening and my eyes almost hurt from the variety of colors that spun around me, of the corsets, skirts, dresses, gowns, make-up, wigs, hats and all the other accessories I had only dreamed about till then. I was fascinated! I looked around, devouring everything with my eyes. It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before. Then I looked at Harry, he had an almost evil smile on his face as if he knew something I didn't. Unfortunately for me, he did know. I didn't give it much thought, as I was so thrilled to be there, already picturing myself singing on the trapeze, high above, and doing a solo can-can. I'd have money and pretty dresses and wouldn't have to ever starve myself again! I'd be able to eat all the chocolate I wanted!!! It all happened exactly as I'd pictured it, but with a little exception.
Harry introduced me to the girls as the Sparkling Diamond who'd boost up business. They all gave me these unfriendly stares, checking me out from head to toe. Back then, being naïve, I thought I'd be friends with them, but now, as I rethink the whole situation, they'd already known I'd steal the spotlight away from them. Less spotlight meant less money and it's not like there was an abundance of that at the Moulin Rouge. That's why they all hated me so much. I was Harry's pet, and they knew it the second I walked into the nightclub. All I'd wanted was food on the table, dry clothes and a roof over my head. But Harry didn't quite see it that way.
After my first day, being shown around and getting installed in the elephant, day after day I went to rehearsal after rehearsal, singing, dancing, jumping and swinging, all in my little tight corset which made it enormously hard to breathe. The first few times I felt like I was going to faint most of the time, but I got through it. The dresses and gowns all made up for it. All so colorful with petticoat after petticoat made according to the latest Parisian high-class fashion. I loved every one of them and spent my every free moment trying them on and admiring myself in the mirror. I looked pretty, real pretty, and I knew it! I was able to make every man go mad with desire for me, but that thought had never crossed my mind back then. When I wore all those beautiful dresses, night after night, especially my favorite one, very similar to the one the bride was wearing the day I first met Harry, except it was scarlet red, I flew into a whole other world where I wasn't a dancer in the Moulin Rouge, but an actress, a real actress, like the great Sara Burnhart. I got called on by the most prestigious families in Paris and even the British came to see me. Every single man courted me and there were so many I could never decide upon which. That was my dream: to have a choice. The choice of choosing the man who'd take me home after a party. Choosing him because he was nice to me, because he treated me well, like a girl should be treated. Not just go with the highest bidder. But then Harry would yell, "Satine!! You're on!!" and those three words would shatter all of my dreams, night after night. Every time he yelled those same exact words, it was as if he were chiseling off a part of my dream. Chiseling it to mold it into his dream for me - to be the most famous courtesan in the whole of France and even have European royalty come see me at the Moulin Rouge, which would bring in more money. Although Harry silver-coated it for me, convincing me I'd meet more important people that way (or better to say I'd sleep with them), I knew very well that no real producer and no real director would cast a nationally known courtesan in a serious play. I might've been naïve when Harry took me off the streets but by then I knew about everything that was going on in the underworld. He couldn't fool me, not anymore. Harry knew but he still pretended he could and I pretended it worked. It was a little game we played. I think it comforted him to think, to convince himself, that I wasn't all that unhappy, that he hadn't irreversibly screwed up my life by turning me into a courtesan, a boy toy, the object of lust and desire of the whole of Paris. He was like a father to me. He wasn't a good father, but nevertheless being the only father figure in my life, I started seeing him as such. He WAS selling me to the highest bidder but even a child beaten by its own father feels loyal to him, not knowing better, or not having anything else to cling to. Looking back, if I hadn't met Harry, some pimp would've offered me the same thing and I would have accepted, so I can't really blame him for my life now. I wasn't that better off on the street all by myself, anyway. I'd probably have caught my death from the cold.
Knowing what I know now it would've been wiser not to go with Harry but then I wouldn't have met your father or have had you. I want you to know that you mean the world to me, and meeting your daddy, Christian. well. that was the best thing that ever happened to me.
[handwriting smeared. drops of blood on paper]
Your mommy who will always love you
[dried tears on the bottom of the paper, along with little bloodstains]
Timeline: After "Spectacular Spectacular", with the ending somewhat altered, for a bit at least.
A/N: once I found the WONDERFUL world of Moulin Rouge fanfics I didn't really plan to write one, coz I didn't wanna write a fanfic for the sake of writing one and then I got this idea and thought I would pursue it. That's one of the reasons that I don't' have other Moulin Rouge fanfics, but who knows, I might get another good idea.
The title of the fanfic is the title of a Shakira song as well which I ADORE (there's an English as well as a Spanish version for which she got a Latin Grammy!!!) and the title of PART 1 is of a 2Pac song. It just totally fit.
