Disclaimer: All characters are property of Baz and are used without permission. The song belongs to Alanis Morissette and is also used without permission for two lines.
Dedication: As with everything, this is dedicated to Celita, Madi, Karita, and Hannah. What would I do without you guys?
Warning: This story is fairly dark and bitter. I had a bad day and this is the result. Not my usual fluff, I'm afraid. I apologize in advance for it. Why do I see flames in my future?
One Glass Tells the Truth
Down on the soiled streets of Montmartre, they know me well. Artists and writers can only stay inspired by Bohemian ideals before they fall into despair. Love won't pay for daily bread, so they drink my bottles dry and let me sing to them. My voice is a siren's, luring them towards the green alcohol and into the stupor that inevitably follows.
It's not my fault. It's just my nature. I'm just like those whores at the Moulin Rouge. We're creatures of the underworld. We're not allowed to reach for anything better.
And I see it all. Behind closed doors and curtains, they reach for me. Take the rich customers at the nightclub, for example. I'm their companion, their friend, and their lover, in some strange way that no one understands. I've comforted more men through my dance and song than any of those faded Diamonds at the Rouge. My piercing soprano rivals anything the can-can girls could belt out. If only they could learn my secrets, they would know how to ensnare the richest men. For the men love me. They leer at me, try to touch my curves of flesh, but I'm too quick for them. Their fingers won't leave bruises on my delicate skin. They won't press their greasy lips against my arms.
Oh, I know the truth about them. They come to me after days as respectable, clean men, and then wander down oh-so-casually to the village of sin and take me greedily in their hands. There's a lot of darkness in the Red Windmill, let me tell you. Prostitution wherever you glance, from the luxury of the Elephant down to a dirty corner in the garden. What they do for a franc. . . it amazes even me sometimes. But that's not it. I've been with men while they rape, hurt, kill. Sometimes I wonder, just before his hand reaches out for the first slap on that fourteen year old's face, if I'm helping him. And then the guilt gnaws at me, because even the Green Fairy has a heart underneath her sculpted body that glitters in the smoky light.
Not much of a heart, though. You see, I'm the real courtesan. I'm what the men want me to be. Always. You want a little sprite to bat her eyelashes at you and bit her lower lip when you try to seduce her? Watch the pink spots glow on my cheeks, and I'll draw you with the lovely little morsel that I can be.
Bright and bubbly? I'll trail that damned fairy dust around the room, laughing and singing in that airy voice that draws you in. My dainty slippers never fall off, but they'll lead you on a merry chase. See how my translucent wings flutter so beautifully in Zidler's harsh light? Yeah, that's me. Just like a bottle of your best champagne, Monsieur.
Or do you want me to be soft and sultry, drawing you in with the way my body moves? Dim the lights, baby, and I'll show you a time that you'll never forget. Can you imagine what's under the layers of gauze and glitter that I wear? Yes, that's right, tiger, see me running my hands over my body? Can't you taste the absinthe on my lips already? What would my kiss taste like?
I'm cheaper than the whores. Just a few coins and the bartender will pour your glass full with my cloudy essence, and watch your fantasy unfold. I'll dance for you, I'll tease you and tempt you, but you can't ever lay your heavy hands on me.
The Bohos, though-- they don't want me like that. It's calming for a while, but after they lurch around drunkenly for a time, crying out their dogmas. . . .it just gets pathetic. They make me sick. The Children of the Revolution. They are children who need to be led by the hand.
Oh, Toulouse, poor little dwarf who lisps and drools? Can't get someone to fuck? Drink your bitter abswinthe, Toulouse, and I'll come and be your lover. I don't mind that you can barely move. Paint me in the way that only you can. Bold strokes and daring colour, your eyes following me with appreciation and hunger. I feel sorry for you sometimes, little artist. You try so hard, but you slip more every day. You can only hold on for so long.
