Satine got out of her car outside of Zibler's office building. She
clenched her fists and said to herself, "It's just Harold. You're fine."
But she didn't feel fine. She had her hair up in a French twist, her
makeup was light, and she was dusted with glitter. She was wearing a knee-
length, crimson, slip-skirt with a ruffle at the bottom, and black halter
top with rhinestones around the edges. Her feet sparkled in shoes that
looked as if they were made from nothing but diamonds. She felt a little
dizzy as she prepared to walk into the building. Satine carefully stepped
up onto the curb . . . and fell flat on her face.
"Shit!" she said, standing up and checking her clothes for rips. There were none, so she quickly pulled herself together and walked toward the building. Not that it was that easy in stiletto heels, but, bloody hell, she danced in them every night.
Once in the building, she nodded to the secretary (the Argentinean) and went to the elevator. She hit the button for the forty-second floor, and waited as the elevator clicked and shuddered its way.
Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the elevator jolted to a stop. Satine was thrown to the floor, hitting her head on the wall behind her, knocking her out.
Zibler paced his office. It was five fifteen. She should have been there. She was always punctual. He tried calling the front desk to ask the Argentinean if she'd come in, but he obviously had succumbed to his narcolepsy and fallen asleep. Finally, he decided to just go downstairs and see if anything had happened.
He reached the elevator doors and pressed the down button. A loud bang and electronical buzzing and mechanical creaking answered him back. He pressed it again only to get the same results. Deciding that the elevator was stuck, he turned and ran down the stairs, reaching the unconscious Argentinean and attempted to wake him.
Duke was pacing in his hotel room. She was to meet him in . . . twenty minutes. Everything was perfect. The food was the most elegant meal ever prepared. There were gifts for her hidden everywhere he thought they would be that evening - one was under each pillow on the silk-sheeted bed. Roses and candles were spread about the room, the curtains were drawn, and soft violin music was emanating from strategically placed speakers. He had made this room his own when he moved in, and now, Satine would be wooed by it.
The clock struck six. She should be here by now. What was keeping her?
Christian paced in his apartment. Six fifteen. Right now, she and Eivel Duke were probably sitting down to dinner. He hit himself hard on the forehead.
"Stop thinking about her!" he yelled at himself, "She chose Duke, remember? Not Christian Londen, she chose Eivel Duke!"
He threw himself down on his bed. Wait, he thought, didn't Zibler say that she was to go to his office? He shot straight out of bed, ran down the stairs of his building, and out to his car. He was going to save her from herself.
Six thirty. Zibler had awoken the Argentinean, and together the two had concluded that Satine was caught in the elevator, and had called the fire department.
The firemen forced the elevator door open on floor thirty-six. She had almost made it to Zibler. The bottom half of the elevator was visible and open, and a sparkling stiletto heel could be seen. Carefully, a fireman climbed up into the elevator and grabbed a hold of her ankles, pulling her to safety.
Satine slid onto the waiting stretcher, and the paramedics quickly rolled her down the stairs and out to the waiting ambulance. Zibler followed closely behind, proclaiming that he was the only family she had. Together, they climbed into the ambulance and drove out of the parking lot, sirens blaring.
Christian pulled into the parking lot to see the Argentinean standing in the empty parking lot. He parked his car, climbed out, and ran to the Argentinean.
"They took Satine to the hospital," he said without any questioning, "There was an elevator accident."
Christian stood dumbfounded for a second, then dashed back to his car, jumped in, and raced away toward the hospital.
Zibler held her hand as they wheeled her into MRI. They stopped him at the doors. "Family only," they claimed, and Harold Zibler kissed her on the cheek as they took her away. He went to wait in the ER waiting room.
Christian pulled into the parking lot. He ran into the ER, and dashed up to the desk.
"P . . . Perris," he gasped, "Satine Perris. Is she here?"
The nurse behind the desk looked at her computer screen. "Yes, they just brought her in. She's in MRI. Are you family?"
Christian nodded. "I'm her . . . husband."
The nurse smiled. "Well, Mr. Perris, you can wait over there with her father. She should be out in a little while, then we should know more."
Christian thanked her, then turned. Her father? It had to be . . .
Zibler saw Christian looking around the ER lobby. He waved to him to get his attention. A look of understanding dawned on Christian's face. He walked slowly over to him.
"Hi, Dad," he said, half laughing. He looked very somber, though, so Zibler decided to play slightly along.
"If it isn't my son-in-law. Why do you never call?"
Christian looked at him strangely, and Zibler nodded.
So Zibler knew. He wasn't mad, though, so Christian took that as a good sign. He seemed genuinely worried about Satine.
"My little sparrow," he whispered over and over. "It's all my fault. That damned elevator . . ."