One more thing, I would really appreciate any feedback, if you don't' like it, feel free to express your opinion, just don't flame too much, please. I would also appreciate any constructive criticism as well as positive feedback. Thx :o)
EYES LIKE YOURS
~ by Alicia Jo Twain ~
PART 1 - LETTERS TO MY UNBORN CHILD
Chapter 1: MY PAST
March 23rd, 1900
My dear child.
I'm not quite sure where to start. I never thought I'd be writing letters to my unborn child, I never planned it, but that was before. before. before I found out I was dying. Yes, that's right, I'm dying. I don't even know how long I have left. Not that I would care since my life is not worth all that much, no one would miss me, really. Well maybe not no one. But it's no secret I haven't really done anything great with my life. The best thing I'd have to look back on, when I die, is having you. That is, if I make it, if both of us make it. [the handwriting somewhat smeared by tears] .to the end.
You're probably more confused than I am, at this point, so why don't I start from the beginning. I am your mother. This sounds so strange; it's been ages, literally, since I've thought about, since I've let myself imagine being a mother. Not that I stopped wanting to have a child, it just wasn't the right time. I wasn't living in any appropriate conditions, not even close, to raise a child in. And then your daddy came along, and here you are, stuck with poor old me, at least until I come to term.
I don't know where or who you'll be with when you read this, so for the record - it's another rainy day here in Paris, today, where I live. Now and always. I've been in Paris my whole life, was born, raised, lived and will certainly die here, in the city of light, as the many tourists who come here call it. I'm in the elephant - my working and private chambers - looking out the window at all the people scurrying along the wet, muddy streets of Montmartre, the center of the Bohemian revolution, which means the center of all nightlife in Paris, for the moment, anyway. I look at the street-people with their bare shaking hands, palms open, hoping to get a sou or two from the rich folks, to buy a crust of bread, or perhaps even a sugary croissant most of them have never tasted in their lifetime. I feel sorry them, all of them, every person in this world who has to live on the street. It's about the worst thing that could happen to a person. Not knowing where one belongs; roaming the streets in search of shelter, if only for the day; praying to God the rain would stop; clinging on to your wet clothes in fear of catching pneumonia or something even worse. And I should know, for that's how I spent the first 13 years of my life, surviving day by day, with no clue as to what horrors tomorrow might bring. You wouldn't think that, if you saw me now. Now, I am the Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge, with beautiful dresses, living in a carefully catered elephant with satin curtains and silk sheets, whose every whim is indulged, or so it seems. That's what the outer world thinks of me, but the underworld knows better, because we're all in the same position. Not very different from where we came from - the street - with a roof over our heads and enough food to keep us alive, the rest is unchanged, we are still just as lost, if not more so, not belonging anywhere, clueless to what hardships the next day will bring. If business goes down, we all go down. We could all be back on the street in a day, not a nice way to live, y'know. That's why we are more careful.
I pray to God you'll never have to go though that. I want a good life for you, a better one than I've had. I want you to know that I'd do anything to keep you from that kind of fate, but it's not up to me. not anymore. [more tears smearing the ink]
I'm not exactly sure when I was born, I suspect it was sometime in 1877, but I do know that I was born in a dark alley on the night of the full moon. This is what she told me. She was walking alone to the place where she and a couple of other women spent rainy nights. It was an infamous neighborhood where all the streetlamps had been destroyed by the homeless kids, but the only place they had found shelter in. It had begun to rain heavily, and my mom, which means your grandma, tried to hurry up, but she was already over 8 months pregnant with me, and her feet trembled more and more and she had to stop to rest and catch her breath. She felt really strong contractions and she couldn't walk anymore, so she lowered herself to the ground and screamed the hell out of herself. She was scared and cold and alone, and then one of her street-mates showed up and helped her through the delivery. So she had me, in some dark alley, who knows where. It was so dark she couldn't even see my face. And then for a couple of seconds the moon shone so brightly that my face, she said, was illuminated and she said that mine was the most beautiful face she had ever seen but, y'know, all mothers say that. It's a story my mom told me over and over and over again. When I asked her why she kept repeating it over and over she said that she didn't know how long she was going to be around, but that I always had to remember that the moonlight shining on me was a sign from God that I was unique, and that I would do something special with my life. She told me to remember that, always. And so I have. My mother died of pneumonia, trying to keep me warm, when I was 4, and on her deathbed, which was a muddy Paris street, she made me promise I would do something with my life. Something better than she had - were her exact words. There is not a day that passes by that I don't look at the moon and remember my mother's words. As a child I used to believe that I truly would fulfill my promise, but as the years passed, I became less and less certain of it. After my mother died I became one of the many orphans who pick pocketed for their survival in the expensive city of fashionable Paris. Of my father I never knew anything and I didn't really care, I had my mother. She never talked about him and I never asked.
