DISCLAIMER: "MOULIN ROUGE" AND/OR ITS CHARACTERS DO NOT BELONG TO ME…IF
ONLY.
NOTE: I DO NOT KNOW THE NAME OF SATINE'S BIRD, I GUESSED 'SARAH' AFTER THE "…GREAT SARAH BERNDHART…"
1
2 "My Guardian Angel"
Life beyond death. Is it impossible? No. It's improbable. Quite possible, just not very. What is 'death' in the first place? Is it when our life ends? Is not when we lose everything 'death'? I mean you lost your 'life', did you not? You may still be alive, but still your 'life' was lost. I do not believe that 'death' is the absence of 'life', or the alternative to it. I believe 'death' is when our physical bodies give out, but mind you, life still goes on.
This story begins when another one ends. I had just finished my story, our story, our story of love. Satine and mine's. I had promised her I would tell our story and I had just. It was her dying wish and I would not let her down. I would not break my promise to her, not again. Not again.
I had finished it and I wanted Tollousse to be the first one to read it. After all, he knew about things like this, art and love, for he longed for it with every fiber of his being. He was a good man, a good person, a good friend. As I gathered the papers, Sarah, Satine's bird, which I kept, went absolutely tantric. She seemed as though she wanted desperately to get out of her cage. As I was about to let her out, other birds came. They came from the sky, and some from other homes, all of them frantically gathering in my apartment. I put down the papers in a drawer and I let Sarah out, but she stayed in there as I felt a soft, cool breeze pass me and leave by way of the window. The birds followed, but scattered their own ways, some to where they came from, others just scattered in the general sense of the word. I closed the gate of the cage and got the story I had written. I went upstairs and knocked on Tollouse's door. No answer. I tried again. Still no answer. I decided to check the Moulin Rouge, or what was left of it. It was now just another run down, run-of-the-mill shack for the "children of the revolution" who ended up being "children of the streets". I had not been at the Moulin Rouge since its first and last day of being a theater. It was the first and last performance of its first and last play, "Spectacular, Spectacular", the first and last play I have had the inspiration or imagination to write. To tell the truth, I had not been anywhere much since that fateful day. Except to Satine's funeral, Satine's grave and Satine's elephant to get her things, but other than that, I had stayed in my room. Alone and in mourn. Tollouse had tried everything to snap me out of my depression. Nothing had ever worked. Nothing would've ever worked. Nothing could've ever worked. Someone could've. Satine. Only she, she who put me in that great depression, could've snapped me out of it. Half the reason I would not have anything or anyone snap me out of it was because of my ridiculous and hopeless hope of Satine returning to me. Ironically, that was the reason I really did end my great depression, I had finished my--our love story. Why she said for me to write it was because that way she would be with me always. She'd return to me. She did. And I don't just mean by the way of the story. But then again, she never really left me. She was and will always be there. Here. With me. Because Satine could never leave her home. Once, she almost did. With me. But it wasn't meant to be. But in a way she was never home, until she was with me, because home is where the heart is.
As I came upon the middle of the road, the very same soft, cool breeze passed me again. I looked to the corner of the street I was going to, to where the breeze was headed off. Birds flocked towards there, too. That's when I saw her. Satine. Wearing the red dress she wore the first night we were together. Her back was turned, but it was her. Even her hair was done in the very same fashion as that magical night. It must have been her. I walked towards her faster with each step. Time was at a standstill as I raced towards my love. I stretched out my hand, my fingertips stretched far out with a longing to touch her. Satine. My hand was a mere movement away from touching her. My hand almost on her shoulder but then "BANG!" I heard a gunshot within the Moulin Rouge. I quickly turned my head to the Moulin Rouge before even thinking about it. When I finally did, which took a very short time, it was too late. I turned my head back. She was gone. Not anywhere in sight. I looked around, GONE! Not a trace, except when I looked to where she was standing, something sparkled at me. It was a small, little thing. I kneeled down and picked up the peculiar sparkle. It was—a diamant. Square-cut. It was a sparkling diamant.