A doctor came walking up to them. "Mr. Perris, Mr. Zibler, I'm Doctor Harris. I've been looking after Satine."
Christian and Zibler shook hands with the doctor, and he continued.
"I have a bit of depressing news. She has a major concussion, resulting from the blow to the head from the accident. There has been immense bleeding to the brain. We've stopped it, but there still is a lot of fluid in there. The problem is, if it clots, she'll have a stroke, and most likely . . . it won't be good. So we have two options. First, we wait for it to drain naturally. Second, we can go in for surgery. It's minor, we just slowly drain as much of the blood as we can without harming her. The problem is, Mrs. Perris doesn't have insurance, and unless you have coverage, Mr. Perris," he said, nodding to Christian, "Then the procedure can get very expensive. I leave the choice to you."
Christian and Zibler nodded, then as the doctor walked away, they looked at each other.
"No," Christian said, "We're not bringing him. He's not coming here."
"Christian it's the only way . . ."
"No! Satine said that he said if she's ever seen with me again, that he'll kill me . . . and her . . . So it's pointless, bringing him here."
"Unless . . ."
Christian looked at Zibler and saw what he was saying. If Duke came, he'd have to leave, or hide, and could probably never see Satine again. But if Duke didn't come . . . Satine would die.
"Oh, Mr. Perris, Mr. Zibler," Doctor Harris was coming back, "Satine's coming 'round. If you'd like to see her, go right on into room 216, just up the stairs and to the left."
Zibler and Christian got up and went to her room.
Satine stirred just as the two men entered. She rolled her head over from the left to look at them standing in her doorway. She smiled weakly.
Christian rushed over to her and kissed her on the cheek.
"How are you, darling?" he asked.
"I've been better," she said so quietly that Christian could barely hear her.
Christian looked at Zibler, then took Satine's hand. He looked at her very seriously.
"Satine, darling," he said, "We've run into a bit of trouble. There's a little bit of a problem, nothing serious, it's just that, you're going to need a bit of surgery."
Satine had to have been delirious or something, because the normal Satine would have freaked out if she had been told she needed surgery. But this Satine, sick Satine, just nodded gravely. She understood completely.
"Well, the thing is, it's kind of expensive, and we don't have any money . . ."
Satine shook her head. "No, Christian. I won't have him here. I'd rather die than to have . . ."
"You will die," Zibler interjected, "If you don't have this surgery."
Satine gasped. "No," she said, "I still won't have him here. He'll kill Christian and then he'll kill me. It won't make any difference, Harold, except Christian will be able to go on . . ."
Christian looked into her eyes. "I think we should do this."
Satine shook her head. "No! I refuse to!"
"Darling, I can leave . . ."
"NO, you're not leaving me!"
"But if he doesn't come . . . you'll leave me! That's not very fair, is it?"
Satine didn't take her eyes of Christian, but said to Zibler, "Harold, leave us."
Zibler left, leaving Christian and Satine alone.
Christian started to pick the argument back up, but Satine hushed him.
"No, I want to talk. Just talk, like we did . . . that first night."
Satine's breathing was getting more shallow as she spoke. Christian's eyes teared up, but he kept looking at her.
"So, how's the show coming?"
"Pretty good. I still . . . have to write an ending."
"Well, that's good."
"Yeah."
They sat in silence for a moment, then Christian asked quietly, "What's your real name?"
Satine laughed. "Adrienne," she whispered, "Adrienne Hoffman."
Christian smiled. "Really?"
"Really."
"That's a very pretty name."
"Thank you."
Another moment of silence went by, then Christian said, "You don't have to have the surgery here, you know. My parents can pay for it, back in Albany. We could leave now, secretly, and no one would know."
Satine smiled. "I don't want to pretend anymore."
"Then you don't have to, Adrienne."
"I like it when you call me that."
Christian gently kissed her, then stood. He lifted her out of bed, then whispered, "We're getting out of here."
Satine put her feet on the ground, and walked leaning on Christian out to the door. The went to the stairs - Satine didn't want to take an elevator, even one floor - and went back to the lobby. Satine piled her hair up and put it under a shower cap. Christian pulled the hood of his wind breaker up, hiding his face. Satine could hide him from Zibler if he walked by. They quietly stole out of the side door, getting trouble from no one, except an orderly that demanded to know if she had checked out. They ignored him, then walked faster to his car, just outside parked in a handicapped spot - he had borrowed Henri's handicapped placard to hang from his rear view mirror.
They piled into the car, Christian laying Satine carefully down in the back seat. Then he quickly started his car, and they sped out of the parking lot.
