Christian waved his hand dismissally at the young girl, chapped fingers rubbing his temples as he awaited the entrance of the next one. In the belief that the Moulin Rouge would falter and fail without a new star, he held his head in his hands and cringed as they sung, as their shoes hit the floor, each thud hitting him like a beat of her heart, a slap of her hand across his cheek. His skull felt like it had been pryed open, picked apart with a headache - though, if his mind had really been so vulnerable, it would have become apparant that he wasn't holding auditions for someone to take Dear Satine's place, but rather for Satine herself. And though he knew well it was a Fool's Quest, and that no one could replace such a beauty, no one knew such a charisma nor could they breathe life into a part as she could. She played the oldest profession with a haughty appeal, an actoress playing her part like it had been made for her. And perhaps it had been, perhaps his angel hade been forced into such slavery if only so she could be saved in the end. Perhaps life was all a fucking joke, and her change at life had been nothing more than a cruel taunt made out by Fate.
And what a Fool's Quest it was, for he went home at the end of the day and fell into slumber, the moon caressing his face like her pale boney fingers, running across the stubble, magnifying the pain. He'd toss and turn and think of the girls he'd looked at over the day, think of Zidler's words urging him to choose - they didn't have much time, the deed to the Moulin Rouge could just as easily be sold if he didn't find someone to fill the void Satine had created! He'd grind his teeth and toss, strangled by the bedsheets, awaking to find his limbs tangled in the cool, damp satin, and not the pallid embrace of her limbs. He'd awake, panting, head thrown up, tearing at himself. "Shit..." He'd cuss to himself, breaking down in tears again, pricking the back of his eyes so that they watered and twitched in pain. This night was different then the others, though. He'd lifted himself to get the usual flask of vodka, downing it in a few and knocking himself out till he'd wake up hungover again. This night, however, parinoid suspicision took over him and he skulked through the shadows, pacing, padding of his feet hollow and echoing through the empty room. He came across his mirror, lifting his hands over his face, running them down the cool exterior. He looked at himself, the sunken eyes that had once stared into Satine's, that once held so much joy, so many secrets better lft untold, secrets which, in the end, had them disposed of. Maybe she's still be alive if they hadn't lied. Maybe she would have been happy, been healthy, maybe his love could have saved her! Ah, but the lies a Fool tells him self when he's in denial, almost humerous in the manner which he spoke his thoughts. Love was what? A horimone, a passing phase? He should have left them at friends, never taken the step towards lovers, for what was that but what had ultimatley ruined her reputation, her thoughts, her life? She could have died a happy woman, perhaps. No doubt there were questions Satine needed answers to. He fumbed around, through gifts he'd been given, Satine's things, trying to find what still held some of her life, her essence upon it. No one could play her like she could, she could act like the best of them, she deserved a chance at life! A life she had stolen from her! He kicked the dresser, crying out in pain as he clutched his foot, curling the toes until they cracked and he thought they were going to break, on the floor, cradelling himself... he couldn't take it anymore, she was dead, the Moulin Rouge was dying, it was over! Over, his life had been swept up and thrown to the tide, he could feel it ebb and flow, he could feel it twisted and knoting and - he slammed his head against the dresser, her powder shaking and erupting in tiny motes of pale dust. It clung to his features, the floor, his clothing, as if he'd rolled in flour, covering himself, a phantom, a ghost. He stood to his feet, shaking, composing himself from the thoughts which had taunted him. He tried to blank out his mind, break it down, looking at himself in the mirror. His skin was perfect, covered by the blank part - blotchy in parts mind you, but he could see the difference. He stroked the sponge over his face, covering his face, until it was cold and pale, a porcelin complexion so frail. His cheekbones were jaunty and lithe, jutting out, he did have a distinct female quality to him...
Satine. He would keep Satine's dream alive, no matter what the cost. No matter if he had to become her.
He wouldn't let her die.
.:.
He took the razor in his hand and drew it across the skin of his face, the stubble falling, black tiny hairs caught in the thick creamy foam. Once he'd finished, he splashed cool water over the flesh, yielding the the icy jets which ran over the cuts and lacerations - his hand had continued to shake, all through his shaving. He looked up at his face in the mirror, and picked up one of the brushes - God, it smelt like her - placing it in the thick creamy concealer that Satine had so often dowsed her features in, covering all cracks and creases which resided upon her linaments. She'd been weary, and he'd only ever seen it once the powder had been ridden from such cat-like features, she'd always been able to cover it up with the magic of makeup. He took the khol liner, pulling his sockets downwards so the pink inside of his eye was exposed, running the black in a thin line across the curve. He took her mascara brush as well and held it vertically, trying to remember how she'd applied it (oh God, don't say she was fading already) before he remembered, put it horizontally, and blinked upon the end. His eyelashes had been blond, and they'd thickened considerably once he applied the ebony gunk. Rose circles had been placed, climbing his cheekbones, stiff and yet considerably soft under the folds and the shadows the makup gave him. Now for the hair... he looked around her room, a wig, anything? He fluffed the little he had, and took out a pair of scissors, cutting the ends until it clung to his scalp limply. He cryed out - God what was he doing, had he gone mad? Probably. Satine, he had to think of Satine, keep her alive, keep her breathing, keep her dream alive if he couldn't keep her there! She needed him, she needed the Moulin Rouge, it was her home, it couldn't be cast aside! All those whores and tarts who came by were nothing, NOTHING, they couldn't play her! And what made him think he could? The fact that he knew her inside in out; mentally and physicly? The fact he loved her and would do anything, no matter what the cost, to keep her alive? God knows what he was thinking, God knows anything anymore, as he drew the lines across his face, made himself beautiful, tears streaming down his face and causing the putty-like concealer to run down his face, causing a need to reappy, black racoon's eyes gathering under his lashes. He looked at himself and stared, for how long no one knows, breaking down every few moments, mouthing three simple words.
