Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama"
Summary: Satine's childhood . . . and now partly Toulouse's!
Disclaimer: In the movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.
Reviews: I would greatly GREATLY appreciate any, good or bad!
July 25th, 1881
Nice, France
It wasn't the cold that made Satine pull her shawl tighter, although the wind had picked up. It wasn't even the impending rain, advertised by the slate- colored clouds that loomed overhead. As she opened her dull eyes, caked in sleepiness, she drew her knees closer to her chest. That wasn't a result of the cold either.
"Damn him. . ." she said aloud, the obscenity flowing easier than she liked.
The night before, from which little sleep had come, was the source of
her sudden need for warmth. As she sat upon the rock in the clearing, waiting but not anxiously Toulouse's arrival, she began to tremble at the memory.
In the past year and some, Satine's life had been at its best. She left early in the morning for the clearing with no questions asked, long before Marguerite arose. She returned after sunset for dinner, and then shuffled to her bedroom. Marguerite was sometimes at the table but seemed to be in some kind of catatonic state.
Also, as Satine got older, she got bigger. Sa-Teeny would not have been appropriate any more. Even at eight years old, she was one and half meters
tall (four feet three inches), her legs the longest feature on her. From constant swimming and running, she had acquired a physical strength she had never had. She had noticed her own growing boldness, too. She believed it was because of Toulouse's own soft, shyness that she had become the way she was. She also lost the severe need to please, and mostly kept herself out of other's ways.
With all these attributes, it was hard for Marguerite to invent a reason to physically hurt her, but the occasional insults were a given.
The only problem that remained was Philip. Satine was finally able to
admit she feared that man, more than anything. Nightmares haunted her a lot, and she was avoiding much physical contact unconsciously. But there had never been a repeat performance of that one night. Satine dreaded it with all her heart, and when he hadn't shown for a month, two months, even three she began to think maybe he wouldn't. But on some cold, dark, nights, she knew she was a fool and soon, he would return.
And last night, he had.
He hadn't come in, but she knew, KNEW he had been outside the door. She had awoken sometime in the darkest of the night from the chill, and as she wrapped up in the blankets, a notoriously creaky board belched its customary CRE-OAK as a foot pressed on it. She had bolted upright, her body paralyzed and her mind retreating back to that night. As the footfalls
slowly retreated, she remained awake and alert. For the rest of the night, as well.
Now, here she sat, the sound of CRE-OAK whispering in her ear, a constant reminder. She felt sick, dirty every time she thought about it.
Her intense reverie was interrupted when she looked below at the cul- de-sac of rocks with the pond splashing around within. In the swirling waters was a dark head. Toulouse, swimming over from his side of the river. She stood up, her arms wrapped in a self-hug, and jumped down to greet him. But as she got to sea level, she saw he wasn't swimming. He was just . . . there.
"Toulouse?" she said curiously. Nothing.
"Toulouse?" she asked a bit more demanding. Silence.
She started down to the water, calling his name, getting more frantic.
Finally, she laid the shawl aside and started to wade out to him. Why
was he doing this? Surely he didn't think she'd find it funny. Toulouse had
odd ways of expressing his own odd sense of humor, but fake drowning was not one of them.
Satine was waist-high with water when she closed both hands on his shoulders and pushed him up so his face was out of the water.
"Stop it! Toulouse!" she exclaimed, shaking him gently. This was not funny. He was unconscious. Oh god . . .
"No . . . no!" she told herself as she dragged Toulouse across the buoyant water, his own buoyancy failing him. When she finally got him to the shore and laid him on his side, she was aghast. Covering his legs were scratches and lines that seemed to be from being lashed.
"C'mon Toulouse . . . tell me what happened." She clapped her hand on the center of his back repeatedly as she had seen Philip do to Marguerite when she choked. Finally, he began to cough, though it was strangled, and spat out the water in his lungs. As the coughing subsided, a more despairing sound escaped him and it wasn't long before Satine saw he was crying.
"Toulouse! What's wrong? What were you doing?" she demanded, lying herself beside him.
"She's gone, Satine . . . he . . . she's gone!" he bemoaned.
"WHO?" Satine asked, her brows furrowed. Toulouse rolled to his back and between sobs, cried, "My Mama!"
"Oh no . . ." Satine said softly. Toulouse's mother, Hélène, was the kindest, gentlest, most loving person by his own description. She was small, like he, and carried a similar lisp. While his father greatly favored his two younger brothers Raul and Tomas, his mother had shown Toulouse enough love to suffice the apparent favor. She loved his art and encouraged it. Satine remembered a particular incident where he had drawn a sketch and his brothers had burned it, much to their father's preference. It was only to Hélène's chagrin, yet they had not suffered consequences because after all,
Toulouse's father had not allowed it.
