Disclaimer: If you recognize it, how could I have possibly come up with it?
So I don't claim to own brilliance that is not mine, I only write with
these characters due to lack of creativity, and because I absolutely love
Moulin Rouge! So here's more for you, and I think this will be a small
epic, so don't worry about me drawing out poor Christian's pain.
Chapter 3
Morning came, as it usually did, and the sun's rays disturbed Christian out of his fitful sleep. The poet opened his eyes slowly, and just for a second, his heart leapt. Because just for a second, as he always did when he first awoke, he forgot. Just for a second, everything was as it had been, and he would turn to find Satine beside him, asleep and ready to be awakened. And just for a second, every morning, he was happy.
But after that second, reality came crashing down, and Christian would sit up and look around his miserable room. The abandoned windmill loomed outside the window as it always did, its many light bulbs either shattered or missing, and he could see the dejected elephant standing just behind it. A less than encouraging sight.
Like every morning, Christian struggled with the mere thought of getting out of bed. Of going about life's daily activities like everyone else, of trying to act like nothing was wrong, trying to act like one of them. Perhaps this was why he stayed in this same room. The pitiful sight of the dead Moulin Rouge reminded him. He did not want to be like all the others, those who say a year is more than enough time to get over his mourning and grief. Those who said life is a gift, live it to the fullest. No, of all things that could possibly happen, he did not want to become like them. He would remember his Satine when all others had forgotten, or made themselves forget.
After a very brief debate, Christian let his head fall back on the single pillow and willed himself to fall asleep. His dreams were the only place where he might see Satine. Sometimes, he dreamed of her as they had been, and sometimes he dreamed of what might have been. Both painful to wake up from of course, but better than being awake at all. Lately though, he was not remembering his dreams, and that scared him. He did not want to miss any form of opportunity to be with his love, his heart. So Christian willed himself to sleep, and willed himself to remember all that would happen to him in his sleep.
Sleep was not merciful. Christian lay on the bitter brink of sleep and stayed there. He was not allowed to fall back asleep, life was demanding that he get up and conform, act like all the others, pretend Satine meant nothing to him now. He was not willing to obey.
After another half hour of fighting to fall back into the abyss of unconsciousness, Christian finally raised himself off of the bed. He went to the type-writer where it sat on his desk and started to sit down until he remembered. He had finished the story, there was nothing for him there. He could try to write something, but he knew no inspiration would come, if it would ever come again. He had the worst form of writer's block, mainly because it was voluntary. He was not going to fight it, because then that would mean he actually cared about something else. And above all else, he did not care.
Christian rubbed his arm absently as he looked out the window and stopped at a sudden twinge of pain. He looked down at his arm, and saw the fresh scar there. He suddenly remembered what he had done last night, the razor in the bathroom and the indecision on whether to do it or not. He had not been sure if it had been a dream or not, but obviously it had been real. But then Christian remembered something else. He remembered the feeling after he had stepped out of the small bathroom. Or rather, he remembered the lack of feeling, something that was much more preferable than what he had been feeling as of late. He would rather feel nothing at all than to feel the mental pain and agony that had been his perpetual state of mind. In fact, he had almost been in a state of contentment, another emotion that had not been felt since Satine had died that horrible night.
So it was no problem to think of which way he would prefer to feel. Christian went for the door leading to the bathroom, straight to the razor that could promise momentary deliverance. It had taken the place of his usual absinthe, and offered even better rewards. For one could always die from alcohol poisoning, but it was more likely to pass out before that happen. When blood was involved, one could die at any moment, as he had learned from Satine. This way, he would not be disobeying Satine and killing himself forthright, he would let the blood do it. All he would do is give it a little help.
The razor was gripped in his hand before he even fully realized it, and had already began to travel the course towards the exposed skin on his arm. This time, he went for neither the wrist nor the upper forearm, but towards the vulnerable flesh in the middle of his arm. He selected a crease that ran across several blue veins and then cut along the lines. It was easy this way, for he had a course to follow. It was almost like grade- school when one was encouraged to follow along the lines to form letters or words, and just as easy.
The pain was sharper than it had been last night, as he had chosen a more sensitive spot, but Christian literally just grinned and bore it. He stopped his hand when he had dragged the blade along the whole length of the crease and waited to watch the blood roll out. It was not a long wait as he had sliced veins and the blood had started to show almost immediately, but now it came out in a much greater force. A red current that broke through all normal boundaries and took its time in spreading out. The blood moved almost lazily, searching out and resting in every imperfection in his skin before rolling off his arm and splattering onto the floor. A small pool began to gather at Christian's feet, and he found that that was just as interesting as the blood-work on his arm.
