Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama"
Summary: Simply, it's Satine's childhood. I guess after five chapters, that
should be rather obvious.
Reviews: Any! I am begging for them! Please! It speeds up the process.! Thanks!
Disclaimer: In movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.
July 25th, 1879
Nice, France
"Seventh god damned day in a row, girl." Marguerite said to Satine as
they sat at the breakfast table. This was the first day she had actually sat at the table with them. The previous six had been, after long arguments, in her room. But all ended the same.
"I'm sorry, Mama." She croaked. She wiped her mouth with a wet rag as the servant emptied the tin. She had thrown up, and the familiar sour sting was in her mouth.
"You're the color of hay. Your skin is hanging lower than an old hag's. What's wrong with you? You better not be contagious. If I get sick, I'll tan your hide." Marguerite swore as Satine sat before her. She didn't know what
to say.
"Jesus, first you go berserk and chop off all your precious hair and now you can't keep anything down! I swear, any more surprises and it's a sanitarium for you. Mr. Pinchot.I mean your father is going to turn you out!" Satine looked down at the floor and ran her finger along the crack.
"Mais oui, I say zee garl needs sun. Hadn't seen light in days, have you?" Laurie, the head serving lady, explained. Marguerite crossed her arms
and tapped her foot.
"Sounds right. Okay, you're going out. It has been quite depressing having you around." She turned and when she was at the door, she turned, "I
expect you gone when I get back."
~*~
As Satine slowly made her way to the edge of woods, she sighed when she noted how badly she was trembling. It had taken her a good hour to get the muster to leave the house, and then about ten minutes to get the courage to walk out to the woods. Now she was nearly there, her breath was coming it short, hazardous puffs.
She couldn't think of a rational reason for her fright, but a thought
poked at her mind. She hadn't been outside, let alone in these woods or to the pond, since that night. She had hardly spoken since. And hadn't eaten. She thought she would be relieved to be there, but all it did was bring back memories. She still hurt inside, and dreamt of the burning.pain.terror.
"Stop!" she commanded and she halted, shocked to find she was nearly halfway to the pond. Thankfully, he hadn't come back to her room. What had prompted him to come that night was a mystery and after three or four days Satine hoped he wouldn't return. But she knew that was wishful thinking.
The memory of her visitor that day only returned when she was in view
of the pond. That boy.the only child she had seen in weeks. She wasn't sure she wanted to know him anymore. Her misery was consuming her, and the chance that she might spread it to anyone else was probable. Misery was contagious. Marguerite wouldn't be affected, Satine knew, she already had enough.
When she finally saw the pond, the same impulse overcame her. With new immodesty, she undressed down to her shimmy and leapt in. She expected her hair to spread gracefully as it had, but the tiny, ragged cut left did nothing.
When she was fully under, her arms and legs began to frantically and enthusiastically pump so that she swam downward as if some transport to another world lies down there. Soon, though, the pressure increased so her ears popped and the inevitable buoyancy took over. Before she knew it, she was above water again, in the harsh reality.
With that, she began to weep. For the first time in a week, she wept crazily. She had expected the predictable outburst to feel releasing and freeing, but all it did was confirm the horror.
She felt weak suddenly, and swam to shore. She lay on her stomach and howled, sickened with herself, and she began to sing again.
Wish I was too dead to cry
My self affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator
You don't need to bother, I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping further
But once I hold on, I won't let go until it bleeds
Wish I was too dead to care
If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest
Wish I had a reason; my flaws are open season
Wish I died instead of lived
You don't need to bother, I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping further
But once I hold on.
"Even though you're miserable, your voice is beautiful." a startling, slightly lisped voice interrupted her. Satine jumped up, her head alert and eyes sharp. Seated on the gravelly sand four meters or so away was a small boy, smaller than her, with dark hair, olive complexion, and walnut-sized brown eyes. He was dressed in older boy's clothes, dark trousers and dark vest with a white collared shirt underneath and a black beret, but he didn't look any older than she.
"Who.what.who are you!" she demanded, her modesty cascading over her as she scooped up her clothes and pulled them on haphazardly. He took off his beret and stood.
"I am Henri Toulouse Lautrec. That's my given name. My Mama calls me Toulouse. You can too." He held out a hand. She stood, dripping wet, and held out her hand.
"My name is Satine. DuBois." How good it felt to say that.
"Pleasure, Satine." She eyed him, and chewed her lip.
"How old are you, Toulouse?"
"Eight." He replied indignantly, as if it was obvious.
"I'm almost six."
"You look older."
"You look younger."
He flushed. She didn't notice just yet.
"I was born too early. Mama says I was too impatient." He explained, slightly embarrassed. Satine felt a pang of guilt.
"I didn't mean."
"That's okay, my Papa says the same thing. I oughta grow more, he says, be more like a boy." Toulouse's eyes filled with sadness. "Just like my painting." Satine cocked her head.
"Painting? You paint?" finally, his face turned bright and he smiled.
