Moulin Rouge: My Gift Is My Song
The bolts were stiff and the door was swollen. It took several forceful pushes before the door flew open, bright sunlight flooding into the empty room, showing up the dust and the scattered newspapers on the floor.
Christian could feel the cold striking out from the dirty stone walls. He felt his mouth go dry, a tangible feeling of dread seemed to surround her, pressing in on her from the cold walls.
He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the beating against his head like the threat of a migraine - the fear, the pain and the nausea, gripping him out of nowhere. He took a step into the darkness of the room and paused. It smelled damp and musty. The floors were grey with dust and grit, and cobwebs hung festooned across the domed window.
"Satine?" he called out feebly, trying hard to ignore the atmosphere, the unhappiness, the desperation that circled around him. He received no answer, save a flood of memories, hitting him like a physical blow.
"My gift is my song…and this one's for you."
The sweet tune pierced the silent air. Christian kept very still, feeling his heart pound in his ears, a pain in the pit of his stomach, a nervous contraction his throat.
"And you can tell everybody…that this is your song…"
He heard a step behind him and turned around. "Satine?" he called, "Is that you?"
In the corner of the room, a dark figure stood motionless, watching him.
It was a moment before his eyes registered something in the corner, and he blinked, suddenly frightened, but there was nothing there.
He walked over to the domed window and gazed out at the windmill, which stood forlorn, dilapidated, eerie and disturbing against the dark sky.
A beam of light found its way through the door, and strayed across the dusty boards. Laser like, it crept from right to left until it reached the flower lying in its path. One by one, in the spotlight, the petals fell open, their thin creamy whiteness edged with brown.
In the silence, the silk and lace of a skirt skimming over the boards made no sound; the footsteps from the past were silent.
And in the corner stood Christian, a penniless poet, mourning for the loss of his flower, Satine.
The bolts were stiff and the door was swollen. It took several forceful pushes before the door flew open, bright sunlight flooding into the empty room, showing up the dust and the scattered newspapers on the floor.
Christian could feel the cold striking out from the dirty stone walls. He felt his mouth go dry, a tangible feeling of dread seemed to surround her, pressing in on her from the cold walls.
He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the beating against his head like the threat of a migraine - the fear, the pain and the nausea, gripping him out of nowhere. He took a step into the darkness of the room and paused. It smelled damp and musty. The floors were grey with dust and grit, and cobwebs hung festooned across the domed window.
"Satine?" he called out feebly, trying hard to ignore the atmosphere, the unhappiness, the desperation that circled around him. He received no answer, save a flood of memories, hitting him like a physical blow.
"My gift is my song…and this one's for you."
The sweet tune pierced the silent air. Christian kept very still, feeling his heart pound in his ears, a pain in the pit of his stomach, a nervous contraction his throat.
"And you can tell everybody…that this is your song…"
He heard a step behind him and turned around. "Satine?" he called, "Is that you?"
In the corner of the room, a dark figure stood motionless, watching him.
It was a moment before his eyes registered something in the corner, and he blinked, suddenly frightened, but there was nothing there.
He walked over to the domed window and gazed out at the windmill, which stood forlorn, dilapidated, eerie and disturbing against the dark sky.
A beam of light found its way through the door, and strayed across the dusty boards. Laser like, it crept from right to left until it reached the flower lying in its path. One by one, in the spotlight, the petals fell open, their thin creamy whiteness edged with brown.
In the silence, the silk and lace of a skirt skimming over the boards made no sound; the footsteps from the past were silent.
And in the corner stood Christian, a penniless poet, mourning for the loss of his flower, Satine.