Christian put the razor down, thinking he should take it slow, one step at a time, dragging it out just as Satine's eminent death had lingered. He would be even closer this way. He already knew his sentence, his fate was sealed, and it was the same as Satine's. He would go through everything she had gone through before being able to finally see her again. Or at least he hoped he would be able to see her again.
Chapter 3
Morning came, as it usually did, and the sun's rays disturbed Christian out of his fitful sleep. The poet opened his eyes slowly, and just for a second, his heart leapt. Because just for a second, as he always did when he first awoke, he forgot. Just for a second, everything was as it had been, and he would turn to find Satine beside him, asleep and ready to be awakened. And just for a second, every morning, he was happy.
But after that second, reality came crashing down, and Christian would sit up and look around his miserable room. The abandoned windmill loomed outside the window as it always did, its many light bulbs either shattered or missing, and he could see the dejected elephant standing just behind it. A less than encouraging sight.
Like every morning, Christian struggled with the mere thought of getting out of bed. Of going about life's daily activities like everyone else, of trying to act like nothing was wrong, trying to act like one of them. Perhaps this was why he stayed in this same room. The pitiful sight of the dead Moulin Rouge reminded him. He did not want to be like all the others, those who say a year is more than enough time to get over his mourning and grief. Those who said life is a gift, live it to the fullest. No, of all things that could possibly happen, he did not want to become like them. He would remember his Satine when all others had forgotten, or made themselves forget.
After a very brief debate, Christian let his head fall back on the single pillow and willed himself to fall asleep. His dreams were the only place where he might see Satine. Sometimes, he dreamed of her as they had been, and sometimes he dreamed of what might have been. Both painful to wake up from of course, but better than being awake at all. Lately though, he was not remembering his dreams, and that scared him. He did not want to miss any form of opportunity to be with his love, his heart. So Christian willed himself to sleep, and willed himself to remember all that would happen to him in his sleep.
Sleep was not merciful. Christian lay on the bitter brink of sleep and stayed there. He was not allowed to fall back asleep, life was demanding that he get up and conform, act like all the others, pretend Satine meant nothing to him now. He was not willing to obey.
After another half hour of fighting to fall back into the abyss of unconsciousness, Christian finally raised himself off of the bed. He went to the type-writer where it sat on his desk and started to sit down until he remembered. He had finished the story, there was nothing for him there. He could try to write something, but he knew no inspiration would come, if it would ever come again. He had the worst form of writer's block, mainly because it was voluntary. He was not going to fight it, because then that would mean he actually cared about something else. And above all else, he did not care.
Christian rubbed his arm absently as he looked out the window and stopped at a sudden twinge of pain. He looked down at his arm, and saw the fresh scar there. He suddenly remembered what he had done last night, the razor in the bathroom and the indecision on whether to do it or not. He had not been sure if it had been a dream or not, but obviously it had been real. But then Christian remembered something else. He remembered the feeling after he had stepped out of the small bathroom. Or rather, he remembered the lack of feeling, something that was much more preferable than what he had been feeling as of late. He would rather feel nothing at all than to feel the mental pain and agony that had been his perpetual state of mind. In fact, he had almost been in a state of contentment, another emotion that had not been felt since Satine had died that horrible night.
So it was no problem to think of which way he would prefer to feel. Christian went for the door leading to the bathroom, straight to the razor that could promise momentary deliverance. It had taken the place of his usual absinthe, and offered even better rewards. For one could always die from alcohol poisoning, but it was more likely to pass out before that happen. When blood was involved, one could die at any moment, as he had learned from Satine. This way, he would not be disobeying Satine and killing himself forthright, he would let the blood do it. All he would do is give it a little help.
The razor was gripped in his hand before he even fully realized it, and had already began to travel the course towards the exposed skin on his arm. This time, he went for neither the wrist nor the upper forearm, but towards the vulnerable flesh in the middle of his arm. He selected a crease that ran across several blue veins and then cut along the lines. It was easy this way, for he had a course to follow. It was almost like grade- school when one was encouraged to follow along the lines to form letters or words, and just as easy.
The pain was sharper than it had been last night, as he had chosen a more sensitive spot, but Christian literally just grinned and bore it. He stopped his hand when he had dragged the blade along the whole length of the crease and waited to watch the blood roll out. It was not a long wait as he had sliced veins and the blood had started to show almost immediately, but now it came out in a much greater force. A red current that broke through all normal boundaries and took its time in spreading out. The blood moved almost lazily, searching out and resting in every imperfection in his skin before rolling off his arm and splattering onto the floor. A small pool began to gather at Christian's feet, and he found that that was just as interesting as the blood-work on his arm.
Christian put the razor down, thinking he should take it slow, one step at a time, dragging it out just as Satine's eminent death had lingered. He would be even closer this way. He already knew his sentence, his fate was sealed, and it was the same as Satine's. He would go through everything she had gone through before being able to finally see her again. Or at least he hoped he would be able to see her again.