Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. I don't own anything that
somebody else thought of, even if I like to think otherwise. Have pity on
a poor, penniless writer. Review please, and I will love you till the end
of time!
Chapter 1
Christian watched numbly as the words "The end" appeared on the page above his typing fingertips. For the first time in a long while, his fingers stopped moving. He sat back, running his hands through his disheveled hair. He was done. Satine's story was completed. Everything that had happened to her, to them, was there. Every thought, every ounce of love he had had, was put into a stack of paper.
And now there was nothing left.
Christian stood and walked stiffly over to the small bed that made up the bulk of his décor. He fell haphazardly across it and threw his arm over his eyes, blocking out the room even though it was dark and no light shone in through the windows. The Moulin Rouge facing the window was deserted, empty, and it matched his own feelings perfectly.
His only purpose had been the story, getting it all out and down onto paper, for that had been her last request. 'Write a story, that way I'll always be with you.' Well the story was finished, and she still was not with him.
He had believed her, thought that the familiarity of the type-writer would bring him comfort, would actually make her seem alive again for the moments spent writing about her. But the writing had only stirred vague memories, and she was still as dead as she had been in those months before he had even thought of touching the type-writer.
Christian groaned and turned onto his side. A year had passed by, a whole year, and he could still do nothing but think about her, his precious diamond. The immediate days following her death, he thought he himself would die simply from the grief. There was no way a person could feel that much pain and live. But he had been assured by friends that the feelings would dim, and he would be able to live again. And just as he had believed her, he had believed them. Now he was here, in the same tiny room, across the same dance hall, a whole year later, and he still felt the pain.
He could not deny it, it had diminished somewhat, to the point where he could at least draw a breath without conscious effort, but that was as far as it went. His very soul was in agony, so much so that he cared nothing about the exterior of his body.
Friends had been the only thing keeping him alive after that day, feeding him, talking to him, trying to raise his spirits with inane babble about Heaven's kingdoms and possibility of reunion. But he had left them, only to come back to the one spot where he was closest to her memory, and closest to the pain.
'He had waited.and now the sitar-player felt the cold stab of jealousy'. He remembered writing those words, incorporating it into the play that had been an exact mirror of their relationship. He even remembered feeling those words. And at the time, he had thought that that was the worst he could ever feel. A grim smile cracked the poet's lips, for he longed for that kind of pain now. That was nothing compared to this.
'Seasons may change, Winter to Spring, but I love you, until the end of time.'. They had not known how soon that end of time would come. The lovers' secret song did little to soothe him now.
With another groan of pain through clenched teeth, Christian pulled himself up and went to the window. He unconsciously took up the same position in the same spot he had always taken when waiting for some sign of her. His eyes swept out over the dark and ruined portion of the city his window faced. He saw the club, the elephant, the windmill, all of it. That had been her domain, the place where she had been the star. Ruined, dead after she had died. Appropriately fitting.
With some effort, Christian made himself turn away from the ruined setting. There was no point in watching for her now, she would never come. Christian took a step away from the window, and that was as far as he made it. His knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor, tears flowing down his cheeks as he clenched his jaw to keep the sobs in. No more, he could not possibly have anymore tears to give. But apparently he did.
Christian strove to get up, his hands grabbing onto the desk for the support. He grabbed the bottle of Absinthe he had left beside the type- writer. He raised it to his lips, wanting the mind-numbing promises it provided. But it was empty. With a cry, the poet let the bottle fly and it smashed against the opposite wall. In a blind haze, Christian staggered about, looking for something, anything, to dull the pain.
Before, he had had his friends to turn to, and then the type-writer after that. But now there was nothing. He was alone, the story was finished, and Satine was still not with him. The pain grew, relishing on his soul like it had finally gotten past the flood gates. Nothing was here to stop it now.
Not even fully realizing what he was doing, Christian found himself in the tiny bathroom of his chambers. He did not bother with a light, only let his hand grope blindly on the sink. His hand encountered something, and he grasped at it. With what was left of his rational mind, he realized that he was holding his long-neglected razor. A thought entered his mind, and he switched on the naked bulb that swung above his head.
He stared at himself in the small and cracked mirror. Satine had never been too fond of beards. Without even bothering with soap, Christian began to shave off the overgrown beard. It took some time and effort, but it also helped occupy his mind, keep his thoughts free of the pain.
Christian took the last few strokes of the blade, working on the underside of his chin. He started when he felt the blade find a yielding spot in his skin and he lowered his arm and craned his neck to properly see in the mirror.
Blood began to well out of the small cut, and then sluggishly cut a path down his throat. Christian had already turned on the faucet to wash it off, but he made no move for the clean water coming forth. Instead, he watched the red trail transfixed, his fingers moving to touch it. He then looked at his red-stained fingers, and felt a slow smile spread across his face. Finally, this was something that they could both share. Satine had been drowning in blood those last days of her life, allowing it to stain her mouth and lips. Now Christian too could let his own flow of its own volition.
