I don't own any of the following characters. They belong to Baz Luhrmann, not me.
Please don't flame. I know it's dark but . . . keep an open mind. I wrote this a long time ago when I had first seen the movie, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to post it. Now, reading it over again, I decided I would and see what I got.
A Broken Man
I sat in the audience, watching 'Spectacular Spectacular' unfold before my eyes. My hands were locked onto the arms of my chair in a vise-like grip, fingers digging into the fabric. I resisted the urge to tear off one of the arms and throw is at that intolerable writer who was standing onstage. My mouth twitched with every word the writer sang to Satine. My Sparkling Diamond. The lying whore who had made me believe that she loved me.
I watched them, my eyes hardening with every promise of love and forever. I watched them and every second longer that I stared at them, I hated them more and more. They were filthy, lying scum of the underworld. My mind raced, asking how I could have possibly fallen in love with the deceiving tramp. Asking how I could have ever thought she would love me. Her eyes were always on the writer, always sharing secret smiles and promises of 'later tonight'.
How I hated them. It burned my eyes to watch them, burned my heart to hear their song. I felt bile rise in the back of my throat and I forced myself not to vomit. It would only satisfy them more. 'Look at the poor Duke', they'd say, 'we made him sick. Good.' Then they would laugh. Cruel laughter that would tear at my mind, make me insane.
'I hope he chokes on it and dies.' The whore would say, laughing at her oh-so-clever comment. The writer would think it was cute and he would kiss her, giggling all the while.
I squirmed in my seat. They would make me sick if I didn't leave soon. My body heaved with repulsion at the kiss they shared. They digusted me on so many levels. I watched them embrace and I swore angrily to myself. The prostitute with her fiery hair, curls and waves enticing me. Her porcelain skin that gave the false impression of vulnerability. Her eyes, blue seas of emotion. I had stared into those very eyes, searching for sincerity in her words and I had found it.
But she had lied! She had torn my heart out and kept it in her powerful fist, squeezing painfully whenever she felt the need. She had derived pleasure from my pain, I was sure of that. How could she not? Her mind was corrupted, a dirty place of evil and sin. She and the writer belonged together. I sneered at them, knowing they would take their descent into hell together as well.
Images of pain and torture flashed through my mind. There were so many things I could do to them to make them pay for my grief. I only wished I could act upon them, taking the girl and having my way with her. I would make her scream at me to stop, I would find new and amusing ways of hurting her, ripping her apart.
The writer though, his death would be quick. I had no time to waste on another pathetic human who had fallen under her spell. The writer could not help what he was doing, she had weaved her enchantment upon him as well, drawing him into her. I had no doubt that the writer would be cast away in time. He would be thrown in the pile of broken hearted men she left behind.
She had won, she had beaten me down and made me believe in fairy tales. I would leave Montmartre and return home, a broken shell of the man I had once been all because of her. I was sure there were men all across the world, men she had destroyed as well. Men who lived out their pathetic existences with broken hearts because of her lies and betrayal.
I was not going to stay and watch her gloat in front of me. She disgusted me and I hated her. I would not let her have the satisfaction of watching me slowly leave the theatre with a defeated look on my face.
I stood and began to walk down the aisle, my chin raised proudly. She would not win the heart of this man.
Something slid down the aisle toward me and I turned curiously. My manservant's gun was lying at my feet. I stared at it for a long while, the shiny black gun mesmerized me. I could use this against her. I could make sure she did not win this time. I would not go home a broken hearted man.
I picked up the gun and ran for the stage, screaming at them, "Mine! Mine! Mine!"
Satine turned toward me in shock and I stared triumphantly at her.
"You did not win whore." I spat. "I will not be another man you leave behind."
Harold Zidler started toward me, but before he could reach me I raised the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger.
I did not go home a broken man.
End
Please don't flame. I know it's dark but . . . keep an open mind. I wrote this a long time ago when I had first seen the movie, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to post it. Now, reading it over again, I decided I would and see what I got.
A Broken Man
I sat in the audience, watching 'Spectacular Spectacular' unfold before my eyes. My hands were locked onto the arms of my chair in a vise-like grip, fingers digging into the fabric. I resisted the urge to tear off one of the arms and throw is at that intolerable writer who was standing onstage. My mouth twitched with every word the writer sang to Satine. My Sparkling Diamond. The lying whore who had made me believe that she loved me.
I watched them, my eyes hardening with every promise of love and forever. I watched them and every second longer that I stared at them, I hated them more and more. They were filthy, lying scum of the underworld. My mind raced, asking how I could have possibly fallen in love with the deceiving tramp. Asking how I could have ever thought she would love me. Her eyes were always on the writer, always sharing secret smiles and promises of 'later tonight'.
How I hated them. It burned my eyes to watch them, burned my heart to hear their song. I felt bile rise in the back of my throat and I forced myself not to vomit. It would only satisfy them more. 'Look at the poor Duke', they'd say, 'we made him sick. Good.' Then they would laugh. Cruel laughter that would tear at my mind, make me insane.
'I hope he chokes on it and dies.' The whore would say, laughing at her oh-so-clever comment. The writer would think it was cute and he would kiss her, giggling all the while.
I squirmed in my seat. They would make me sick if I didn't leave soon. My body heaved with repulsion at the kiss they shared. They digusted me on so many levels. I watched them embrace and I swore angrily to myself. The prostitute with her fiery hair, curls and waves enticing me. Her porcelain skin that gave the false impression of vulnerability. Her eyes, blue seas of emotion. I had stared into those very eyes, searching for sincerity in her words and I had found it.
But she had lied! She had torn my heart out and kept it in her powerful fist, squeezing painfully whenever she felt the need. She had derived pleasure from my pain, I was sure of that. How could she not? Her mind was corrupted, a dirty place of evil and sin. She and the writer belonged together. I sneered at them, knowing they would take their descent into hell together as well.
Images of pain and torture flashed through my mind. There were so many things I could do to them to make them pay for my grief. I only wished I could act upon them, taking the girl and having my way with her. I would make her scream at me to stop, I would find new and amusing ways of hurting her, ripping her apart.
The writer though, his death would be quick. I had no time to waste on another pathetic human who had fallen under her spell. The writer could not help what he was doing, she had weaved her enchantment upon him as well, drawing him into her. I had no doubt that the writer would be cast away in time. He would be thrown in the pile of broken hearted men she left behind.
She had won, she had beaten me down and made me believe in fairy tales. I would leave Montmartre and return home, a broken shell of the man I had once been all because of her. I was sure there were men all across the world, men she had destroyed as well. Men who lived out their pathetic existences with broken hearts because of her lies and betrayal.
I was not going to stay and watch her gloat in front of me. She disgusted me and I hated her. I would not let her have the satisfaction of watching me slowly leave the theatre with a defeated look on my face.
I stood and began to walk down the aisle, my chin raised proudly. She would not win the heart of this man.
Something slid down the aisle toward me and I turned curiously. My manservant's gun was lying at my feet. I stared at it for a long while, the shiny black gun mesmerized me. I could use this against her. I could make sure she did not win this time. I would not go home a broken hearted man.
I picked up the gun and ran for the stage, screaming at them, "Mine! Mine! Mine!"
Satine turned toward me in shock and I stared triumphantly at her.
"You did not win whore." I spat. "I will not be another man you leave behind."
Harold Zidler started toward me, but before he could reach me I raised the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger.
I did not go home a broken man.
End