"Sure do. Want to see?" she nodded, curiosity filling her. He led her over to a small orifice in the pond that was lined with rocks. Lying on the rocks was numerous small patches of canvas, each with runny colors spread across them. On some were animals, dogs, cats, and sheep, and others were landscapes. One caught her eye. It appeared to be an angel, an angel flying in the clouds.
"That's you." He whispered, noticing how she focused on the one.
"Me?"
"Yes. I saw you last week, swimming, with your long hair and pretty face.you reminded me of an angel. A real pretty one. So I drew you.only up in the clouds 'cause I couldn't figure out where you'd come from." He blushed. "I'll stop."
"They're gorgeous paintings." She told him softly.
"You're pretty gorgeous. What happened to all that hair?" he asked. Satine winced and turned suddenly, finding a proper rock and sitting upon it, scrunching the chopped locks in her fists.
"Accident. How long have you lived in Nice, Toulouse?" she asked, deliberately and not too subtly changing the subject.
"Three years. Really born in Albi. How about you? Where are you even living now?" he folded his tiny hands.
"I was born in Villeneuve, outside Paris. I live over in the Pinchot house, now. On the other side of the woods." She vaguely gestured. He shrugged.
"Oh. I never go past the pond. I'd probably get lost. Then my Papa would." he froze. It was his turn to change the subject. "Is the Pinchot family a relative of yours?"
"Philip Pinchot is my Father."
"You don't call him Papa?"
"He isn't my Papa." She replied sharply.
"And you're Mama?"
"She's there too." He silenced.
"My Mama and Papa live over on the other end of the woods. Papa owns the Winery, and Mama just tends the house."
"No servants?"
"No." Satine shifted. She knew she was holding back, and she felt oddly connected to this boy because he too was holding back.
"What else do you do, besides paint?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. "I walk a lot. That's how I got over here. There's a pass over down a bit. Nothing else." He looked at his lap.
"You can't swim?"
He blushed. "No. My Papa taught my brother Raul but said I was too weak." Satine shrugged.
"Well I've been here almost a week, and this is the most exciting it's been. There must be something!"
He shook his head.
"No, not really. Just nature. And now me." She smiled at his odd interjections of humor.
"You have any other friends, Toulouse?"
"Here? No."
"Me either. I think we can help each other out." She took his arm. "First, I'm going to teach you how to swim!"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's Note: A little lighter chapter after a pretty bad one.kinda sets up stuff.Okay, please review! Thanks! -K-
I used "Bother" by Stone Sour, by the way!
Summary: Simply, it's Satine's childhood. I guess after five chapters, that
should be rather obvious.
Reviews: Any! I am begging for them! Please! It speeds up the process.! Thanks!
Disclaimer: In movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.
July 25th, 1879
Nice, France
"Seventh god damned day in a row, girl." Marguerite said to Satine as
they sat at the breakfast table. This was the first day she had actually sat at the table with them. The previous six had been, after long arguments, in her room. But all ended the same.
"I'm sorry, Mama." She croaked. She wiped her mouth with a wet rag as the servant emptied the tin. She had thrown up, and the familiar sour sting was in her mouth.
"You're the color of hay. Your skin is hanging lower than an old hag's. What's wrong with you? You better not be contagious. If I get sick, I'll tan your hide." Marguerite swore as Satine sat before her. She didn't know what
to say.
"Jesus, first you go berserk and chop off all your precious hair and now you can't keep anything down! I swear, any more surprises and it's a sanitarium for you. Mr. Pinchot.I mean your father is going to turn you out!" Satine looked down at the floor and ran her finger along the crack.
"Mais oui, I say zee garl needs sun. Hadn't seen light in days, have you?" Laurie, the head serving lady, explained. Marguerite crossed her arms
and tapped her foot.
"Sounds right. Okay, you're going out. It has been quite depressing having you around." She turned and when she was at the door, she turned, "I
expect you gone when I get back."
~*~
As Satine slowly made her way to the edge of woods, she sighed when she noted how badly she was trembling. It had taken her a good hour to get the muster to leave the house, and then about ten minutes to get the courage to walk out to the woods. Now she was nearly there, her breath was coming it short, hazardous puffs.
She couldn't think of a rational reason for her fright, but a thought
poked at her mind. She hadn't been outside, let alone in these woods or to the pond, since that night. She had hardly spoken since. And hadn't eaten. She thought she would be relieved to be there, but all it did was bring back memories. She still hurt inside, and dreamt of the burning.pain.terror.
"Stop!" she commanded and she halted, shocked to find she was nearly halfway to the pond. Thankfully, he hadn't come back to her room. What had prompted him to come that night was a mystery and after three or four days Satine hoped he wouldn't return. But she knew that was wishful thinking.
The memory of her visitor that day only returned when she was in view
of the pond. That boy.the only child she had seen in weeks. She wasn't sure she wanted to know him anymore. Her misery was consuming her, and the chance that she might spread it to anyone else was probable. Misery was contagious. Marguerite wouldn't be affected, Satine knew, she already had enough.
