Title: I'm Sorry, Mama (this may be subject to change)
Summary: I was up late one night battling insomnia and eating sugar cookies and drinking Pepsi and this was the result. I know everyone does childhood stories, but this is my stab at it. (BTW, it's Satine's)
Disclaimer: You know the drill-
Not in the movie = mine
In the movie = not mine
Reviews: Please, please, PLEASE! I'm sacrificing my dignity and begging! I hope
You're all happy now!
July 8th, 1879
Villeneuve, France
Two weeks, exactly. Two weeks of functioning, yet not. The world moved in a steady pace around her yet she seemed planted firmly in cement. No one noticed, though. She just stood forlornly at the viewing, funeral, and wake in her too-large black frock; her hair pinned loosely behind her ears and her eyes large and hollow. She really looked the part of the orphaned waif. Especially with the angry red slashes in the delicate skin of her face.
Every once and while, a straggler whose eye she happened to catch would come and pat her on the head, reiterating the sorrow they felt. What, do they think I don't know they're sorry? How stupid to say that. No one rejoices in death she thought at the time as they folded their hands over a handkerchief at their sides and moved on to the dramatic Marguerite. Satine and her mother had had little contact since the day in Etampes when she picked her up, and that was probably for the better. Though Satine resolved to fulfill her father's wishes of bettering her mother, she just didn't have the motivation, patience, nor will at the moment to put up with what she was sure would be a long battle.
Now, after all the happenings were over and the attention of the town wasn't on Marguerite, she had reverted to her former self. Days were spent in her room, talking to no one in particular as she drank from the Cognac. Satine used to listen but some of things she said frightened her. Hateful things. Things Satine would soon learn of...
Marguerite's nights were whole different stories. After Satine had been banished to her room after a miniscule meal, the back servants entry would brim with activity as Mr. Pinchot snuck in and up to Marguerite's room. Satine would crawl beneath her bed and sing or tell herself stories to distract herself. Sleep was rare and far between.
It was midday now, and the sun was settling on the horizon, it's last attempts to illuminate Villeneuve were bold, demanding orange rays that caught in the beveled glass of the windows and sprinkled intricate patterns on the shiny wood floor. Satine perched herself on the top of the steps and was idly humming as she poked at a piece of knitting she'd been working on. Ol' Madame Parcel that cleaned their house was nagging her to learn, but since Marguerite expelled the old woman, Satine had given up the rigorous torment and concentrate. It was so unimaginative...knitting was knitting...Now singing, that was something. Or acting, or painting...Anything like that was so graceful, beautiful. But Ol' Madame Parcel had dismissed it as "foolish fiction" and shoved the heavy cloth into Satine's hands.
Now, she missed that old woman and her superstitious ways. It would have
been company. Better company then Marguerite. It was all day, just Satine and
her. Satine longed for a person to talk to, even if it was the Devil himself as
long as he had conversation. She had taken to telling herself stories, great
ones about knights in white armor and princesses trapped in towers with nowhere
to go and no one to play with. Each time the prince and princess united in
different, exciting, courageous sequences.
"Ah to hell with it!" Satine murmured, flinching at the bad word she'd
said. She'd never said an upset word like that. She'd heard Marguerite and her
father say things like that, but the absurdity of it coming from her mouth made
her laugh as she did a quick Hail Mary to save herself. It'd been a year at
least since she'd sat on the cool, waxed wood of a church pew, and the Hail Mary
was all she remembered.
Afterwards, she began humming a tune she'd picked up from a local hobo
playing a cornet. She didn't know the words, but the tune was nice, and she
became so immersed in it she didn't hear Marguerite's approach.
"For Christ's sake, girl, must you make that ruckus!" she shrieked. Satine
jumped to her feet, nearly tripping for the pins and needles sensation had set
in. She smoothed her wrinkled black dress and stepped away from Marguerite's
looming, skeletal form.
"I'm sorry, Mama." She replied almost mechanically. Marguerite scoffed for
a moment, her green eyes always alert and piercing. She examined the face of
Satine, who had it down-turned slightly but was nonetheless watching her. After
a moment, it seemed an unknown emotion flickered in the emerald depths of her
eyes and they seemed soft for a moment. Not crude and angry, but of almost
compassion. Satine blinked.
