Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the story. Bazzie owns the rest
A/N: I see flames in the future. *nods* Bright orange burning flames. But
do me a favor? Could you please tell me why you hate it? Like, if you hate
the idea, say so. If you hate the way I wrote it, say so. Don't just put,
'I hate it', that doesn't help me become a better writer!
He sighed, his head in a scattered mess. He pressed his face to the keys of the old gray typewriter. They were cold, just like his heart. He couldn't bear to look around the old garret he had spent years in, the garret that he had found in order to be close to her. He adored her. Every breath of him was breathing for her. He'd never loved anyone with so much heart.
So he made up a story. He wrote about a love that ran deep, one that could never be broken. But it was lies, all of it.
Oh, how he wanted 'Love at the Moulin Rouge' to be real. How he wanted the angelic courtesan to come wandering into his cramped apartment in the run- down hotel, and smother him with words of adoration and love.
She haunted his daydreams with visions of her lying next to him in the dark hours of the morning. He could practically feel her kisses on his lips, savoring the touch from the ghost that had never been there.
He watched her in the club. She would dance with every man there, telling them foolish fibs to get them to love her... like he loved her. But, she played them. She toyed with their tender hearts and stole what was left of their innocence in one fatal swoop. She was evil.
He loved her so.
She hated him. She hated the way he looked at her, hated the way he spoke to her and hated the way he could see into her soul without even knowing a single thing about her.
She would never come to his garret. She would never whisper words of sweet adoration to him. She would never lie next to him, while he would sleep. And he would never feel her lips on him.
She didn't want to love. She told him that from the beginning. I despise you, she had said.
He didn't think anything of it. He loved her, that's all that matters.
So, he sat at the window over looking the Moulin Rouge and watched his lover's fragile thin body play with yet another man's soul, imagining the story he had created and how wonderful it would be if it came true... if only she would love him.
He sighed, his head in a scattered mess. He pressed his face to the keys of the old gray typewriter. They were cold, just like his heart. He couldn't bear to look around the old garret he had spent years in, the garret that he had found in order to be close to her. He adored her. Every breath of him was breathing for her. He'd never loved anyone with so much heart.
So he made up a story. He wrote about a love that ran deep, one that could never be broken. But it was lies, all of it.
Oh, how he wanted 'Love at the Moulin Rouge' to be real. How he wanted the angelic courtesan to come wandering into his cramped apartment in the run- down hotel, and smother him with words of adoration and love.
She haunted his daydreams with visions of her lying next to him in the dark hours of the morning. He could practically feel her kisses on his lips, savoring the touch from the ghost that had never been there.
He watched her in the club. She would dance with every man there, telling them foolish fibs to get them to love her... like he loved her. But, she played them. She toyed with their tender hearts and stole what was left of their innocence in one fatal swoop. She was evil.
He loved her so.
She hated him. She hated the way he looked at her, hated the way he spoke to her and hated the way he could see into her soul without even knowing a single thing about her.
She would never come to his garret. She would never whisper words of sweet adoration to him. She would never lie next to him, while he would sleep. And he would never feel her lips on him.
She didn't want to love. She told him that from the beginning. I despise you, she had said.
He didn't think anything of it. He loved her, that's all that matters.
So, he sat at the window over looking the Moulin Rouge and watched his lover's fragile thin body play with yet another man's soul, imagining the story he had created and how wonderful it would be if it came true... if only she would love him.