I ran my hands over the wood of the building I'd come to love, to hate, to
loathe. I looked back down to my hands, which were chapped and raw from
typing. I don't really know why they'd chapped from the typing, but that
was my excuse. You don't question writers.
My mind slid back, like it so often did, to the not-so-good day when Satine died. A thousand pins pricked the back of my eyes, and I gagged. I hate that feeling, like you're dying just holding back your tears. It partially ironic, really. I held our story in those hands, nails bitten to the bone with the anticipation of coming back. Anxiety. I cracked my knuckles, which were swollen from the amount of pounding I'd done. Toulouse no doubt though me mad by now, with my infernal yelling and pounding of the walls, at least back then. You don't cry when you know no one cares. I've noticed that, as I slipped into delusion. You cry for attention, to be comforted. When all your friends are pimps and streetwalkers, you know no one cares. They have their own problems, no doubt at least the size of yours. I kicked the caked mud from my shoes and walked forward, tentively paying the cover and sliding open the door. The night life at opened up to me again, the hounds of the underworld ready to stalk me down, and kill me. Zidler's Diamond Dogs, at least a hundred girls, tightened corsets small enough for my hands to wrap around their waists. I tried to wonder who liked that, a waist so skinny that their arms could wrap around it. I found guilty pleasure in that, for someone so little, so delicate. A toy, really. I was sick of being someone's toy, an anorexic lust that they'd hold for me. I closed my eyes, and wondered if Satine loved me. It's funny to think about love as an noun, not an verb. Verbs are so impersonal. But I'm starting to wonder if all words are impersonal. If writing is just a waste of my time. My father's voice still rings true, and if he dare knew me now... I wanted to slide down the side of the wall and break out in tears. Just scream and cry. Maybe someone would comfort me.
Nini. My eyes briefly found my way to her, and she was twisting a black ringlet around me finger, sitting on the Argentinean's lap. Running her tongue over those cherry red lips. I hated her right then more then anything, how she was so nonchalant about Satine, how she just didn't care. This was all her fault. And what more, she was twirling her hair around her finger like a ditzy school girl, which was pissing me off right then. I suppose I would have walked over and gave her a square one in the jaw. But Satine. I was doing this for Satine.
Harry Zidler. A man I'd come to love, a man I'd come to hate, just as the Moulin Rouge. His red swollen face looked briefly surprised to see me, but I doubt it was me as a person. It was most likely my appearance, eyes red rimmed like I'd so often seen Satines', my face unshaven, a haggard layer of stubble gathered over my chin. Hair hanging in lengthy locks curling past my ears.
"Hello Zidler." My voice was deeper then I'd expected. I fumbled the paper in my hands, and each second was another beat of my heart, which was ringing through my ear drums.
"Hello, Christian. How may I help you?" God, he was so nonchalant too. I was getting pissed off at the whole place, dammit. I wanted to grasp him in my arms and strangle him, and I would have, really. I clasped the story in my hands tighter, throttling it, before I stuck my grubby hands out like a small child. He took the sheets, and his eyes skimmed it
"Tell our story, Goddammit Zidler." I hissed, eyes narrowing. He was slightly taken aback. I don't blame him. "Tell the story of your fucking pantomime. I can't live with your Goddamn lies anymore."
I stormed out after that, the tears finally seeping over the red rims of my eyes, stinging, the salt so sweet in my mouth. It reminded me of her sweat, her sweat, and it was so bitter after I thought of that... I couldn't go on, I ran through the streets, tripping past prostitutes and winos, the only sound in my ears the slapping of my feet against the stones on the ground and the beating of my heart. I threw open the apartment door, breaking down in muffled sobs, thrusting myself onto the ground, having a tantrum. If I had been watching myself, I would have pissed myself off to no end. But I wasn't watching myself, and so I sat for hours, screaming and pounding, just like I did the first few days after her death. I poured myself a glass of Abstinence, the green liquid which had told me the truth, given me hell, lied to me, and left me lying in the dirt. Hands shaking, a picked it up to my mouth, pouring it into the caverns of my throat. I couldn't sip it, my chest and throat were tightened, like someone's wrapped my tubes in a knot. Shivering, I pulled her blue blanket into my arms, pressing it up to my nose... her scent, God knows I missed her scent. The blanket no longer smelt like perfume and sweat, but like me. Me,Goddammit, I'd lost another part of her, making it me. A solitaire tear fell down my hollowed cheeks, I wasn't eating enough, I knew that... I took another sip from the glass, starring at the Green Fairy before I slipped off to sleep. I swear for just that night, her face was Satine's.
