L'amour d'une Etoile
(Love of a Star)
Do you know
The story from the start?
and do you know me
like you've always told me?
Do you see
the whispers in my heart against your kindness
my eternal blindness
Do you see?
Sometime since the liquor, the low lights and smell of moth eaten curtains, Satine had grown up. Of course, at the Moulin Rouge, everyone was made to grow up quicker then most. But she'd lost that sparkle in her eyes, that childhood innocence, that belief. She laughs when thinking about it now, reminding herself that she, the Sparkling Diamond, was never innocent.
Sitting in front of the jewel decorated mirror, she likes to think she's beautiful. And part of her knows the answer. She is, but she isn't. Here, like this, with her hair pinned up, with glitter adjusted on her eyelids, and so much rouge placed onto her already glistening mouth, she fails to be lovely. This faux beauty is nothing to adore. But then, this is what she is. Nothing more then a china doll.
Later, when her body's stripped of elaborate costumes, and her hair is pulled down, curled and wet from a night's worth of sweat, she's beautiful. She can look in the mirror, and believe it. Because with her chest heaving, her face flushed from the many dances and hours spent after in fake adoration, with the makeup washed clean and her hair brushed out… she's almost plain. Like any other Paris girl on the streets. And it's always been that thought, that makes her smile. She could be just like everybody else…
The truth is though, she's not sure what she wants. She laughs at jokes that aren't funny, she smiles when she's supposed to, she knows just how to turn her head to have that fiery hair flowing across her shoulder, and showing the profile of a star. She can't really remember though how it was like before Harold had crowned her the Princess (perhaps even the Queen) of this devil's nightclub.
She saw a picture of herself once, tiny, not more then seven, dressed in one of the older ladies costume. It was, of course, much too big, and the satin and velvet fabrics pooled at her ankles, the silver colored straps slipping off her thin shoulders. But she had been smiling in the black and white photo.
Satine didn't remember smiling when growing up here.
She's become a little obsessed with her reflection. Not like Babydoll is, but she's so close to getting there. A touch to a curled hair, a quick glance to make sure the emerald powder has remained coating her eyelids, another sliver of ruby wetness against her bottom lip. The others laugh; she lets them. Because they don't understand. She won't look like this forever, and now, with blood spilling onto her palm almost every time she coughs, she doesn't think she'll look like this much longer.
Christian frowns. He's removed the tiny mirrors from his apartment, silently, carefully, a tiny action barely noticed. But there's something eerie about the woman with the sanguine lips and ivory flesh always always glancing into an oval of glass.
They're worried. They're worried, but they don't show it. She sees it when they look at her, the struggle that becomes them as they try not to stare too much, try not to pick out the tiniest flaw in her portrait, like an artist overlooking its work. But she's always been polite, so she smiles, and turns her face away.
She hears their whispers more and more. It never bothered her, not really, not until she overheard the hushed voice of a Spanish dancer. Satine's anger was rare now a days, when it took her whole strength just to do her work, she couldn't afford wasting it on emotions. But emerald eyes cut skin as she peered at the dark haired woman, pasting on a smile that could melt anyone's heart. Had Nini had a heart, Satine might have expected an apology.
Nini wasn't allowed to talk about her. After all, they'd grown up together. They'd stayed as children in this place, learning the shadows, learning each other. And as tiny forms grew, they'd … she blushes. It's the only time she's ever blushed.
We've grown up.
She reminds herself of this everyday. When she looks at the tainted dancer, with her black lace and silk corsets. She reminds herself of it, when they happen to speak. It's nothing now but a few words, maybe even a question. But the voices don't touch, not like they used to. And she's realized now, that they can't really look into each other's eyes.
It doesn't bother her; she won't allow it to bother her.
******
"Do you love him?"
She's heard that question a million times. She's answered each one with a smile, and a love so thick in her eyes, it couldn't be misread. Its never bothered her before, answering questions about Christian and them. There was always that chance of the Duke overhearing, but…
She loved him. Love could overcome any obstacle.
Nini sneered at her once, as she gave the trademark answer in silence once more, to a younger barely known courtesan. Her voice was smooth, taunting behind every syllable as she turned her back to the dressing room, and called out to the retreating brunette. "Isn't it funny, how she loves her writer so much, but never says it?" Heels scratched the floorboards as the raven haired woman turned back around, her eyes finding Satine's, a pretty smirk touching at her lips. "I only ever believe words."
"There's your problem." Satine had replied, monotone and simple, as she turned back to her mirror, unpinning her hair slowly. "They'll tell you anything."
Now though, things have changed. Tensions just seem to rise more easily, and the heartbeat beneath her chest, seems to fail more easily. It's frightening, but she tries not to let it bother her. The show must go on…
"Do you love him?"
Startled only slightly, Satine turns her head, meeting Spanish eyes. She smiles. "Yes."
It's not killing her to answer. It's not.