What do ya think? Should I write more or leave it at that?
Chapter 1
Christian watched numbly as the words "The end" appeared on the page above his typing fingertips. For the first time in a long while, his fingers stopped moving. He sat back, running his hands through his disheveled hair. He was done. Satine's story was completed. Everything that had happened to her, to them, was there. Every thought, every ounce of love he had had, was put into a stack of paper.
And now there was nothing left.
Christian stood and walked stiffly over to the small bed that made up the bulk of his décor. He fell haphazardly across it and threw his arm over his eyes, blocking out the room even though it was dark and no light shone in through the windows. The Moulin Rouge facing the window was deserted, empty, and it matched his own feelings perfectly.
His only purpose had been the story, getting it all out and down onto paper, for that had been her last request. 'Write a story, that way I'll always be with you.' Well the story was finished, and she still was not with him.
He had believed her, thought that the familiarity of the type-writer would bring him comfort, would actually make her seem alive again for the moments spent writing about her. But the writing had only stirred vague memories, and she was still as dead as she had been in those months before he had even thought of touching the type-writer.
Christian groaned and turned onto his side. A year had passed by, a whole year, and he could still do nothing but think about her, his precious diamond. The immediate days following her death, he thought he himself would die simply from the grief. There was no way a person could feel that much pain and live. But he had been assured by friends that the feelings would dim, and he would be able to live again. And just as he had believed her, he had believed them. Now he was here, in the same tiny room, across the same dance hall, a whole year later, and he still felt the pain.
He could not deny it, it had diminished somewhat, to the point where he could at least draw a breath without conscious effort, but that was as far as it went. His very soul was in agony, so much so that he cared nothing about the exterior of his body.
Friends had been the only thing keeping him alive after that day, feeding him, talking to him, trying to raise his spirits with inane babble about Heaven's kingdoms and possibility of reunion. But he had left them, only to come back to the one spot where he was closest to her memory, and closest to the pain.
'He had waited.and now the sitar-player felt the cold stab of jealousy'. He remembered writing those words, incorporating it into the play that had been an exact mirror of their relationship. He even remembered feeling those words. And at the time, he had thought that that was the worst he could ever feel. A grim smile cracked the poet's lips, for he longed for that kind of pain now. That was nothing compared to this.
'Seasons may change, Winter to Spring, but I love you, until the end of time.'. They had not known how soon that end of time would come. The lovers' secret song did little to soothe him now.
With another groan of pain through clenched teeth, Christian pulled himself up and went to the window. He unconsciously took up the same position in the same spot he had always taken when waiting for some sign of her. His eyes swept out over the dark and ruined portion of the city his window faced. He saw the club, the elephant, the windmill, all of it. That had been her domain, the place where she had been the star. Ruined, dead after she had died. Appropriately fitting.
With some effort, Christian made himself turn away from the ruined setting. There was no point in watching for her now, she would never come. Christian took a step away from the window, and that was as far as he made it. His knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor, tears flowing down his cheeks as he clenched his jaw to keep the sobs in. No more, he could not possibly have anymore tears to give. But apparently he did.
Christian strove to get up, his hands grabbing onto the desk for the support. He grabbed the bottle of Absinthe he had left beside the type- writer. He raised it to his lips, wanting the mind-numbing promises it provided. But it was empty. With a cry, the poet let the bottle fly and it smashed against the opposite wall. In a blind haze, Christian staggered about, looking for something, anything, to dull the pain.
Before, he had had his friends to turn to, and then the type-writer after that. But now there was nothing. He was alone, the story was finished, and Satine was still not with him. The pain grew, relishing on his soul like it had finally gotten past the flood gates. Nothing was here to stop it now.
Not even fully realizing what he was doing, Christian found himself in the tiny bathroom of his chambers. He did not bother with a light, only let his hand grope blindly on the sink. His hand encountered something, and he grasped at it. With what was left of his rational mind, he realized that he was holding his long-neglected razor. A thought entered his mind, and he switched on the naked bulb that swung above his head.
He stared at himself in the small and cracked mirror. Satine had never been too fond of beards. Without even bothering with soap, Christian began to shave off the overgrown beard. It took some time and effort, but it also helped occupy his mind, keep his thoughts free of the pain.
Christian took the last few strokes of the blade, working on the underside of his chin. He started when he felt the blade find a yielding spot in his skin and he lowered his arm and craned his neck to properly see in the mirror.
Blood began to well out of the small cut, and then sluggishly cut a path down his throat. Christian had already turned on the faucet to wash it off, but he made no move for the clean water coming forth. Instead, he watched the red trail transfixed, his fingers moving to touch it. He then looked at his red-stained fingers, and felt a slow smile spread across his face. Finally, this was something that they could both share. Satine had been drowning in blood those last days of her life, allowing it to stain her mouth and lips. Now Christian too could let his own flow of its own volition.
What do ya think? Should I write more or leave it at that?