When she finally saw the pond, the same impulse overcame her. With new immodesty, she undressed down to her shimmy and leapt in. She expected her hair to spread gracefully as it had, but the tiny, ragged cut left did nothing.
When she was fully under, her arms and legs began to frantically and enthusiastically pump so that she swam downward as if some transport to another world lies down there. Soon, though, the pressure increased so her ears popped and the inevitable buoyancy took over. Before she knew it, she was above water again, in the harsh reality.
With that, she began to weep. For the first time in a week, she wept crazily. She had expected the predictable outburst to feel releasing and freeing, but all it did was confirm the horror.
She felt weak suddenly, and swam to shore. She lay on her stomach and howled, sickened with herself, and she began to sing again.
Wish I was too dead to cry
My self affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator
You don't need to bother, I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping further
But once I hold on, I won't let go until it bleeds
Wish I was too dead to care
If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest
Wish I had a reason; my flaws are open season
Wish I died instead of lived
You don't need to bother, I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping further
But once I hold on.
"Even though you're miserable, your voice is beautiful." a startling, slightly lisped voice interrupted her. Satine jumped up, her head alert and eyes sharp. Seated on the gravelly sand four meters or so away was a small boy, smaller than her, with dark hair, olive complexion, and walnut-sized brown eyes. He was dressed in older boy's clothes, dark trousers and dark vest with a white collared shirt underneath and a black beret, but he didn't look any older than she.
"Who.what.who are you!" she demanded, her modesty cascading over her as she scooped up her clothes and pulled them on haphazardly. He took off his beret and stood.
"I am Henri Toulouse Lautrec. That's my given name. My Mama calls me Toulouse. You can too." He held out a hand. She stood, dripping wet, and held out her hand.
"My name is Satine. DuBois." How good it felt to say that.
"Pleasure, Satine." She eyed him, and chewed her lip.
"How old are you, Toulouse?"
"Eight." He replied indignantly, as if it was obvious.
"I'm almost six."
"You look older."
"You look younger."
He flushed. She didn't notice just yet.
"I was born too early. Mama says I was too impatient." He explained, slightly embarrassed. Satine felt a pang of guilt.
"I didn't mean."
"That's okay, my Papa says the same thing. I oughta grow more, he says, be more like a boy." Toulouse's eyes filled with sadness. "Just like my painting." Satine cocked her head.
"Painting? You paint?" finally, his face turned bright and he smiled.
"Sure do. Want to see?" she nodded, curiosity filling her. He led her over to a small orifice in the pond that was lined with rocks. Lying on the rocks was numerous small patches of canvas, each with runny colors spread across them. On some were animals, dogs, cats, and sheep, and others were landscapes. One caught her eye. It appeared to be an angel, an angel flying in the clouds.
"That's you." He whispered, noticing how she focused on the one.
"Me?"
"Yes. I saw you last week, swimming, with your long hair and pretty face.you reminded me of an angel. A real pretty one. So I drew you.only up in the clouds 'cause I couldn't figure out where you'd come from." He blushed. "I'll stop."
"They're gorgeous paintings." She told him softly.
"You're pretty gorgeous. What happened to all that hair?" he asked. Satine winced and turned suddenly, finding a proper rock and sitting upon it, scrunching the chopped locks in her fists.
"Accident. How long have you lived in Nice, Toulouse?" she asked, deliberately and not too subtly changing the subject.
"Three years. Really born in Albi. How about you? Where are you even living now?" he folded his tiny hands.
"I was born in Villeneuve, outside Paris. I live over in the Pinchot house, now. On the other side of the woods." She vaguely gestured. He shrugged.
"Oh. I never go past the pond. I'd probably get lost. Then my Papa would." he froze. It was his turn to change the subject. "Is the Pinchot family a relative of yours?"
"Philip Pinchot is my Father."
"You don't call him Papa?"
"He isn't my Papa." She replied sharply.
"And you're Mama?"
"She's there too." He silenced.
"My Mama and Papa live over on the other end of the woods. Papa owns the Winery, and Mama just tends the house."
"No servants?"
"No." Satine shifted. She knew she was holding back, and she felt oddly connected to this boy because he too was holding back.
"What else do you do, besides paint?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. "I walk a lot. That's how I got over here. There's a pass over down a bit. Nothing else." He looked at his lap.
"You can't swim?"
He blushed. "No. My Papa taught my brother Raul but said I was too weak." Satine shrugged.
"Well I've been here almost a week, and this is the most exciting it's been. There must be something!"
He shook his head.
"No, not really. Just nature. And now me." She smiled at his odd interjections of humor.
"You have any other friends, Toulouse?"
"Here? No."
"Me either. I think we can help each other out." She took his arm. "First, I'm going to teach you how to swim!"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's Note: A little lighter chapter after a pretty bad one.kinda sets up stuff.Okay, please review! Thanks! -K-
I used "Bother" by Stone Sour, by the way!