In spite of the fact that the streets were my home, that it was the only life I'd ever had and known, I longed to be one of those rich ladies, riding in big carriages, going to fancy balls, dancing with handsome respected gentlemen, even turning several of their marriage proposals down. What I wouldn't have given for only one of those gentlemen to ask me for one dance, let alone a marriage proposal. One day, as I was walking down the busy square, admiring a brand-new bride being helped into her carriage, wanting to be in her shoes more than anything, wanting to be any bride for that matter, I felt someone's gaze on me. I turned to face the person - it was a plump, mid-aged man, and his eyes were looking straight into mine, as if he was trying to figure out who I was. Then a stupid grin surfaced on his face. He started walking slowly, but steadily, towards me with that smile remaining firmly on his lips. As he got closer I started backing away and then suddenly I tripped over something and fell straight, arse first, into one of the muddy puddles the Paris streets are so full of. I felt the dirty liquid penetrate through my dress first, and then even through my undergarments. I felt so helpless and filthy, but most of all - wet. Before I had time to get up the bride's carriage sped by me, another muddy puddle, splashing the liquidy mud all over my clothes, face and hair. As I looked after the expensive carriage all I wanted to do was burst in tears. Just as they were forming in my eyes I noticed that the plump man was staring at me in amusement and I concluded he'd probably seen the whole thing. He had the weirdest expression on his face, something between surprise, pity and delight. I resented the pity in his eyes, and I wouldn't let myself be laughed at, by him, whoever he was, or by anyone. I blinked away my tears and instead I burst out laughing. His expression completely changed to utter shock and amazement, I was so happy I'd wiped that smug expression of his face that I laughed even harder. I must've looked like a madman, sitting in the mud, all covered in mud, leaning on my arms behind my back for support and laughing uncontrollably. People on the square stopped to stare at me, but I didn't give a damn, actually it amused me all the more. The only way to survive growing up on the streets, especially the ones of Paris, was by keeping your sense of humor. To always find something funny in your own misfortune. That's basically the only golden street-rule I've managed to stick to, the first being "Do anything to avoid from being caught." But everyone's broken that one, even the best of us, not purposely of course. My sense of humor is the only thing that's kept me going - the past few years. Well, my whole life, actually. Anyway, back to me sitting in the muddy puddle. I just sat there for a minute or two still laughing while the man kept staring at me, I must've been a very strange sight, indeed. After a bit my jaw started to hurt from all the laughing and I regained my composure. I tried to get up, clumsily, may I add, so the man, coming out of his staring daze, gave me a hand, and there we stood. Me, all muddy and wet, and him, looking all spic n' span. If he hadn't been that fat and old it would've been just like Cinderella, where the poor girl, falls for the rich and handsome guy. But that man, who later introduced himself as Harry Zidler, was nothing like my knight in shining armor, as I was soon to find out. For my own peace of mind it would've been better had I never met him. But it was destiny, just like I was meant to meet your daddy and like I was meant to have you. You are my only bright light at the end of this dark and winding tunnel. You are the reason I am still alive, even tho I can barely do anything. The doctor said I mustn't move around at all if I wasn't to risk losing you. That is never going to happen. I won't let it! I would have you if I had to not sleep for the rest of my life! So I will have you if I spend the rest of my life in bed!! [red spots of blood on the paper] So anyway, I was watching the other carriages speed away after the church wedding, when Harry said, "You want to have beautiful dresses like they do and have all the men fall at your feet?" I was very surprised by his question, but I silently nodded. It was what I had wanted all along.
"Well then, I know just the place for you!" he said, as he took my hand and pulled me with him. And I let him. Just like that! Little did I know he was taking me to the Moulin Rouge, the place where people were transformed into creatures of the underworld with no hope of ever returning to their previous existence. No person who has entered the dark corridors of the infamous nightclub has ever come out. Not in one piece, anyway. The diamonds, the glamour and the male adoration, which many mistook for love that they had so lacked in their previous lives, seduced girls, like me, into the Hades of Paris. For the first time we had expensive clothes and were adored by the whole male population of Paris, and we loved every second of it!!! But all that did not come without a price, the highest price a human being could ever pay: the loss of one's soul. That's what the Moulin Rouge took in return for shelter, food and all the superficial material things human beings are programmed to want - some more than others - they were the real diamonds that would bring in money for Harry Zidler, and I was one of them.