I don't know how long I slept. It could have been two hours, or two weeks. I held my head, the result of a ample hangover, squeezing my eyes shut to briefly shut it all out. Bohemian my ass, the truth was Satine was dead, leaving the beauty dead. I had no freedom. She once said the difference between me and her was that I could leave whenever I wanted. This was her home. Yeah, well then where the fuck am I? Why can't I go back? Thank you for curing me of my silly obsession with love. I looked out the smashed window, and knew what I had to do. I plastered a smile to my face, creasing the corners of my mouth, but I doubt anyone noticed. Wandering down the streets with a bored depression, knowing what I was about to do, was almost half fun. It was like I watching myself. The Green Fairy's a good girl. She really is.
I walked to the pharmacy, putting on a husky cough. I grabbed some over-the- counter pills, coughed again, and staggered over to the counter. I placed the cough medicine on the counter, handing it to the man. Pulling faded bills from my pocket (I really hadn't spent much money, except on the Green Fairy), I thrust them to the man like I had the story to Zidler. This is how my story would end.
Sitting back in my room, I coiled again into a corner, holding the cup of Absentince in one hand, the pills I'd bought in the other. I lined them up, one by one, until 50 of them had been stretched across my floor. I counted six times, just to make sure. Slowly, one by one, I took them, convulsing each time as the bitter taste hit my tongue, downing it with Abstentince. I went and sat on my balcony, rocking, rocking until the pills hit.
She found me. Don't Goddamn ask me who she was, I'll tell you later. She found me, all alone, rocking, the empty bottle of pills in my hand. She kicked me in the stomach until I vomited, until I woke up, until I was screaming again, with pain and rage. I wanted to die, I didn't want her to make me spit it all up. If I had energy, I would have punched her out. I didn't care anymore. She slapped me a few times, trying to get me to stop crying, I suppose. What a dumb thing to do, slap someone so they stop crying. My tears stung enough, I didn't need the red blotch her hand had made stinging as well. It was a while before I'd stopped the staggering sobs, and found the strength to open my eyes. I think I half suspected to see Satine there, her cherry red pout so welcoming, lengthy eyebrows cocked, smirk lining her face. No such luck. If it wasn't Satine, my next guess would have been Nini. Looking for someone to spend the night with, I suppose. Really, right then, I wouldn't have minded. I didn't care anymore. No such luck, either. She was young, she couldn't have been any older then eighteen. Tall, long muscular limbs. Long lightly curly red hair pulled back into a bun. She had a fairly pretty face, small eyes almost oriental, tiny bird-like nose. She cocked her head with a childhood innocence I would have laughed at, if I was into those kind of things. Laughing, I mean. Not little girls.
Her name was Simone. It was almost enchanting, but not because of herself. Not because she saved me. I don't even think I ever got the chance to say thank you to her. The only real reason I lusted for her was because she reminded me so much of Satine, the lengthy stride, the tinkling laugh... I wanted to kiss her, to pull her into my arms, and thrust her as far away from me, all at the same time. Corset pushing her small bust upwards, she leaned over as she talked to me, and I had to struggle to keep looking at her face. I think she was trying to make me look at the open cleavage though, due to the almost angry pout as she slid back to lean against the chair. Flicking her hair over her back, taken from the bun, she ran her tongue over her crimson lips, grinning like a cat. "Are you all right?" I leered at her from across the wooden table in my small room, leg hitting the typewriter I'd had to place on the floor.
