*Author's Note* Yes, extremely depressing. Right. Please review, they keep
me going! Thank You!!!
Satine is dead. Those three words repeated themselves over and over in my mind, a ceaseless drumbeat pounding on my skull. Those three words incased every emotion, every feeling, and every thought in my head. That night, that one, horrible night, is tantalizingly vivid in front of me, like the acidic smell of fresh, dripping blood. I had held her as her body dissolved into icy coldness, had heard the lessening hiss of her dying breath, had almost tasted the despair emanating from both of us, palpable in the heavy air. The only woman I had ever loved, ever will love, is gone. What's the reason for living anymore? I ask myself every second, every minute, every hour of every day. I sit on the tattered, fraying sheet on my bed, surrounded by empty absinthe bottles. This is what my life has come to, if you could call what I do living. I take a swig of the green liquid from a still half full bottle, feeling the alcohol flow down my throat and settle in a warm ball in my stomach. I used to find release and unawareness from drinking, but now it seems like it's more of just a habit to diminish my insatiable appetite for numbness. I study the bottle, turning the glass over in my hands, looking at my distorted reflection staring hopelessly back at me. My hand is shaking so much I drop it and it shatters with a high tinkle on the hard floor. One solitary shard of glass lands on my bed, and I pick it up, the sharp edge pricking my thumb and drawing out a dewy fragment of blood that turns pink as it slowly slides down the slick surface. Why live? The thought echoes in my mind as if from far away.
Like every night, I'm drawn to the balcony of my garret, and I stare out at the Moulin Rouge, its red lights swinging across the empty black sky, leaving streams of light as the mill leisurely spins. Even from this distance the laughter and cheering of nearby customers is audible, but my red-rimmed eyes, as always, focus on the elephant. It stands empty and alone, so much like myself, in the middle of the parties and revelry. If I let the memories flood back, as painful as they are, I can see her standing there, red hair teased by the wind, her eyes just sapphire pinpricks like tiny jewels from this distance. Her voice, a high, fluty soprano, is carried by the drink-soaked air, beauty in its most miserable form. I realize with a small start that I'm still holding the sliver of glass, dyed yellow and red from the lights streaming into my window. *Why live life from dream to dream…..* Her voice runs through my head, so sad and alone. *And dread the day when dreaming ends….* The song is haunting, almost maddening. She never did get to fly away…my muddy brain realizes. Except in death…..I used to cry, used to sob, but not now. Now I'm just an empty shell, living a life not even worth living. Except in death….the one thought keeps coming back. Should I kill myself? The thought isn't new, but this time rings with amazing clarity. No. It isn't what Satine would have wanted. The shard of glass is suddenly heavy in my hand, and I stare at it one last time before flinging it away and into the cobble-stoned street below my window. *Tell our story Christian….* she had gasped out in one of her last breaths. *That way I'll….I'll always be with you…..* I had promised. I had promised to tell our story. So I tore myself away from the window and sat down at my typewriter and I started to write. At first the metallic click of the keys was unfamiliar, but as I continued on the words seemed to flow out after having been bottled up for so long. I knew this was what Satine would have wanted. And I knew that one day, we would be together again. But not yet.
Satine is dead. Those three words repeated themselves over and over in my mind, a ceaseless drumbeat pounding on my skull. Those three words incased every emotion, every feeling, and every thought in my head. That night, that one, horrible night, is tantalizingly vivid in front of me, like the acidic smell of fresh, dripping blood. I had held her as her body dissolved into icy coldness, had heard the lessening hiss of her dying breath, had almost tasted the despair emanating from both of us, palpable in the heavy air. The only woman I had ever loved, ever will love, is gone. What's the reason for living anymore? I ask myself every second, every minute, every hour of every day. I sit on the tattered, fraying sheet on my bed, surrounded by empty absinthe bottles. This is what my life has come to, if you could call what I do living. I take a swig of the green liquid from a still half full bottle, feeling the alcohol flow down my throat and settle in a warm ball in my stomach. I used to find release and unawareness from drinking, but now it seems like it's more of just a habit to diminish my insatiable appetite for numbness. I study the bottle, turning the glass over in my hands, looking at my distorted reflection staring hopelessly back at me. My hand is shaking so much I drop it and it shatters with a high tinkle on the hard floor. One solitary shard of glass lands on my bed, and I pick it up, the sharp edge pricking my thumb and drawing out a dewy fragment of blood that turns pink as it slowly slides down the slick surface. Why live? The thought echoes in my mind as if from far away.
Like every night, I'm drawn to the balcony of my garret, and I stare out at the Moulin Rouge, its red lights swinging across the empty black sky, leaving streams of light as the mill leisurely spins. Even from this distance the laughter and cheering of nearby customers is audible, but my red-rimmed eyes, as always, focus on the elephant. It stands empty and alone, so much like myself, in the middle of the parties and revelry. If I let the memories flood back, as painful as they are, I can see her standing there, red hair teased by the wind, her eyes just sapphire pinpricks like tiny jewels from this distance. Her voice, a high, fluty soprano, is carried by the drink-soaked air, beauty in its most miserable form. I realize with a small start that I'm still holding the sliver of glass, dyed yellow and red from the lights streaming into my window. *Why live life from dream to dream…..* Her voice runs through my head, so sad and alone. *And dread the day when dreaming ends….* The song is haunting, almost maddening. She never did get to fly away…my muddy brain realizes. Except in death…..I used to cry, used to sob, but not now. Now I'm just an empty shell, living a life not even worth living. Except in death….the one thought keeps coming back. Should I kill myself? The thought isn't new, but this time rings with amazing clarity. No. It isn't what Satine would have wanted. The shard of glass is suddenly heavy in my hand, and I stare at it one last time before flinging it away and into the cobble-stoned street below my window. *Tell our story Christian….* she had gasped out in one of her last breaths. *That way I'll….I'll always be with you…..* I had promised. I had promised to tell our story. So I tore myself away from the window and sat down at my typewriter and I started to write. At first the metallic click of the keys was unfamiliar, but as I continued on the words seemed to flow out after having been bottled up for so long. I knew this was what Satine would have wanted. And I knew that one day, we would be together again. But not yet.