So Harry dragged me through the muddy streets of Paris, turned around this corner and that corner until we got to Montmartre. From beyond the houses I could see the red wings of the windmill turning slowly and in a few minutes we were in front of the MOULIN ROUGE!!! I was so excited I couldn't breathe! It was the most magnificent nightclub I'd ever seen, and windmill for that matter. I caught myself wondering if it was as pretty on the inside as it was on the outside. Harry took me inside and it was beautiful: velvet curtains covering the stage (it wasn't open yet since it was still morning), pretty wallpaper, and a whole balcony for the musicians, who were rehearsing, as well as the dancers. The can-can music was deafening and my eyes almost hurt from the variety of colors that spun around me, of the corsets, skirts, dresses, gowns, make-up, wigs, hats and all the other accessories I had only dreamed about till then. I was fascinated! I looked around, devouring everything with my eyes. It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before. Then I looked at Harry, he had an almost evil smile on his face as if he knew something I didn't. Unfortunately for me, he did know. I didn't give it much thought, as I was so thrilled to be there, already picturing myself singing on the trapeze, high above, and doing a solo can-can. I'd have money and pretty dresses and wouldn't have to ever starve myself again! I'd be able to eat all the chocolate I wanted!!! It all happened exactly as I'd pictured it, but with a little exception.
Harry introduced me to the girls as the Sparkling Diamond who'd boost up business. They all gave me these unfriendly stares, checking me out from head to toe. Back then, being naïve, I thought I'd be friends with them, but now, as I rethink the whole situation, they'd already known I'd steal the spotlight away from them. Less spotlight meant less money and it's not like there was an abundance of that at the Moulin Rouge. That's why they all hated me so much. I was Harry's pet, and they knew it the second I walked into the nightclub. All I'd wanted was food on the table, dry clothes and a roof over my head. But Harry didn't quite see it that way.
After my first day, being shown around and getting installed in the elephant, day after day I went to rehearsal after rehearsal, singing, dancing, jumping and swinging, all in my little tight corset which made it enormously hard to breathe. The first few times I felt like I was going to faint most of the time, but I got through it. The dresses and gowns all made up for it. All so colorful with petticoat after petticoat made according to the latest Parisian high-class fashion. I loved every one of them and spent my every free moment trying them on and admiring myself in the mirror. I looked pretty, real pretty, and I knew it! I was able to make every man go mad with desire for me, but that thought had never crossed my mind back then. When I wore all those beautiful dresses, night after night, especially my favorite one, very similar to the one the bride was wearing the day I first met Harry, except it was scarlet red, I flew into a whole other world where I wasn't a dancer in the Moulin Rouge, but an actress, a real actress, like the great Sara Burnhart. I got called on by the most prestigious families in Paris and even the British came to see me. Every single man courted me and there were so many I could never decide upon which. That was my dream: to have a choice. The choice of choosing the man who'd take me home after a party. Choosing him because he was nice to me, because he treated me well, like a girl should be treated. Not just go with the highest bidder. But then Harry would yell, "Satine!! You're on!!" and those three words would shatter all of my dreams, night after night. Every time he yelled those same exact words, it was as if he were chiseling off a part of my dream. Chiseling it to mold it into his dream for me - to be the most famous courtesan in the whole of France and even have European royalty come see me at the Moulin Rouge, which would bring in more money. Although Harry silver-coated it for me, convincing me I'd meet more important people that way (or better to say I'd sleep with them), I knew very well that no real producer and no real director would cast a nationally known courtesan in a serious play. I might've been naïve when Harry took me off the streets but by then I knew about everything that was going on in the underworld. He couldn't fool me, not anymore. Harry knew but he still pretended he could and I pretended it worked. It was a little game we played. I think it comforted him to think, to convince himself, that I wasn't all that unhappy, that he hadn't irreversibly screwed up my life by turning me into a courtesan, a boy toy, the object of lust and desire of the whole of Paris. He was like a father to me. He wasn't a good father, but nevertheless being the only father figure in my life, I started seeing him as such. He WAS selling me to the highest bidder but even a child beaten by its own father feels loyal to him, not knowing better, or not having anything else to cling to. Looking back, if I hadn't met Harry, some pimp would've offered me the same thing and I would have accepted, so I can't really blame him for my life now. I wasn't that better off on the street all by myself, anyway. I'd probably have caught my death from the cold.
Knowing what I know now it would've been wiser not to go with Harry but then I wouldn't have met your father or have had you. I want you to know that you mean the world to me, and meeting your daddy, Christian. well. that was the best thing that ever happened to me.
[handwriting smeared. drops of blood on paper]
Your mommy who will always love you
[dried tears on the bottom of the paper, along with little bloodstains]