"Mama...?" the sound of her voice seemed to trigger Marguerite's harshness
to come back.
"Lord..." she spat, seemingly-Satine didn't know any better-embarrassed to
be caught at an unintentional weakness in her emotion.
"Must you nag me!" she snapped after a pause. She stomped by and Satine
stood, watching her descend the steps.
Wishful thinking...she thought as she stood at the top of the steps. She ran her fingers in the crevice of the banister as Marguerite stormed around the downstairs. Just then, the front door knocker reverberated through the house and Marguerite rushed to it. Satine lingered at the top of the steps, still not wanting to have to be patted by another falsely sincere stranger yet curious to see the guest. Marguerite's tall figure blocked the dark one on the threshold, but what he crossed it, Satine saw it was Mr. Pinchot.
"Satine!" Marguerite screeched at last. Satine lifted the lace of her dress and thumped down the stairs, her wool socks slapping the wood with a dull thud, especially as she skipped the last few and landed two steps too far up. She straightened herself as Mr. Pinchot stood-leered might be more accurate-over her.
"Bonjour, Satine. How are you, cherié? Excited about the new arrangement?" His dark, beady eyes were boring into Satine's own so much so her head hurt and her eyes burned. He made her feel nervous when he was around because he always stood so close, and had this look in his eye.
"Satine Isabeau! Answer a gentleman when he speaks!" Marguerite snapped. Satine stiffened.
"Bonjour, Monsieur. Very good. What new 'rangement?" He smiled an eerie smile, and she felt all the hairs on her body stand at attention and a tickly sensation glide it's wicked fingers up her arms and legs, causing her to shiver.
"Well Satine, it so happens..." Marguerite began, but then Mr. Pinchot interrupted her.
"Marguerite, my dear, shan't we go to the den?" He suggested. Marguerite shook her head emphatically.
"Satine's nearly six years old. She's not a baby." She informed him, and then turned her stern face to Satine. "It so happens that Mr. Pinchot and I are betrothed." Her felt her eyes widen at least six inches in diameter. She had a limited grasp of vocabulary, but betrothed she knew. That meant marriage.
"But...what will people think? Papa..." Satine stuttered, the weight still sinking hard and fast on her mind.
"Sweet Jesus, girl, he is dead. Besides, there will be no concern for what people think. We're leaving Villeneuve." Satine felt her heart tightening and a hysterical feeling gripped her. Leave Villeneuve? The only home she'd known. The home she'd shared with Papa.
"No..." she burst out in an explosion that wracked her chest, but then she dissolved in tears.
"What do you mean no? It's not a discussion!" Marguerite's eyes were hot and angry, and as much as Satine swore she wouldn't upset her, she just couldn't hold this in. She cried shamelessly. Mr. Pinchot spoke up.
"Marguerite maybe we should give her some adjustment time..." Marguerite whirled on him.
"No! She's not what's important! In life you have to move on! He's not coming back, ever! Why sit here and rot as a widow!" Satine was wailing and Mr. Pinchot shook his head.
"Marguerite I'm going home for now. I'll be calling on you tomorrow to know you're final decision. Bonjour." Satine listened to this happen and also of the door closing, but she didn't hear Marguerite fly across the floor and give her the hardest back hand in the cheek that she could ever remembered. Satine flew backwards against the couch, her left eye tearing and her face feeling broken.
"You worthless, stupid, idiotic little urchin! My God, you've gone and scared him away! I'm going to die unmarried because of you! I hate you!" She stood and began pacing angrily. "Christ, I wish it was you that died in the crash."
Marguerite had said a great deal of things to Satine that she had hurt her with, but Satine suppressed them because a thousand cruel words was worth nothing compared to the one utterance by her father (She loves you, Sa-Teeny). But this froze her tears. She looked up, to see if Marguerite was just in raged, but she wasn't. She was clear. Concise. She'd meant it.