NOTE: I DO NOT KNOW THE NAME OF SATINE'S BIRD, I GUESSED 'SARAH' AFTER THE "…GREAT SARAH BERNDHART…"
1
2 "My Guardian Angel"
Life beyond death. Is it impossible? No. It's improbable. Quite possible, just not very. What is 'death' in the first place? Is it when our life ends? Is not when we lose everything 'death'? I mean you lost your 'life', did you not? You may still be alive, but still your 'life' was lost. I do not believe that 'death' is the absence of 'life', or the alternative to it. I believe 'death' is when our physical bodies give out, but mind you, life still goes on.
This story begins when another one ends. I had just finished my story, our story, our story of love. Satine and mine's. I had promised her I would tell our story and I had just. It was her dying wish and I would not let her down. I would not break my promise to her, not again. Not again.
I had finished it and I wanted Tollousse to be the first one to read it. After all, he knew about things like this, art and love, for he longed for it with every fiber of his being. He was a good man, a good person, a good friend. As I gathered the papers, Sarah, Satine's bird, which I kept, went absolutely tantric. She seemed as though she wanted desperately to get out of her cage. As I was about to let her out, other birds came. They came from the sky, and some from other homes, all of them frantically gathering in my apartment. I put down the papers in a drawer and I let Sarah out, but she stayed in there as I felt a soft, cool breeze pass me and leave by way of the window. The birds followed, but scattered their own ways, some to where they came from, others just scattered in the general sense of the word. I closed the gate of the cage and got the story I had written. I went upstairs and knocked on Tollouse's door. No answer. I tried again. Still no answer. I decided to check the Moulin Rouge, or what was left of it. It was now just another run down, run-of-the-mill shack for the "children of the revolution" who ended up being "children of the streets". I had not been at the Moulin Rouge since its first and last day of being a theater. It was the first and last performance of its first and last play, "Spectacular, Spectacular", the first and last play I have had the inspiration or imagination to write. To tell the truth, I had not been anywhere much since that fateful day. Except to Satine's funeral, Satine's grave and Satine's elephant to get her things, but other than that, I had stayed in my room. Alone and in mourn. Tollouse had tried everything to snap me out of my depression. Nothing had ever worked. Nothing would've ever worked. Nothing could've ever worked. Someone could've. Satine. Only she, she who put me in that great depression, could've snapped me out of it. Half the reason I would not have anything or anyone snap me out of it was because of my ridiculous and hopeless hope of Satine returning to me. Ironically, that was the reason I really did end my great depression, I had finished my--our love story. Why she said for me to write it was because that way she would be with me always. She'd return to me. She did. And I don't just mean by the way of the story. But then again, she never really left me. She was and will always be there. Here. With me. Because Satine could never leave her home. Once, she almost did. With me. But it wasn't meant to be. But in a way she was never home, until she was with me, because home is where the heart is.
As I came upon the middle of the road, the very same soft, cool breeze passed me again. I looked to the corner of the street I was going to, to where the breeze was headed off. Birds flocked towards there, too. That's when I saw her. Satine. Wearing the red dress she wore the first night we were together. Her back was turned, but it was her. Even her hair was done in the very same fashion as that magical night. It must have been her. I walked towards her faster with each step. Time was at a standstill as I raced towards my love. I stretched out my hand, my fingertips stretched far out with a longing to touch her. Satine. My hand was a mere movement away from touching her. My hand almost on her shoulder but then "BANG!" I heard a gunshot within the Moulin Rouge. I quickly turned my head to the Moulin Rouge before even thinking about it. When I finally did, which took a very short time, it was too late. I turned my head back. She was gone. Not anywhere in sight. I looked around, GONE! Not a trace, except when I looked to where she was standing, something sparkled at me. It was a small, little thing. I kneeled down and picked up the peculiar sparkle. It was—a diamant. Square-cut. It was a sparkling diamant.