"My hero"
Paris, 1893
He threw me to the ground.
"I'm sorry," I said, hoping those hollow words would pacify him. It was all I could do to keep from crying—he would hurt me for that.
He spit on the ground in front of me, glaring at my bowed head.
"I'm sorry you were born," he replied, "now get in the kitchen and get me a cold drink this time".
"Yes, father"
I ran into the kitchen before his drunken mind had time to think about hurting me again.
I thought of him and how much I hated him. And I thought of my mother. Why had she died? Why did my father have to get so upset about her death that he turned to drinking? The questions don't matter, though. She did die, he is drunk, and I am alone.
It was that night that I decided to run away. I don't really know why I did it; all I know is that I had to get away from him, from her memory, and from the pain. If only there was somewhere I could have gone. But I truly was alone. So I went to the streets. I was 15.
The first time I got raped was the worst. He left me cold, beaten and in a dirty puddle in an alleyway. It is impossible to comprehend that pain unless you have experienced it yourself. I was nothing and nobody, treated worse than a dog.
Hunger was what drove me. I searched everywhere for food and would often get beaten and robbed of what little I had. The warm alleys were patrolled by gangs of little boys that could leave me bruised and bleeding, even though they were half my size. Everyone had to make their own way, though, and I was just on the bottom of the food chain here on the streets of Paris.
Only a few weeks after leaving home, I realized that I was going to die. I was thin to begin with, and now I was frail and helpless. I couldn't go back home—I knew what my father would do to me if he ever saw me again. I couldn't bear that again. So I stayed.
That night, I met him. Harold Zidler. My hero.
"You are beautiful, child," he said.
I shied away, assuming he wanted to ravage me and beat me. He noticed my anxiousness.
"No, no," he continued, "I won't hurt you. I may have a job for you. What is your name?"
I was too afraid to speak.
"Satine. That's what I shall call you, my little strawberry."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Harold Zidler. I won a club called the Moulin Rouge."
"The Moulin Rouge is a brothel," I said, "you want me to work there?"
"If you would like to be fed and given a warm bed at night, yes. I have the feeling that you will make a great star."
I went with him that night to my new home. He took me in, fed me, and taught me how to sing, dance, and act. Sometimes I wonder why he was so kind to me. People here say that love is foolishness, that it is just a game. But I like to believe that he loves me, like my father should have. Sometimes I wish for real love, but I am afraid it doesn't exist. All I know is that I am here, I am safe, and I am fed. At the moment, that's all I can hope for.