***
July 9th, 1879
Villeneuve, France
Satine and Marguerite hadn't spoken since the night before, and nothing was needed. Satine stood in her bedroom, dressed in a soft yellow frock with white lace that had belonged to Marguerite. She just stared out the window at the carriage that awaited her and a minimum amount of her possessions. They had been selected by Marguerite and had been deemed "necessary" and thrown into a trunk no bigger than Satine. Most of it was clothing, and a few shoes, shimmies. But she hadn't allowed her to bring anything else except what she could hold on her lap for the duration of the trip to Nice.
As the front door slammed, then creaked open moments later only to slam again, as if it was undecided as to what it wanted to be, open or closed, Satine slide across the room and bent down onto her knees, and ran her fingers along the ridges of the wood floor until they collided with a soft, yet slightly coarse material she'd been safe guarding for two weeks now. She slid it across the floor with a whoosh and pulled it to her chest. It still smelled of cedar and whiskey, like Peter. But the smell was fading. That didn't matter, however, to Satine. She knew the scent by heart, and it would stay with her forever.
After a moment she removed the snapshot from the pocket and the bow tie. She clipped the bow tie low on her neck beneath her frock so Marguerite wouldn't notice and fingered the creases in the snapshot for a moment. She studied the dramatic pursed look on Sarah Bernhardt's face and a familiar prickling in her eyes spread. She quickly put the photo in the pocket of the jacket and wrapped it around her. She closed her eyes for a moment and began to sing
I'll protect myself
Against the cold lash of tongues and lies
I'll blend in with the crowd
I'll disperse into the stream
I'll fade into the darkness
I'll turn and walk away
Remember me for what I was
As one world breaks in two
I'll follow my own way
I'll forge another path
Remember me for what I was
Not what I couldn't be
Remember me for what I was
And shall never be
Satine swiftly folded the jacket into a small bundle and put it on the top of the clothes in the trunk and snapped the lid shut.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Author's Note: I know it took me a LONG time and for that I'm sorry but school began and I had to write for class so...well you know what I mean. But anyway, please review! And there is more to come, I just needed to get into the rhythmn again! Toodles!
I used without ahem permission the song "Leaving" by Anne Clark (SORRY!)
Summary: I was up late one night battling insomnia and eating sugar cookies and drinking Pepsi and this was the result. I know everyone does childhood stories, but this is my stab at it. (BTW, it's Satine's)
Disclaimer: You know the drill-
Not in the movie = mine
In the movie = not mine
Reviews: Please, please, PLEASE! I'm sacrificing my dignity and begging! I hope
You're all happy now!
July 8th, 1879
Villeneuve, France
Two weeks, exactly. Two weeks of functioning, yet not. The world moved in a steady pace around her yet she seemed planted firmly in cement. No one noticed, though. She just stood forlornly at the viewing, funeral, and wake in her too-large black frock; her hair pinned loosely behind her ears and her eyes large and hollow. She really looked the part of the orphaned waif. Especially with the angry red slashes in the delicate skin of her face.
Every once and while, a straggler whose eye she happened to catch would come and pat her on the head, reiterating the sorrow they felt. What, do they think I don't know they're sorry? How stupid to say that. No one rejoices in death she thought at the time as they folded their hands over a handkerchief at their sides and moved on to the dramatic Marguerite. Satine and her mother had had little contact since the day in Etampes when she picked her up, and that was probably for the better. Though Satine resolved to fulfill her father's wishes of bettering her mother, she just didn't have the motivation, patience, nor will at the moment to put up with what she was sure would be a long battle.
Now, after all the happenings were over and the attention of the town wasn't on Marguerite, she had reverted to her former self. Days were spent in her room, talking to no one in particular as she drank from the Cognac. Satine used to listen but some of things she said frightened her. Hateful things. Things Satine would soon learn of...
Marguerite's nights were whole different stories. After Satine had been banished to her room after a miniscule meal, the back servants entry would brim with activity as Mr. Pinchot snuck in and up to Marguerite's room. Satine would crawl beneath her bed and sing or tell herself stories to distract herself. Sleep was rare and far between.
