Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or the characters.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoy! The part about a true love story was inspired by Tim O'Brien's chapter 'How to Tell a True War Story' in his book 'The Things They Carried'. It's a great book, and if those of you who read this have the time, you should really check it out. It's a great book.
The walks become a part of my daily routine which, until now, has consisted largely of nothing but sitting and drinking and occasionally weeping. I still haven't got it in myself to look for a job, or to do anything but wander the streets of Paris and get to know the city a little better.
Most of the time, I'm not seeing anything. I'm too absorbed in my own thoughts, and I imagine what things would have been like if I had never come to Paris at all, or if Satine had never died.
Thoughts like that can drive a man mad. I try not to get carried away with them, but they come up regardless.
It is winter now, and despite the cold I still spend large amounts of time outside. The cold is numbing. I rather like it.
Sometimes, it becomes hard to breathe, and I cough, and it reminds me of Satine and I don't like to think about that. So instead of returning home, I keep going and ignore it, and hope that it goes away.
Occasionally, I think of going back to England. It would be easier to put this all behind me in England, and I could get a job. But I would be proving my father right. He would delight in my failure here. I failed quite spectacularly.
Honestly, I didn't expect it. I know I didn't because I was so innocent and naïve and I thought that if I was in love and if she loved me then we could overcome anything. That was what I had always believed, and people told me time and again that I was a fool for thinking so. I never listened to them. I thought they were wrong, I would have bet my life on it. Well, look at what happened.
I must have become cynical.
Well, love can do that to you. Many people would read my story and tell me that it isn't a love story. It doesn't have a happy ending, it's rather tragic, and what kind of love story is that?
Romeo and Juliet was a tragic love story, too.
Tragic love stories…they have to be the truest love stories ever told. Anything else, anything perfect, is not real.
I am walking along the Seine again. It is now almost frozen, but not quite. Chunks of ice float down the river, none of them completely connected. I stop for a moment to watch the ice flow, the pieces crashing into each other and then being pulled apart again by the current. It seems almost cruel.
I feel a light tap on my shoulder.
The feeling of being touched startles me. I haven't been touched in ages. I shudder and turn and find myself facing a young woman. She's pretty, with pale skin and brown hair and large eyes, and she has a small smile on her lips.
"Excuse me, Monsieur," she says, her voice soft, "I believed you dropped this."
I look at what she's holding up. A gray scarf. My scarf. It must have slipped off while I was walking. To be honest, I hadn't put it on with much thought as to whether it would stay on or not. I take it from her, give her a weak smile.
"Thank you."
I slowly wind it around my neck, a bit more securely this time.
She watches me intently as I do so, and I wonder whether she has to go anywhere, or if she is going to watch me all day.
"Are you alone, Monsieur?" she asks, putting her head to one side. She looks so innocent.
I open my mouth and close it again. It's such a simple question. I can't answer it.
She blushes. "I'm terribly sorry. I was just wondering…if you would like some company. You see, I'm a bit lonely as well."
I stare at her. I've forgotten how to talk to people, how to talk to women, and the very idea of it makes me feel sick.
Suddenly, I can see Satine in my mind's eye, telling me to say yes, to take her for a walk. You have to move on, she urges me. You have to live your life. But that's easy for her to say because she's dead, and I'm alive and I don't know how to live anymore. I'm not prepared.
She's waiting.
I manage to stammer out a response. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Mademoiselle, but I have-er-business to a-attend to. I m-must be getting back." And I turn and walked briskly away, not sure of where I am going or what I am going to do, but anything just to get away from that women who had done nothing wrong other than ask me to walk with her…and now there is Satine's voice in my ear telling me how ridiculous I was being.
I walk into the thick of the city, but I couldn't tell you where I end up even if I wanted to. There is a bench, though, and I sink down onto it, breathing heavily, exhausted. I put my head in my hands and try to drown out the voices, but I can't and I know I've gone and messed up again.
And you, Satine, are watching everything.
I realise what a fool I've been, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've ever done, and for believing that things could go perfectly, and for not being able to get over the love I lost and move on with my life.
I'm sorry I can't live my life for you, Satine, even though that is the only thing you asked of me. All I am good for is writing our story, and now that I've done that I am good for nothing.