A/N: In this chapter I mention a character from my Green Fairy story - it is not essential that you read it, but it is recommended (story ID: 778862).
Song used: "No One is Alone" - Rapunzel's solo from the musical "Into the Woods".
I've been far too inspired by a lovely bit of smut Petal's been writing. I touch on it a little in this chapter. Full credit goes to her for inspiring it, for she is the Lucifer sitting on my shoulder. Brilliant one, she is.
Dedication: to Crystal (Finding Beauty) because she is a truly superb writer.
One
~*~
I cannot cry any longer.
My heart has cracked inside my chest and blood has run in rivulets from my skin, but tears cannot form in my eyes. I have expected to ascend to the pearly gates of heaven or pummel into the fiery mouth of deepest purgatory, but instead I find that my spirit remains behind the locked door of the room where my corpse lies. I'd heard from Liberty many times that ghosts remained on earth because of unfinished business and could only cross over to ecstasy or agony once their destinies had been fulfilled.
What is my destiny? Where is my place?
Polkadot discovers my body just before sunrise. The first sound that touches my new ears will stay inside my mind for eternity: sharp shrieks, like broken glass filling her throat.
I wish I could wrap my arms around my friend. I want nothing more than to wipe the anguish from her face. Chocolat finds her, and whispers consolations as he wraps my body in the clammy linen and carries it down the gilded stairs, because he cannot touch her - he will not taint her with my blood.
"Who did it?" Polkadot screams, crippled with hysteria. She collapses at the foot of the staircase, fingernails clawing at air, staring at Marie and seeing nothing. Eyes glassy and face pinched, colour and softness sucked from her body. "Was he the one that killed Jess? Was he?"
Jess was the late daughter of Zidler's cousin; through this family connection, the tiny young ballerina with her darling face and bruised feet became one of the first courtesans at the Rouge. She was beaten and murdered three years before on Christmas Eve. The public had known her as Emerald; she had been a friend of Nini's and like a sister to French Maid.
Death tore reality in half and twisted it between malicious fingers. Death severed the little hope that existed between all of us. Death turned our fragmented warmth to ice; our blood and hearts to stone.
Though my tears have run dry, I watch others drown in the warm sorrow like Polkadot has - Harold's face a deep crimson, Satine the palest ivory. Bloodshot eyes and bleeding lips, torn handkerchiefs and pained breathing.
Funeral arrangements are made between dance rehearsals. Schoolgirl, though she occasionally fumbles, is asked to take my place in the routines for the show. She apprehensively accepts. I watch her lie in bed at night, staring blankly at the ceiling and shivering - not from cold, but fear. The men do not favour her and thus she has few customers. She is known as the emotional one among us, the sympathetic ear. Her poetry touches us. She is a Rouge girl because of her spirit.
Fulfilling my place begins to slowly weaken her from the inside. I can see her long to touch the mouth of a consumptive man - to fade away completely. Her rosy face hardens into one not unlike that of a marble statue. The compassion in her eyes is smothered with grief. She breaks down inside Marie's comforting embrace one night, and is ordered to bed.
Rehearsals are tearful events. Despite this, Nini and her Argentinean have developed a penchant for making animalistic love behind the curtains that separate the backstage area from the dance floor. Every other performer is oblivious to the heated contact between two of the bordello's most famous bodies, for the passion-glazed lovers smother their rapturous cries with vicious kisses while Satine lands jetés and Arabia bandages her bleeding toes. When Nini is not needed to demonstrate triple chainés, she sheds her costume and corset in favour of pleasure and sweat.
Thursday evening rehearsal is cut short as Toulouse brings news of a confirmation for my funeral; Travesty remembers that I'd once told her that having a priest or other pious figure at my memorial service would cause me definite unease. Thus, there are no crucifixes or musty bibles when people gather to commemorate my life.
My body is ignited on a field near Montmartre, surrounded by oleanders and shattered onlookers. The sky a smoggy purple - anticipating rain. My ashes scatter into the wind like rose petals.
Sweet Satine sings as the black cinders drift upwards. Her sorrowful soprano articulates the pain that so many people of the Underworld have buried. Death freezes time in the Underworld - shock sears minds and hearts. The frailty of human existence is realized.
"No one here to guide you; now you're on your own." Her hair becomes a crimson halo, lifted by the wind; tears dance like ice down her face - and still she is magnificent. She clutches a single bleeding heart, the flower listless in her grasp. "Only me beside you, still you're not alone - truly, no one is alone."
She pauses, trying to hold back the cough that burns her throat. "Sometimes people leave you halfway through the wood. Others may deceive you; you decide what's good." My heart breaks with hers. She has known a cursed sickness and guilt that is incomprehensible to us all - the Sparkling Diamond is the strongest, meant to sacrifice and save. And yet she suffers most for being in love. "You decide alone." Her voice is a trapped bird in her throat, longing to feel a blissful rush of freedom; hindered by tears like a liquid cage. "But truly, no one is alone."