It was midday now, and the sun was settling on the horizon, it's last attempts to illuminate Villeneuve were bold, demanding orange rays that caught in the beveled glass of the windows and sprinkled intricate patterns on the shiny wood floor. Satine perched herself on the top of the steps and was idly humming as she poked at a piece of knitting she'd been working on. Ol' Madame Parcel that cleaned their house was nagging her to learn, but since Marguerite expelled the old woman, Satine had given up the rigorous torment and concentrate. It was so unimaginative...knitting was knitting...Now singing, that was something. Or acting, or painting...Anything like that was so graceful, beautiful. But Ol' Madame Parcel had dismissed it as "foolish fiction" and shoved the heavy cloth into Satine's hands.
Now, she missed that old woman and her superstitious ways. It would have
been company. Better company then Marguerite. It was all day, just Satine and
her. Satine longed for a person to talk to, even if it was the Devil himself as
long as he had conversation. She had taken to telling herself stories, great
ones about knights in white armor and princesses trapped in towers with nowhere
to go and no one to play with. Each time the prince and princess united in
different, exciting, courageous sequences.
"Ah to hell with it!" Satine murmured, flinching at the bad word she'd
said. She'd never said an upset word like that. She'd heard Marguerite and her
father say things like that, but the absurdity of it coming from her mouth made
her laugh as she did a quick Hail Mary to save herself. It'd been a year at
least since she'd sat on the cool, waxed wood of a church pew, and the Hail Mary
was all she remembered.
Afterwards, she began humming a tune she'd picked up from a local hobo
playing a cornet. She didn't know the words, but the tune was nice, and she
became so immersed in it she didn't hear Marguerite's approach.
"For Christ's sake, girl, must you make that ruckus!" she shrieked. Satine
jumped to her feet, nearly tripping for the pins and needles sensation had set
in. She smoothed her wrinkled black dress and stepped away from Marguerite's
looming, skeletal form.
"I'm sorry, Mama." She replied almost mechanically. Marguerite scoffed for
a moment, her green eyes always alert and piercing. She examined the face of
Satine, who had it down-turned slightly but was nonetheless watching her. After
a moment, it seemed an unknown emotion flickered in the emerald depths of her
eyes and they seemed soft for a moment. Not crude and angry, but of almost
compassion. Satine blinked.
"Mama...?" the sound of her voice seemed to trigger Marguerite's harshness
to come back.
"Lord..." she spat, seemingly-Satine didn't know any better-embarrassed to
be caught at an unintentional weakness in her emotion.
"Must you nag me!" she snapped after a pause. She stomped by and Satine
stood, watching her descend the steps.
Wishful thinking...she thought as she stood at the top of the steps. She ran her fingers in the crevice of the banister as Marguerite stormed around the downstairs. Just then, the front door knocker reverberated through the house and Marguerite rushed to it. Satine lingered at the top of the steps, still not wanting to have to be patted by another falsely sincere stranger yet curious to see the guest. Marguerite's tall figure blocked the dark one on the threshold, but what he crossed it, Satine saw it was Mr. Pinchot.
"Satine!" Marguerite screeched at last. Satine lifted the lace of her dress and thumped down the stairs, her wool socks slapping the wood with a dull thud, especially as she skipped the last few and landed two steps too far up. She straightened herself as Mr. Pinchot stood-leered might be more accurate-over her.
"Bonjour, Satine. How are you, cherié? Excited about the new arrangement?" His dark, beady eyes were boring into Satine's own so much so her head hurt and her eyes burned. He made her feel nervous when he was around because he always stood so close, and had this look in his eye.
"Satine Isabeau! Answer a gentleman when he speaks!" Marguerite snapped. Satine stiffened.
"Bonjour, Monsieur. Very good. What new 'rangement?" He smiled an eerie smile, and she felt all the hairs on her body stand at attention and a tickly sensation glide it's wicked fingers up her arms and legs, causing her to shiver.
"Well Satine, it so happens..." Marguerite began, but then Mr. Pinchot interrupted her.
"Marguerite, my dear, shan't we go to the den?" He suggested. Marguerite shook her head emphatically.