****************************************************************************
See, I told you I was going to stray from the movie a little. In the next chapter, Satine (or Adrienne, but I'm going to keep calling her Satine . . . maybe) and Christian get to Albany. What happens when they get there? Thanks for the reviews . . . you haven't posted in a while. I love all y'all that do. Ha, see, now I'm from the South. But am I really? You draw your own conclusions.
~Evie
I don't own Moulin Rouge or its characters, a- . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Shit!" she said, standing up and checking her clothes for rips. There were none, so she quickly pulled herself together and walked toward the building. Not that it was that easy in stiletto heels, but, bloody hell, she danced in them every night.
Once in the building, she nodded to the secretary (the Argentinean) and went to the elevator. She hit the button for the forty-second floor, and waited as the elevator clicked and shuddered its way.
Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the elevator jolted to a stop. Satine was thrown to the floor, hitting her head on the wall behind her, knocking her out.
Zibler paced his office. It was five fifteen. She should have been there. She was always punctual. He tried calling the front desk to ask the Argentinean if she'd come in, but he obviously had succumbed to his narcolepsy and fallen asleep. Finally, he decided to just go downstairs and see if anything had happened.
He reached the elevator doors and pressed the down button. A loud bang and electronical buzzing and mechanical creaking answered him back. He pressed it again only to get the same results. Deciding that the elevator was stuck, he turned and ran down the stairs, reaching the unconscious Argentinean and attempted to wake him.
Duke was pacing in his hotel room. She was to meet him in . . . twenty minutes. Everything was perfect. The food was the most elegant meal ever prepared. There were gifts for her hidden everywhere he thought they would be that evening - one was under each pillow on the silk-sheeted bed. Roses and candles were spread about the room, the curtains were drawn, and soft violin music was emanating from strategically placed speakers. He had made this room his own when he moved in, and now, Satine would be wooed by it.
The clock struck six. She should be here by now. What was keeping her?
Christian paced in his apartment. Six fifteen. Right now, she and Eivel Duke were probably sitting down to dinner. He hit himself hard on the forehead.
"Stop thinking about her!" he yelled at himself, "She chose Duke, remember? Not Christian Londen, she chose Eivel Duke!"
He threw himself down on his bed. Wait, he thought, didn't Zibler say that she was to go to his office? He shot straight out of bed, ran down the stairs of his building, and out to his car. He was going to save her from herself.
Six thirty. Zibler had awoken the Argentinean, and together the two had concluded that Satine was caught in the elevator, and had called the fire department.
The firemen forced the elevator door open on floor thirty-six. She had almost made it to Zibler. The bottom half of the elevator was visible and open, and a sparkling stiletto heel could be seen. Carefully, a fireman climbed up into the elevator and grabbed a hold of her ankles, pulling her to safety.
Satine slid onto the waiting stretcher, and the paramedics quickly rolled her down the stairs and out to the waiting ambulance. Zibler followed closely behind, proclaiming that he was the only family she had. Together, they climbed into the ambulance and drove out of the parking lot, sirens blaring.
Christian pulled into the parking lot to see the Argentinean standing in the empty parking lot. He parked his car, climbed out, and ran to the Argentinean.
"They took Satine to the hospital," he said without any questioning, "There was an elevator accident."
Christian stood dumbfounded for a second, then dashed back to his car, jumped in, and raced away toward the hospital.
Zibler held her hand as they wheeled her into MRI. They stopped him at the doors. "Family only," they claimed, and Harold Zibler kissed her on the cheek as they took her away. He went to wait in the ER waiting room.
Christian pulled into the parking lot. He ran into the ER, and dashed up to the desk.
"P . . . Perris," he gasped, "Satine Perris. Is she here?"
The nurse behind the desk looked at her computer screen. "Yes, they just brought her in. She's in MRI. Are you family?"
Christian nodded. "I'm her . . . husband."
The nurse smiled. "Well, Mr. Perris, you can wait over there with her father. She should be out in a little while, then we should know more."
Christian thanked her, then turned. Her father? It had to be . . .
Zibler saw Christian looking around the ER lobby. He waved to him to get his attention. A look of understanding dawned on Christian's face. He walked slowly over to him.
"Hi, Dad," he said, half laughing. He looked very somber, though, so Zibler decided to play slightly along.
"If it isn't my son-in-law. Why do you never call?"
Christian looked at him strangely, and Zibler nodded.
So Zibler knew. He wasn't mad, though, so Christian took that as a good sign. He seemed genuinely worried about Satine.
"My little sparrow," he whispered over and over. "It's all my fault. That damned elevator . . ."
A doctor came walking up to them. "Mr. Perris, Mr. Zibler, I'm Doctor Harris. I've been looking after Satine."
Christian and Zibler shook hands with the doctor, and he continued.