Trying to escape your ever-present nightmares, Argentinean? I know what you dream of in those bouts of sleep. Do you think of her then, my friend? Remember her dusky skin and liquid eyes. Those dark crimson lips and smooth legs. Do you remember the tango you danced in those passion-filled nights? Silly question. Of course you do. I've seen you close your eyes and mouth your lover's name while you kiss another. I'm all you have. Admit it. And come and dance with me.
Or the Doctor, that withered old man. You're so lost, you pathetic excuse for living, that you don't even know what the hell you're doing here. Were you young and handsome once, fool? Oh, I know how you pretend. I see you lust after me in the throes of intoxication. Let's face it, though. I'm all you can get, because the whores won't even take your money.
Let's not forget that little Satie. So sensitive, with his little musician hands. I wonder what he thinks. He drinks and watches me silently. I can never tell what he's thinking. Sometimes I get an uneasy feeling that he's laughing at me, but then the thought vanishes when I look into his vacant eyes. He's just another Bohemian. Limited talent and big dreams.
Oh, look. There goes the Bitch Queen. Nini-legs-in-the-air. I wonder if that nose of hers could go any higher. She I pity. Oh, yes, I do. I'm the one she screams out her pain to, and she eyes those knives with so much longing in her eyes. She's always thinking about what her ivory skin would look like slashed with those silver blades. Her eyes are empty as she pictures the scarlet pool of blood that would fall to the floor. She doesn't cry anymore. She used to when she was younger, you know. She would come into her dingy little flophouse and wrap herself up and sob until her face was swollen with all those salty tears. Her spirit is dead. They killed it, the customers. Maybe I helped. Maybe I didn't. I don't know.
What the hell are you looking at me like that for? I'm the Green Fairy, for God's sake, not your fucking mother!
Okay, look. See that woman down there, the golden haired one tempting a man on the corner? That's Baby Doll. Or so they called her at the Rouge. . . I don't know her real name. She's going to kill her customer tonight if he hits her one more time. She told me. She's got the knife wedged up there in her corset. I told her to do that! I told her to get the hell out of the sordid situation! I'm not the bitch you make me out to be!
I hear someone crying.
I know who that is. I recognize that sound of utter despair. I know him well.
It's Christian.
The darling of the Bohemians, the lover of the Sparkling Diamond. He was their best, the brightest they had. Innocent and sweet. I remember when he first came across my charms. Can't I see that boyish expression even now? I sang for him.
He was going to be the voice of the Children of the Revolution. He actually believed all that shit they spouted off about truth, beauty, freedom, and love. And like everyone else, I fell under his spell for a while. And then what does the idiot do? He goes and falls in love with Satine.
He falls for the Sparkling Diamond of the Rouge!
Can you believe it? Anyone else he could have gotten and they would have been happy. He could have rescued anyone else, taken them away from here. But he fell in love with the one woman he couldn't have.
Oh, isn't it ironic? The one chance they had to free themselves threw himself away on Satine. Who would have thought. . . it figures.
Because I knew about her, his precious little love. I knew what an actress she was. Did she love him? Probably not.
But he doesn't want to hear that. No, he wants to wallow in his pain and mourn Satine. Oh, boo hoo, my whore's dead, only she wasn't a whore, she was an angel trapped in a sordid life and I hate you all! So go and cry, Christian. Go ahead, see if I care! Why should I comfort you? I'm your hallucination, you fool. I just dance for you. I try to distract you with my temptress routine.
Because I'm the Green Fairy.
That's what I say every time. For the customers. For the whores. For the Bohemians. For their Christian boy.
I tell the truth-- at first. The first glass is just enough to get inside my mind, and I'll show you everything you need to know. I'll tell you who your lover is sleeping with, what man is going to murder every higher purpose in your body. I could tell them even more. I could disillusion every one of them. Ruin the window they view the world through.
And then they drink more, of course. Because one glass tells the truth. Too much of it lies. So what'll it be? One glass? Two? Or more?
I'm the Green Fairy. And like everyone else in this village of sin, that's all I'll ever be.