Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea for this story. The original tale is
not mine, but you already knew that, right? I like reviews, by the way.
Dedication: To all my readers and those who have supported me as I experiment with fanfic, you are all so amazing! .And now, the good stuff.
If You Can't Take The Heat. Christian sat watching the fire burning brightly in the streets of Montmartre-the French Bohemian capital to many. This blazing fire sparked with a powerful crack as it licked the heavy night sky. A particular smell began to fill the air, beginning as a musky, smoky scent, then becoming something new and difficult to identify.
The now older-looking writer was watching this bonfire out his wooden- framed window. He sat at his typewriter, watching silently as the wood within the flames crackled and popped and the gleaming bright flames took over him. He looked very distant and cold to the people below who noticed him, yet so few paid any attention to the pathetic-looking man. He had isolated himself from the world beyond his tiny garret, avoiding people and locations that were filled with happy couples, smiling single women and groups of friends chatting about subjects Christian had heard nothing of. No on by the fire seemed to notice the lone tear slip down his stubbled cheek, or the look of grief in his dark eyes, telling of a harsh pain from long ago.
He sat by his window, watching these people burn his story, their story, in front of the scandalous club he had dreaded for far too long-the Moulin Rouge.
No one in the dark, cruel community knew that he was the author of the so- called bizarre, unrealistic fairy tale. The only subtle hint given to the heartless readers was a cryptic inscription haunting the dedication page.
He felt fresh tears escape his hot, watery eyes as the last known copy in Montmartre was carelessly tossed into the hungry flame. He heart dropped, instantly becoming cold stone as he felt it should be. He held the only remaining copy in his weak, trembling hands. The tears he shed freely dripped down his face, landing on the hard red cover. He looked down at his beloved book and felt himself break down. The book slipped from his hands and onto the floor, opening to the dedication page on its own.
"To my love, this is our story."
The words on the page burned into the poet's very soul, bringing the stifled tears back again. The wounded writer had given his soul to the world, revealing himself so openly. In turn, he was dismissed by the vast majority as hopeless and unrealistic by critics who knew nothing of the reality they were ignoring. He was no longer a broken man--he was instead shattered, and on the verge of non-existence.
Depression set in, blurring reality and bringing Christian to a cliff he now ached to jump off of. He lost all sense of what was real and feel into a new chemical emptiness. His lost gaze came to rest on his bed and the cold weapon lying atop the starched white sheets. The gun, its cool metal chilling his soul as it did his sheets, caused his heart to freeze in mid- beat. A shiver slipped down his spine, making him rub his arms with his cool hands, trying to generate heat.
Death. The word he had once feared now meant freedom and infinite bliss. He wondered how thoughts of death could be so wrong when it made him so warm and happy deep within.
The gun lay still on his bed, silently screaming to be picked up, groped and used fatally. He was so close to obeying and lifting it from the bed and ending all pain. His mind raced, thoughts of death and the life beyond tearing at him. The pain would be so brief, and the rest after that moment, so new. The fire, now dying down outside, reminded him of the fire within him, burning so brightly with the concept of death that he felt numb.
The gun was in his hand. He was in control. To Christian, there was no barrier, no God, no one to stop him.
Christian closed his eyes and prepared to end his life. He pondered where to put the icy muzzle for a moment, then made a decision. His palms were damp, along with his flushed face. He touched the trigger and felt his muscles cramp slightly as his grip tightened.
"This is to end all the nothingness, the emptiness. I have told our story .and now, I'm done," he stated in a hoarse, cracking voice.
The smell of smoke and scorching flesh filled the small room, trailing from the gun's barrel. Christian's arm fell and his body shuddered, then he slumped down farther into the chair, taking his final position. It was over.
*****
Light shined ahead in a blinding white path, leading to a new golden bliss. Christian found his acceptance uplifting as he walked into the white light, feeling warm and pure again. He felt better, and happier, than he had in what he felt was far too long.
A soft sound reached Christian's ears, bringing a brilliant smile to the young writer's lips.
"Christian?"
