Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Moulin Rouge, the big wheel that sweeps my imagination thus far belongs to the Great city of romance--Paris…and the wonderful characters which brought this story to life, ALONE.
Muskoka Girl: It's very encouraging to see you come up first in the review's section, thx for your praise I'm flattered--it's amazing how a crazy imagination can just flash through my mind and take me over for the story to start in the first place.
hanakinstarbuck: wow! I didn't expect anyone to be so excited about my story…but since you're so eager for more…well, I guess that's one of the reasons for me to update, isn't it!
gizmowillowbuffy: mmm…a CAP-SIZED review always leaves me breathless (coz I often do that when I spot smth REALLY good), anyway, I'm glad you like it. Christian's character has been in my mind for a good long time and I've had the pleasure of imagining him as a much stronger character than the original story allows, so yea it's quite where I'm working on.
Eternal Soldier: Thx a lot, see I've updated r8t after spotting your review! I hope you like it! It might be a bit sad but I'll see how it turns out… ENJOY!
Saltine's POV:
I trace my fingers up and down the prickly spine of a wilting rose, and savor the dying rays of the setting sun as I perch in front of the nightingale's cage, all alone. The rose I picked from a vase at one of the tables up at the bordello, a place where I don't often visit…but now is a time to catch up with the infamous conception of wasting one's life on something worthwhile before you fade away into nothingness.
I very much feel like prodding the rose into the innocent bird's cage for her to feel the sting of its thorn. Just a little jab wouldn't hurt much, I guess. I held out my rose and felt a precarious current shifting somewhere down my throat. The bird perched behind the line of thin bars, waiting for something to happen…and suddenly, I found myself raising my voice. A trail of notes, which had been in my head for some time since god knows when, found its way out after all this time.
"Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place…suddenly it moves,"
I stood up and drop the rose on the floor, and continue, "…with such a perfect--grace." I sighed and looked out of the small window at the edge of the dark, narrow corridor. The whiff of stiff curtains and unkempt furniture urges me to seek for fresher air. I turned around and started down the deserted passage.
"Hmm…" I closed my eyes as a current rushed silently onto my powdered cheeks when I managed to shove the poor, old wooden frames of the tiny window open. "Suddenly my life doesn't seem--such a waste; it all revolves around…" I stopped short as a precarious weight shifted up and down somewhere down my throat. My melody dies, and I quickly covered my mouth. The smooth current that brushed up to my neck is suddenly too sharp for the skin, and I hastily made sure that it was shut for what was to come.
A terrible gasp leaves me as I shudder, trying to minimize the effect of coughing against my lungs. But the pressure of my whole diaphragm squeezing in so tight is so unbearable, that I begin to wail. My other hand made for the wall and I turned to face the dark, dusty corridor again, as the peeling paint coming off the walls sticks unto my sweaty palm. The dizziness sweeps into me and I went down onto the floor.
Sitting there, coughing, gasping…I don't know how long it took for my senses to come back to me. When once in a while I looked up to the ceiling, I could almost swear that there was Satan itself looking down upon me, jeering at its most amusing, self-plotted 'Show of the Evening'. After all, I do have something in common with the term of the devil itself, my name being Satine, the two syllables stretching a word nearly identical to that of 'Satan'.
I sighed as the coughing stopped, just as abruptly as it took over me some while ago. "Oh…" I smiled to myself, as I always do when this stupid, occasional sickness takes over me on the stage, while millions are there to witness. "…This is so not worth furrowing your brows over with, Satine…oh, Satine, you fool…" And again, the word Satan rings a bell somewhere back in my head.
I stood up again, surprised somehow at why there is no one to hold me like the madams of this often fully-filled place did from time to time. But then again, nothing works like the way Christians presence does.
Walking back to where the cage lies is a long way. My foot seems a bit too heavy to walk forward. But above all this, the most hunting factor that leaves me sleepless in the nights, especially those after I've met Christian, comes alas. As I leant down to pick up the rose, the last acidic, burning pulse picks its way up my esophagus and I felt it rush out with my sudden explosion of coughing. It took on, once again, for a minute or so…and I used the back of my hand to wipe it off--the trace of blood. I haven't heard anyone tell me of it just yet, but I know: I am very sick.