"I'm fine." You know, the funny thing is that I half expected an narcolepsy- ridden Argentinean to fall through my roof right then. And he didn't.
My mind slid back, like it so often did, to the not-so-good day when Satine died. A thousand pins pricked the back of my eyes, and I gagged. I hate that feeling, like you're dying just holding back your tears. It partially ironic, really. I held our story in those hands, nails bitten to the bone with the anticipation of coming back. Anxiety. I cracked my knuckles, which were swollen from the amount of pounding I'd done. Toulouse no doubt though me mad by now, with my infernal yelling and pounding of the walls, at least back then. You don't cry when you know no one cares. I've noticed that, as I slipped into delusion. You cry for attention, to be comforted. When all your friends are pimps and streetwalkers, you know no one cares. They have their own problems, no doubt at least the size of yours. I kicked the caked mud from my shoes and walked forward, tentively paying the cover and sliding open the door. The night life at opened up to me again, the hounds of the underworld ready to stalk me down, and kill me. Zidler's Diamond Dogs, at least a hundred girls, tightened corsets small enough for my hands to wrap around their waists. I tried to wonder who liked that, a waist so skinny that their arms could wrap around it. I found guilty pleasure in that, for someone so little, so delicate. A toy, really. I was sick of being someone's toy, an anorexic lust that they'd hold for me. I closed my eyes, and wondered if Satine loved me. It's funny to think about love as an noun, not an verb. Verbs are so impersonal. But I'm starting to wonder if all words are impersonal. If writing is just a waste of my time. My father's voice still rings true, and if he dare knew me now... I wanted to slide down the side of the wall and break out in tears. Just scream and cry. Maybe someone would comfort me.
Nini. My eyes briefly found my way to her, and she was twisting a black ringlet around me finger, sitting on the Argentinean's lap. Running her tongue over those cherry red lips. I hated her right then more then anything, how she was so nonchalant about Satine, how she just didn't care. This was all her fault. And what more, she was twirling her hair around her finger like a ditzy school girl, which was pissing me off right then. I suppose I would have walked over and gave her a square one in the jaw. But Satine. I was doing this for Satine.
Harry Zidler. A man I'd come to love, a man I'd come to hate, just as the Moulin Rouge. His red swollen face looked briefly surprised to see me, but I doubt it was me as a person. It was most likely my appearance, eyes red rimmed like I'd so often seen Satines', my face unshaven, a haggard layer of stubble gathered over my chin. Hair hanging in lengthy locks curling past my ears.
"Hello Zidler." My voice was deeper then I'd expected. I fumbled the paper in my hands, and each second was another beat of my heart, which was ringing through my ear drums.
"Hello, Christian. How may I help you?" God, he was so nonchalant too. I was getting pissed off at the whole place, dammit. I wanted to grasp him in my arms and strangle him, and I would have, really. I clasped the story in my hands tighter, throttling it, before I stuck my grubby hands out like a small child. He took the sheets, and his eyes skimmed it
"Tell our story, Goddammit Zidler." I hissed, eyes narrowing. He was slightly taken aback. I don't blame him. "Tell the story of your fucking pantomime. I can't live with your Goddamn lies anymore."
I stormed out after that, the tears finally seeping over the red rims of my eyes, stinging, the salt so sweet in my mouth. It reminded me of her sweat, her sweat, and it was so bitter after I thought of that... I couldn't go on, I ran through the streets, tripping past prostitutes and winos, the only sound in my ears the slapping of my feet against the stones on the ground and the beating of my heart. I threw open the apartment door, breaking down in muffled sobs, thrusting myself onto the ground, having a tantrum. If I had been watching myself, I would have pissed myself off to no end. But I wasn't watching myself, and so I sat for hours, screaming and pounding, just like I did the first few days after her death. I poured myself a glass of Abstinence, the green liquid which had told me the truth, given me hell, lied to me, and left me lying in the dirt. Hands shaking, a picked it up to my mouth, pouring it into the caverns of my throat. I couldn't sip it, my chest and throat were tightened, like someone's wrapped my tubes in a knot. Shivering, I pulled her blue blanket into my arms, pressing it up to my nose... her scent, God knows I missed her scent. The blanket no longer smelt like perfume and sweat, but like me. Me,Goddammit, I'd lost another part of her, making it me. A solitaire tear fell down my hollowed cheeks, I wasn't eating enough, I knew that... I took another sip from the glass, starring at the Green Fairy before I slipped off to sleep. I swear for just that night, her face was Satine's.