*****
Christian finally felt alive again.
[End]
Dedication: To all my readers and those who have supported me as I experiment with fanfic, you are all so amazing! .And now, the good stuff.
If You Can't Take The Heat. Christian sat watching the fire burning brightly in the streets of Montmartre-the French Bohemian capital to many. This blazing fire sparked with a powerful crack as it licked the heavy night sky. A particular smell began to fill the air, beginning as a musky, smoky scent, then becoming something new and difficult to identify.
The now older-looking writer was watching this bonfire out his wooden- framed window. He sat at his typewriter, watching silently as the wood within the flames crackled and popped and the gleaming bright flames took over him. He looked very distant and cold to the people below who noticed him, yet so few paid any attention to the pathetic-looking man. He had isolated himself from the world beyond his tiny garret, avoiding people and locations that were filled with happy couples, smiling single women and groups of friends chatting about subjects Christian had heard nothing of. No on by the fire seemed to notice the lone tear slip down his stubbled cheek, or the look of grief in his dark eyes, telling of a harsh pain from long ago.
He sat by his window, watching these people burn his story, their story, in front of the scandalous club he had dreaded for far too long-the Moulin Rouge.
No one in the dark, cruel community knew that he was the author of the so- called bizarre, unrealistic fairy tale. The only subtle hint given to the heartless readers was a cryptic inscription haunting the dedication page.
He felt fresh tears escape his hot, watery eyes as the last known copy in Montmartre was carelessly tossed into the hungry flame. He heart dropped, instantly becoming cold stone as he felt it should be. He held the only remaining copy in his weak, trembling hands. The tears he shed freely dripped down his face, landing on the hard red cover. He looked down at his beloved book and felt himself break down. The book slipped from his hands and onto the floor, opening to the dedication page on its own.
"To my love, this is our story."
The words on the page burned into the poet's very soul, bringing the stifled tears back again. The wounded writer had given his soul to the world, revealing himself so openly. In turn, he was dismissed by the vast majority as hopeless and unrealistic by critics who knew nothing of the reality they were ignoring. He was no longer a broken man--he was instead shattered, and on the verge of non-existence.
Depression set in, blurring reality and bringing Christian to a cliff he now ached to jump off of. He lost all sense of what was real and feel into a new chemical emptiness. His lost gaze came to rest on his bed and the cold weapon lying atop the starched white sheets. The gun, its cool metal chilling his soul as it did his sheets, caused his heart to freeze in mid- beat. A shiver slipped down his spine, making him rub his arms with his cool hands, trying to generate heat.
Death. The word he had once feared now meant freedom and infinite bliss. He wondered how thoughts of death could be so wrong when it made him so warm and happy deep within.
The gun lay still on his bed, silently screaming to be picked up, groped and used fatally. He was so close to obeying and lifting it from the bed and ending all pain. His mind raced, thoughts of death and the life beyond tearing at him. The pain would be so brief, and the rest after that moment, so new. The fire, now dying down outside, reminded him of the fire within him, burning so brightly with the concept of death that he felt numb.
The gun was in his hand. He was in control. To Christian, there was no barrier, no God, no one to stop him.
Christian closed his eyes and prepared to end his life. He pondered where to put the icy muzzle for a moment, then made a decision. His palms were damp, along with his flushed face. He touched the trigger and felt his muscles cramp slightly as his grip tightened.
"This is to end all the nothingness, the emptiness. I have told our story .and now, I'm done," he stated in a hoarse, cracking voice.
The smell of smoke and scorching flesh filled the small room, trailing from the gun's barrel. Christian's arm fell and his body shuddered, then he slumped down farther into the chair, taking his final position. It was over.
*****
Light shined ahead in a blinding white path, leading to a new golden bliss. Christian found his acceptance uplifting as he walked into the white light, feeling warm and pure again. He felt better, and happier, than he had in what he felt was far too long.
A soft sound reached Christian's ears, bringing a brilliant smile to the young writer's lips.
"Christian?"
*****
Christian finally felt alive again.
[End]