(Love of a Star)
Do you know
The story from the start?
and do you know me
like you've always told me?
Do you see
the whispers in my heart against your kindness
my eternal blindness
Do you see?
Sometime since the liquor, the low lights and smell of moth eaten curtains, Satine had grown up. Of course, at the Moulin Rouge, everyone was made to grow up quicker then most. But she'd lost that sparkle in her eyes, that childhood innocence, that belief. She laughs when thinking about it now, reminding herself that she, the Sparkling Diamond, was never innocent.
Sitting in front of the jewel decorated mirror, she likes to think she's beautiful. And part of her knows the answer. She is, but she isn't. Here, like this, with her hair pinned up, with glitter adjusted on her eyelids, and so much rouge placed onto her already glistening mouth, she fails to be lovely. This faux beauty is nothing to adore. But then, this is what she is. Nothing more then a china doll.
Later, when her body's stripped of elaborate costumes, and her hair is pulled down, curled and wet from a night's worth of sweat, she's beautiful. She can look in the mirror, and believe it. Because with her chest heaving, her face flushed from the many dances and hours spent after in fake adoration, with the makeup washed clean and her hair brushed out… she's almost plain. Like any other Paris girl on the streets. And it's always been that thought, that makes her smile. She could be just like everybody else…
The truth is though, she's not sure what she wants. She laughs at jokes that aren't funny, she smiles when she's supposed to, she knows just how to turn her head to have that fiery hair flowing across her shoulder, and showing the profile of a star. She can't really remember though how it was like before Harold had crowned her the Princess (perhaps even the Queen) of this devil's nightclub.
She saw a picture of herself once, tiny, not more then seven, dressed in one of the older ladies costume. It was, of course, much too big, and the satin and velvet fabrics pooled at her ankles, the silver colored straps slipping off her thin shoulders. But she had been smiling in the black and white photo.
Satine didn't remember smiling when growing up here.
She's become a little obsessed with her reflection. Not like Babydoll is, but she's so close to getting there. A touch to a curled hair, a quick glance to make sure the emerald powder has remained coating her eyelids, another sliver of ruby wetness against her bottom lip. The others laugh; she lets them. Because they don't understand. She won't look like this forever, and now, with blood spilling onto her palm almost every time she coughs, she doesn't think she'll look like this much longer.
Christian frowns. He's removed the tiny mirrors from his apartment, silently, carefully, a tiny action barely noticed. But there's something eerie about the woman with the sanguine lips and ivory flesh always always glancing into an oval of glass.
They're worried. They're worried, but they don't show it. She sees it when they look at her, the struggle that becomes them as they try not to stare too much, try not to pick out the tiniest flaw in her portrait, like an artist overlooking its work. But she's always been polite, so she smiles, and turns her face away.
She hears their whispers more and more. It never bothered her, not really, not until she overheard the hushed voice of a Spanish dancer. Satine's anger was rare now a days, when it took her whole strength just to do her work, she couldn't afford wasting it on emotions. But emerald eyes cut skin as she peered at the dark haired woman, pasting on a smile that could melt anyone's heart. Had Nini had a heart, Satine might have expected an apology.
Nini wasn't allowed to talk about her. After all, they'd grown up together. They'd stayed as children in this place, learning the shadows, learning each other. And as tiny forms grew, they'd … she blushes. It's the only time she's ever blushed.
We've grown up.
She reminds herself of this everyday. When she looks at the tainted dancer, with her black lace and silk corsets. She reminds herself of it, when they happen to speak. It's nothing now but a few words, maybe even a question. But the voices don't touch, not like they used to. And she's realized now, that they can't really look into each other's eyes.
It doesn't bother her; she won't allow it to bother her.
******
"Do you love him?"
She's heard that question a million times. She's answered each one with a smile, and a love so thick in her eyes, it couldn't be misread. Its never bothered her before, answering questions about Christian and them. There was always that chance of the Duke overhearing, but…
She loved him. Love could overcome any obstacle.
Nini sneered at her once, as she gave the trademark answer in silence once more, to a younger barely known courtesan. Her voice was smooth, taunting behind every syllable as she turned her back to the dressing room, and called out to the retreating brunette. "Isn't it funny, how she loves her writer so much, but never says it?" Heels scratched the floorboards as the raven haired woman turned back around, her eyes finding Satine's, a pretty smirk touching at her lips. "I only ever believe words."
"There's your problem." Satine had replied, monotone and simple, as she turned back to her mirror, unpinning her hair slowly. "They'll tell you anything."
Now though, things have changed. Tensions just seem to rise more easily, and the heartbeat beneath her chest, seems to fail more easily. It's frightening, but she tries not to let it bother her. The show must go on…
"Do you love him?"
Startled only slightly, Satine turns her head, meeting Spanish eyes. She smiles. "Yes."
It's not killing her to answer. It's not.