"I have a bit of depressing news. She has a major concussion, resulting from the blow to the head from the accident. There has been immense bleeding to the brain. We've stopped it, but there still is a lot of fluid in there. The problem is, if it clots, she'll have a stroke, and most likely . . . it won't be good. So we have two options. First, we wait for it to drain naturally. Second, we can go in for surgery. It's minor, we just slowly drain as much of the blood as we can without harming her. The problem is, Mrs. Perris doesn't have insurance, and unless you have coverage, Mr. Perris," he said, nodding to Christian, "Then the procedure can get very expensive. I leave the choice to you."
Christian and Zibler nodded, then as the doctor walked away, they looked at each other.
"No," Christian said, "We're not bringing him. He's not coming here."
"Christian it's the only way . . ."
"No! Satine said that he said if she's ever seen with me again, that he'll kill me . . . and her . . . So it's pointless, bringing him here."
"Unless . . ."
Christian looked at Zibler and saw what he was saying. If Duke came, he'd have to leave, or hide, and could probably never see Satine again. But if Duke didn't come . . . Satine would die.
"Oh, Mr. Perris, Mr. Zibler," Doctor Harris was coming back, "Satine's coming 'round. If you'd like to see her, go right on into room 216, just up the stairs and to the left."
Zibler and Christian got up and went to her room.
Satine stirred just as the two men entered. She rolled her head over from the left to look at them standing in her doorway. She smiled weakly.
Christian rushed over to her and kissed her on the cheek.
"How are you, darling?" he asked.
"I've been better," she said so quietly that Christian could barely hear her.
Christian looked at Zibler, then took Satine's hand. He looked at her very seriously.
"Satine, darling," he said, "We've run into a bit of trouble. There's a little bit of a problem, nothing serious, it's just that, you're going to need a bit of surgery."
Satine had to have been delirious or something, because the normal Satine would have freaked out if she had been told she needed surgery. But this Satine, sick Satine, just nodded gravely. She understood completely.
"Well, the thing is, it's kind of expensive, and we don't have any money . . ."
Satine shook her head. "No, Christian. I won't have him here. I'd rather die than to have . . ."
"You will die," Zibler interjected, "If you don't have this surgery."
Satine gasped. "No," she said, "I still won't have him here. He'll kill Christian and then he'll kill me. It won't make any difference, Harold, except Christian will be able to go on . . ."
Christian looked into her eyes. "I think we should do this."
Satine shook her head. "No! I refuse to!"
"Darling, I can leave . . ."
"NO, you're not leaving me!"
"But if he doesn't come . . . you'll leave me! That's not very fair, is it?"
Satine didn't take her eyes of Christian, but said to Zibler, "Harold, leave us."
Zibler left, leaving Christian and Satine alone.
Christian started to pick the argument back up, but Satine hushed him.
"No, I want to talk. Just talk, like we did . . . that first night."
Satine's breathing was getting more shallow as she spoke. Christian's eyes teared up, but he kept looking at her.
"So, how's the show coming?"
"Pretty good. I still . . . have to write an ending."
"Well, that's good."
"Yeah."
They sat in silence for a moment, then Christian asked quietly, "What's your real name?"
Satine laughed. "Adrienne," she whispered, "Adrienne Hoffman."
Christian smiled. "Really?"
"Really."
"That's a very pretty name."
"Thank you."
Another moment of silence went by, then Christian said, "You don't have to have the surgery here, you know. My parents can pay for it, back in Albany. We could leave now, secretly, and no one would know."
Satine smiled. "I don't want to pretend anymore."
"Then you don't have to, Adrienne."
"I like it when you call me that."
Christian gently kissed her, then stood. He lifted her out of bed, then whispered, "We're getting out of here."
Satine put her feet on the ground, and walked leaning on Christian out to the door. The went to the stairs - Satine didn't want to take an elevator, even one floor - and went back to the lobby. Satine piled her hair up and put it under a shower cap. Christian pulled the hood of his wind breaker up, hiding his face. Satine could hide him from Zibler if he walked by. They quietly stole out of the side door, getting trouble from no one, except an orderly that demanded to know if she had checked out. They ignored him, then walked faster to his car, just outside parked in a handicapped spot - he had borrowed Henri's handicapped placard to hang from his rear view mirror.
They piled into the car, Christian laying Satine carefully down in the back seat. Then he quickly started his car, and they sped out of the parking lot.
****************************************************************************
See, I told you I was going to stray from the movie a little. In the next chapter, Satine (or Adrienne, but I'm going to keep calling her Satine . . . maybe) and Christian get to Albany. What happens when they get there? Thanks for the reviews . . . you haven't posted in a while. I love all y'all that do. Ha, see, now I'm from the South. But am I really? You draw your own conclusions.
~Evie
I don't own Moulin Rouge or its characters, a- . . . . . . . . . . . . .