"Satine's nearly six years old. She's not a baby." She informed him, and then turned her stern face to Satine. "It so happens that Mr. Pinchot and I are betrothed." Her felt her eyes widen at least six inches in diameter. She had a limited grasp of vocabulary, but betrothed she knew. That meant marriage.
"But...what will people think? Papa..." Satine stuttered, the weight still sinking hard and fast on her mind.
"Sweet Jesus, girl, he is dead. Besides, there will be no concern for what people think. We're leaving Villeneuve." Satine felt her heart tightening and a hysterical feeling gripped her. Leave Villeneuve? The only home she'd known. The home she'd shared with Papa.
"No..." she burst out in an explosion that wracked her chest, but then she dissolved in tears.
"What do you mean no? It's not a discussion!" Marguerite's eyes were hot and angry, and as much as Satine swore she wouldn't upset her, she just couldn't hold this in. She cried shamelessly. Mr. Pinchot spoke up.
"Marguerite maybe we should give her some adjustment time..." Marguerite whirled on him.
"No! She's not what's important! In life you have to move on! He's not coming back, ever! Why sit here and rot as a widow!" Satine was wailing and Mr. Pinchot shook his head.
"Marguerite I'm going home for now. I'll be calling on you tomorrow to know you're final decision. Bonjour." Satine listened to this happen and also of the door closing, but she didn't hear Marguerite fly across the floor and give her the hardest back hand in the cheek that she could ever remembered. Satine flew backwards against the couch, her left eye tearing and her face feeling broken.
"You worthless, stupid, idiotic little urchin! My God, you've gone and scared him away! I'm going to die unmarried because of you! I hate you!" She stood and began pacing angrily. "Christ, I wish it was you that died in the crash."
Marguerite had said a great deal of things to Satine that she had hurt her with, but Satine suppressed them because a thousand cruel words was worth nothing compared to the one utterance by her father (She loves you, Sa-Teeny). But this froze her tears. She looked up, to see if Marguerite was just in raged, but she wasn't. She was clear. Concise. She'd meant it.
***
July 9th, 1879
Villeneuve, France
Satine and Marguerite hadn't spoken since the night before, and nothing was needed. Satine stood in her bedroom, dressed in a soft yellow frock with white lace that had belonged to Marguerite. She just stared out the window at the carriage that awaited her and a minimum amount of her possessions. They had been selected by Marguerite and had been deemed "necessary" and thrown into a trunk no bigger than Satine. Most of it was clothing, and a few shoes, shimmies. But she hadn't allowed her to bring anything else except what she could hold on her lap for the duration of the trip to Nice.
As the front door slammed, then creaked open moments later only to slam again, as if it was undecided as to what it wanted to be, open or closed, Satine slide across the room and bent down onto her knees, and ran her fingers along the ridges of the wood floor until they collided with a soft, yet slightly coarse material she'd been safe guarding for two weeks now. She slid it across the floor with a whoosh and pulled it to her chest. It still smelled of cedar and whiskey, like Peter. But the smell was fading. That didn't matter, however, to Satine. She knew the scent by heart, and it would stay with her forever.
After a moment she removed the snapshot from the pocket and the bow tie. She clipped the bow tie low on her neck beneath her frock so Marguerite wouldn't notice and fingered the creases in the snapshot for a moment. She studied the dramatic pursed look on Sarah Bernhardt's face and a familiar prickling in her eyes spread. She quickly put the photo in the pocket of the jacket and wrapped it around her. She closed her eyes for a moment and began to sing
I'll protect myself
Against the cold lash of tongues and lies
I'll blend in with the crowd
I'll disperse into the stream
I'll fade into the darkness
I'll turn and walk away
Remember me for what I was
As one world breaks in two
I'll follow my own way
I'll forge another path
Remember me for what I was
Not what I couldn't be
Remember me for what I was
And shall never be
Satine swiftly folded the jacket into a small bundle and put it on the top of the clothes in the trunk and snapped the lid shut.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Author's Note: I know it took me a LONG time and for that I'm sorry but school began and I had to write for class so...well you know what I mean. But anyway, please review! And there is more to come, I just needed to get into the rhythmn again! Toodles!
I used without ahem permission the song "Leaving" by Anne Clark (SORRY!)