I wonder briefly how often she sings when she is alone. Who is she behind locked doors? When the makeup and façade are rinsed clean, who is she? Does she cry? Does she scream? Does she press blades on her arms and long to be ripped from the deceitful embrace of the world? Does she shatter the mirrors that bear her reflection? Does she ache?
Does she breathe?
I have found that I float easily through rooms at the Moulin Rouge; the outdoors is no different. I glide next to Satine and gingerly brush a finger upon her cheek. She shivers, as though she has been drenched with ice water. I want to rub away her smudged kohl and lipstick. I want to wrap her in a shawl or offer her a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
Death has taken so much opportunity away. I can only watch the sinning angels on Montmartre shatter like porcelain. I cannot feel Satine's skin beneath my hand, nor does her tear glisten on my fingers. I have only caused her more agony, sending daggers of frost through flesh and bone and into her heart.
"Jacqueline," she says softly, "was truly an angel. Wherever she is now, I'm certain she has earned silver wings." She returns to her place next to Christian; the Duke has chosen not to attend my funeral. His only concern is the crimson-haired consumptive who mourns for herself as well as for me.
I silently rejoice that I have not left a lover to pick up the pieces of an ill-fated romance. I cannot help but wonder when Satine and her poet will be ripped apart - their fairytale was tainted from the moment their lips met, regardless of the fact that the Sparkling Diamond laughs and smiles, finally feeling a shard of fulfillment inside the arms of a man who truly cares. She is aware of the impending anguish she will someday face because she simply loved someone. She will not regret her love, only hold on to her wish to be released from a fate too black and tarnished to rub clean.
Love has existed between Nini and the Argentinean for years - a love far darker and richer than anyone in the Underworld had the ability to comprehend. They did not succumb immediately to love, and instead watched it turn from a spark to a blaze, from their first muttered greetings to their raw tango. Their dance became the words that their mouths could not articulate. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Denial and spite would sometimes lick their hearts; underneath their separate facades was a single, mutual need for a passion that the rest of the malevolent world could not provide.
When rain begins to fall in fat, icy drops, everyone returns to the Rouge in order to prepare for tonight's rehearsal. Satine will reminisce her days upon the trapeze and her broken dreams of flying; Travesty will don her pale pointe shoes. Nini will abandon performance in favour of another brutally blissful night on the Argentinean's dirty mattress.
I will save a life.
~*~
Song used: "No One is Alone" - Rapunzel's solo from the musical "Into the Woods".
I've been far too inspired by a lovely bit of smut Petal's been writing. I touch on it a little in this chapter. Full credit goes to her for inspiring it, for she is the Lucifer sitting on my shoulder. Brilliant one, she is.
Dedication: to Crystal (Finding Beauty) because she is a truly superb writer.
One
~*~
I cannot cry any longer.
My heart has cracked inside my chest and blood has run in rivulets from my skin, but tears cannot form in my eyes. I have expected to ascend to the pearly gates of heaven or pummel into the fiery mouth of deepest purgatory, but instead I find that my spirit remains behind the locked door of the room where my corpse lies. I'd heard from Liberty many times that ghosts remained on earth because of unfinished business and could only cross over to ecstasy or agony once their destinies had been fulfilled.
What is my destiny? Where is my place?
Polkadot discovers my body just before sunrise. The first sound that touches my new ears will stay inside my mind for eternity: sharp shrieks, like broken glass filling her throat.
I wish I could wrap my arms around my friend. I want nothing more than to wipe the anguish from her face. Chocolat finds her, and whispers consolations as he wraps my body in the clammy linen and carries it down the gilded stairs, because he cannot touch her - he will not taint her with my blood.
"Who did it?" Polkadot screams, crippled with hysteria. She collapses at the foot of the staircase, fingernails clawing at air, staring at Marie and seeing nothing. Eyes glassy and face pinched, colour and softness sucked from her body. "Was he the one that killed Jess? Was he?"
Jess was the late daughter of Zidler's cousin; through this family connection, the tiny young ballerina with her darling face and bruised feet became one of the first courtesans at the Rouge. She was beaten and murdered three years before on Christmas Eve. The public had known her as Emerald; she had been a friend of Nini's and like a sister to French Maid.
Death tore reality in half and twisted it between malicious fingers. Death severed the little hope that existed between all of us. Death turned our fragmented warmth to ice; our blood and hearts to stone.
Though my tears have run dry, I watch others drown in the warm sorrow like Polkadot has - Harold's face a deep crimson, Satine the palest ivory. Bloodshot eyes and bleeding lips, torn handkerchiefs and pained breathing.