"You are beautiful."
And what a Fool's Quest it was, for he went home at the end of the day and fell into slumber, the moon caressing his face like her pale boney fingers, running across the stubble, magnifying the pain. He'd toss and turn and think of the girls he'd looked at over the day, think of Zidler's words urging him to choose - they didn't have much time, the deed to the Moulin Rouge could just as easily be sold if he didn't find someone to fill the void Satine had created! He'd grind his teeth and toss, strangled by the bedsheets, awaking to find his limbs tangled in the cool, damp satin, and not the pallid embrace of her limbs. He'd awake, panting, head thrown up, tearing at himself. "Shit..." He'd cuss to himself, breaking down in tears again, pricking the back of his eyes so that they watered and twitched in pain. This night was different then the others, though. He'd lifted himself to get the usual flask of vodka, downing it in a few and knocking himself out till he'd wake up hungover again. This night, however, parinoid suspicision took over him and he skulked through the shadows, pacing, padding of his feet hollow and echoing through the empty room. He came across his mirror, lifting his hands over his face, running them down the cool exterior. He looked at himself, the sunken eyes that had once stared into Satine's, that once held so much joy, so many secrets better lft untold, secrets which, in the end, had them disposed of. Maybe she's still be alive if they hadn't lied. Maybe she would have been happy, been healthy, maybe his love could have saved her! Ah, but the lies a Fool tells him self when he's in denial, almost humerous in the manner which he spoke his thoughts. Love was what? A horimone, a passing phase? He should have left them at friends, never taken the step towards lovers, for what was that but what had ultimatley ruined her reputation, her thoughts, her life? She could have died a happy woman, perhaps. No doubt there were questions Satine needed answers to. He fumbed around, through gifts he'd been given, Satine's things, trying to find what still held some of her life, her essence upon it. No one could play her like she could, she could act like the best of them, she deserved a chance at life! A life she had stolen from her! He kicked the dresser, crying out in pain as he clutched his foot, curling the toes until they cracked and he thought they were going to break, on the floor, cradelling himself... he couldn't take it anymore, she was dead, the Moulin Rouge was dying, it was over! Over, his life had been swept up and thrown to the tide, he could feel it ebb and flow, he could feel it twisted and knoting and - he slammed his head against the dresser, her powder shaking and erupting in tiny motes of pale dust. It clung to his features, the floor, his clothing, as if he'd rolled in flour, covering himself, a phantom, a ghost. He stood to his feet, shaking, composing himself from the thoughts which had taunted him. He tried to blank out his mind, break it down, looking at himself in the mirror. His skin was perfect, covered by the blank part - blotchy in parts mind you, but he could see the difference. He stroked the sponge over his face, covering his face, until it was cold and pale, a porcelin complexion so frail. His cheekbones were jaunty and lithe, jutting out, he did have a distinct female quality to him...
Satine. He would keep Satine's dream alive, no matter what the cost. No matter if he had to become her.
He wouldn't let her die.
.:.
He took the razor in his hand and drew it across the skin of his face, the stubble falling, black tiny hairs caught in the thick creamy foam. Once he'd finished, he splashed cool water over the flesh, yielding the the icy jets which ran over the cuts and lacerations - his hand had continued to shake, all through his shaving. He looked up at his face in the mirror, and picked up one of the brushes - God, it smelt like her - placing it in the thick creamy concealer that Satine had so often dowsed her features in, covering all cracks and creases which resided upon her linaments. She'd been weary, and he'd only ever seen it once the powder had been ridden from such cat-like features, she'd always been able to cover it up with the magic of makeup. He took the khol liner, pulling his sockets downwards so the pink inside of his eye was exposed, running the black in a thin line across the curve. He took her mascara brush as well and held it vertically, trying to remember how she'd applied it (oh God, don't say she was fading already) before he remembered, put it horizontally, and blinked upon the end. His eyelashes had been blond, and they'd thickened considerably once he applied the ebony gunk. Rose circles had been placed, climbing his cheekbones, stiff and yet considerably soft under the folds and the shadows the makup gave him. Now for the hair... he looked around her room, a wig, anything? He fluffed the little he had, and took out a pair of scissors, cutting the ends until it clung to his scalp limply. He cryed out - God what was he doing, had he gone mad? Probably. Satine, he had to think of Satine, keep her alive, keep her breathing, keep her dream alive if he couldn't keep her there! She needed him, she needed the Moulin Rouge, it was her home, it couldn't be cast aside! All those whores and tarts who came by were nothing, NOTHING, they couldn't play her! And what made him think he could? The fact that he knew her inside in out; mentally and physicly? The fact he loved her and would do anything, no matter what the cost, to keep her alive? God knows what he was thinking, God knows anything anymore, as he drew the lines across his face, made himself beautiful, tears streaming down his face and causing the putty-like concealer to run down his face, causing a need to reappy, black racoon's eyes gathering under his lashes. He looked at himself and stared, for how long no one knows, breaking down every few moments, mouthing three simple words.
"You are beautiful."