I don't know how long I slept. It could have been two hours, or two weeks. I held my head, the result of a ample hangover, squeezing my eyes shut to briefly shut it all out. Bohemian my ass, the truth was Satine was dead, leaving the beauty dead. I had no freedom. She once said the difference between me and her was that I could leave whenever I wanted. This was her home. Yeah, well then where the fuck am I? Why can't I go back? Thank you for curing me of my silly obsession with love. I looked out the smashed window, and knew what I had to do. I plastered a smile to my face, creasing the corners of my mouth, but I doubt anyone noticed. Wandering down the streets with a bored depression, knowing what I was about to do, was almost half fun. It was like I watching myself. The Green Fairy's a good girl. She really is.
I walked to the pharmacy, putting on a husky cough. I grabbed some over-the- counter pills, coughed again, and staggered over to the counter. I placed the cough medicine on the counter, handing it to the man. Pulling faded bills from my pocket (I really hadn't spent much money, except on the Green Fairy), I thrust them to the man like I had the story to Zidler. This is how my story would end.
Sitting back in my room, I coiled again into a corner, holding the cup of Absentince in one hand, the pills I'd bought in the other. I lined them up, one by one, until 50 of them had been stretched across my floor. I counted six times, just to make sure. Slowly, one by one, I took them, convulsing each time as the bitter taste hit my tongue, downing it with Abstentince. I went and sat on my balcony, rocking, rocking until the pills hit.
She found me. Don't Goddamn ask me who she was, I'll tell you later. She found me, all alone, rocking, the empty bottle of pills in my hand. She kicked me in the stomach until I vomited, until I woke up, until I was screaming again, with pain and rage. I wanted to die, I didn't want her to make me spit it all up. If I had energy, I would have punched her out. I didn't care anymore. She slapped me a few times, trying to get me to stop crying, I suppose. What a dumb thing to do, slap someone so they stop crying. My tears stung enough, I didn't need the red blotch her hand had made stinging as well. It was a while before I'd stopped the staggering sobs, and found the strength to open my eyes. I think I half suspected to see Satine there, her cherry red pout so welcoming, lengthy eyebrows cocked, smirk lining her face. No such luck. If it wasn't Satine, my next guess would have been Nini. Looking for someone to spend the night with, I suppose. Really, right then, I wouldn't have minded. I didn't care anymore. No such luck, either. She was young, she couldn't have been any older then eighteen. Tall, long muscular limbs. Long lightly curly red hair pulled back into a bun. She had a fairly pretty face, small eyes almost oriental, tiny bird-like nose. She cocked her head with a childhood innocence I would have laughed at, if I was into those kind of things. Laughing, I mean. Not little girls.
Her name was Simone. It was almost enchanting, but not because of herself. Not because she saved me. I don't even think I ever got the chance to say thank you to her. The only real reason I lusted for her was because she reminded me so much of Satine, the lengthy stride, the tinkling laugh... I wanted to kiss her, to pull her into my arms, and thrust her as far away from me, all at the same time. Corset pushing her small bust upwards, she leaned over as she talked to me, and I had to struggle to keep looking at her face. I think she was trying to make me look at the open cleavage though, due to the almost angry pout as she slid back to lean against the chair. Flicking her hair over her back, taken from the bun, she ran her tongue over her crimson lips, grinning like a cat. "Are you all right?" I leered at her from across the wooden table in my small room, leg hitting the typewriter I'd had to place on the floor.
"I'm fine." You know, the funny thing is that I half expected an narcolepsy- ridden Argentinean to fall through my roof right then. And he didn't.