Funeral arrangements are made between dance rehearsals. Schoolgirl, though she occasionally fumbles, is asked to take my place in the routines for the show. She apprehensively accepts. I watch her lie in bed at night, staring blankly at the ceiling and shivering - not from cold, but fear. The men do not favour her and thus she has few customers. She is known as the emotional one among us, the sympathetic ear. Her poetry touches us. She is a Rouge girl because of her spirit.
Fulfilling my place begins to slowly weaken her from the inside. I can see her long to touch the mouth of a consumptive man - to fade away completely. Her rosy face hardens into one not unlike that of a marble statue. The compassion in her eyes is smothered with grief. She breaks down inside Marie's comforting embrace one night, and is ordered to bed.
Rehearsals are tearful events. Despite this, Nini and her Argentinean have developed a penchant for making animalistic love behind the curtains that separate the backstage area from the dance floor. Every other performer is oblivious to the heated contact between two of the bordello's most famous bodies, for the passion-glazed lovers smother their rapturous cries with vicious kisses while Satine lands jetés and Arabia bandages her bleeding toes. When Nini is not needed to demonstrate triple chainés, she sheds her costume and corset in favour of pleasure and sweat.
Thursday evening rehearsal is cut short as Toulouse brings news of a confirmation for my funeral; Travesty remembers that I'd once told her that having a priest or other pious figure at my memorial service would cause me definite unease. Thus, there are no crucifixes or musty bibles when people gather to commemorate my life.
My body is ignited on a field near Montmartre, surrounded by oleanders and shattered onlookers. The sky a smoggy purple - anticipating rain. My ashes scatter into the wind like rose petals.
Sweet Satine sings as the black cinders drift upwards. Her sorrowful soprano articulates the pain that so many people of the Underworld have buried. Death freezes time in the Underworld - shock sears minds and hearts. The frailty of human existence is realized.
"No one here to guide you; now you're on your own." Her hair becomes a crimson halo, lifted by the wind; tears dance like ice down her face - and still she is magnificent. She clutches a single bleeding heart, the flower listless in her grasp. "Only me beside you, still you're not alone - truly, no one is alone."
She pauses, trying to hold back the cough that burns her throat. "Sometimes people leave you halfway through the wood. Others may deceive you; you decide what's good." My heart breaks with hers. She has known a cursed sickness and guilt that is incomprehensible to us all - the Sparkling Diamond is the strongest, meant to sacrifice and save. And yet she suffers most for being in love. "You decide alone." Her voice is a trapped bird in her throat, longing to feel a blissful rush of freedom; hindered by tears like a liquid cage. "But truly, no one is alone."
I wonder briefly how often she sings when she is alone. Who is she behind locked doors? When the makeup and façade are rinsed clean, who is she? Does she cry? Does she scream? Does she press blades on her arms and long to be ripped from the deceitful embrace of the world? Does she shatter the mirrors that bear her reflection? Does she ache?
Does she breathe?
I have found that I float easily through rooms at the Moulin Rouge; the outdoors is no different. I glide next to Satine and gingerly brush a finger upon her cheek. She shivers, as though she has been drenched with ice water. I want to rub away her smudged kohl and lipstick. I want to wrap her in a shawl or offer her a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
Death has taken so much opportunity away. I can only watch the sinning angels on Montmartre shatter like porcelain. I cannot feel Satine's skin beneath my hand, nor does her tear glisten on my fingers. I have only caused her more agony, sending daggers of frost through flesh and bone and into her heart.
"Jacqueline," she says softly, "was truly an angel. Wherever she is now, I'm certain she has earned silver wings." She returns to her place next to Christian; the Duke has chosen not to attend my funeral. His only concern is the crimson-haired consumptive who mourns for herself as well as for me.
I silently rejoice that I have not left a lover to pick up the pieces of an ill-fated romance. I cannot help but wonder when Satine and her poet will be ripped apart - their fairytale was tainted from the moment their lips met, regardless of the fact that the Sparkling Diamond laughs and smiles, finally feeling a shard of fulfillment inside the arms of a man who truly cares. She is aware of the impending anguish she will someday face because she simply loved someone. She will not regret her love, only hold on to her wish to be released from a fate too black and tarnished to rub clean.
Love has existed between Nini and the Argentinean for years - a love far darker and richer than anyone in the Underworld had the ability to comprehend. They did not succumb immediately to love, and instead watched it turn from a spark to a blaze, from their first muttered greetings to their raw tango. Their dance became the words that their mouths could not articulate. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Denial and spite would sometimes lick their hearts; underneath their separate facades was a single, mutual need for a passion that the rest of the malevolent world could not provide.
When rain begins to fall in fat, icy drops, everyone returns to the Rouge in order to prepare for tonight's rehearsal. Satine will reminisce her days upon the trapeze and her broken dreams of flying; Travesty will don her pale pointe shoes. Nini will abandon performance in favour of another brutally blissful night on the Argentinean's dirty mattress.
I will save a life.
~*~