Satine knew what it was like to loose your only life line. Right now, as she lay next to Toulouse who was hopelessly a wreck, she envisioned herself when she was smaller, in a similar position at the loss of her father. Now, he too would experience an incurable loneliness.
Even though she knew what he was feeling, she could muster no words to fulfill him. When she had been in this state, no words could have helped. She imagined he felt the like, so she slipped closer and wrapped her arms around him and just let him cry. Even when the sobs became chest wracking, she said nothing. When his cries abated, he croaked,
"Will you sing?" she looked in his eyes and knew he had never wanted anything so much.
"Of course. . ." she replied, and the words swam through the air.
Don't be ashamed to say you need a hand
I understand
Sometimes the night can be so dark and cold
No one beside you
And no one to hold
When you cry
I will dry your eyes
When you fall
I'll lift you up high
You just reach
For these arms of mine
I promise they won't let you go
And I'll make you smile
When you cry . . .
July 25th, 1881
Nice, France
As the night progressed, Satine's mind was not on her predator from the night before but on Toulouse. After she sang they laid for a long time staring at the sky. After a while, Satine began to randomly tell stories about her father, and she at the time wondered why she had. But soon, Toulouse chimed in with his own tales about his mother. Soon, they were laughing.
How soothing a laugh, high or low pitched, loud or soft. How powerful it was, too. You could laugh so hard that you ended up crying. But
to Satine, a real trick would be to cry so hard that you end up laughing.
She tugged on her now shoulder-length hair, knotting it around the tip of her finger. The chill had abated, gradually warming, and Jean, the farmer, had predicted warmer weather. Finally. She hadn't even needed the top covers or her flannel night gown. The silky one had fulfilled the needs.
At last, her mind and senses began to routinely dim as she slipped between the realities, and she felt peaceful.
How long it was exactly before her eyes opened to see a figure leaning in the arch of the doorway, she was never sure. But it stirred her, and she pushed herself up to a sitting position. If she hadn't been alert, she wouldn't have known who it was. But the thin jaw, straight build, and fright- instilling eyes gave him away.
"Good evening, Genevieve."
Satine, loathing herself, hadn't enough strength to respond. A million harsh words died on her lips as he made his way to her bedside.
"You have been waiting, mais no?" he asked, his voice like sandpaper. He ran his fingers through her hair, and began to softly speak to her as he had that night. As the memory of shame, fear, guilt, burning, and aching filled her mind, she finally said, "No."
It was like a whisper.
Like smoke on satin.
Like the wind blowing past a window pane.
But it had the power as if she had screamed at her full volume. He froze immediately.
"What?"
"No." she repeated, soft but firmly. He stared, astonished. She finally met his eyes with her own, copying the fierceness she had seen Marguerite instill. He actually seemed worried, rethinking this action, but then, to Satine's intense dismay, he grinned.
"Whatever do you mean, chérie? No? Say no to something that you were made for?" now it was her turn to be shocked.
"Made for? No, I am not . . ."
"A whore?" he wailed a deep, malevolent chortle. When he recovered, her spat, "Of course you are. You were made to be one! I know what you're thinking, you tease. Don't do this . . . don't lie to yourself! You know you're only worth this . . ."
August 1st, 1881
Nice, France
This is too much . . . Toulouse thought as he shoved the brambles and bushes out of his way, carefully tracking his steps. He had never made this journey and his sense of direction was disorienting to say the least.
Fact was, he wouldn't be making this journey if it hadn't been for Satine. No one else could inspire such bravery from him. But she hadn't come for five days now to the clearing, and his pessimist inside told him to fear the worst. On the 26th, he had not gone to the clearing because it was his mother's burial. But on the 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th, and 31st, he had and she had not. He had waited all day, and nothing.
So here he was, determined to rescue his only friend from what he was sure was a few steps less than purgatory.
As he saw the back of the Pinchot property come into view, an interesting concept came to mind. Satine, just a friend? He used to term to describe her in a-many paintings, writings, and personal testimonies, but he knew she was more than that. She was a sister, friend, confidante, and now she would be an informed person when it came to grief. As he thought of the comparable Hell she lived in, he paused.
Satine described the house many times, and now he wracked his brain to remember her details. Her room was on the second floor, an octagonal window, and had a spiral staircase for the service to use right outside the door. As he watched the back door, he saw a peasant-like woman leave and decided that must be the service entrance. So inside nearby, there must
be a service staircase.
Looking from side to side, he dashed across the yard and into the slightly ajar door.
After a brief moment of overwhelm from the vast size and great architecture, he slipped through the kitchen and out a swinging cherry door.
"Thank you, God . . ." he whispered as he was confronted, in a narrow hall, with a spiral staircase. He tore up the steps, the sound of his shoes disguised by the business of the house.
When he reached the top, out of breath, he paused outside the biggest door, engraved with children playing on a French countryside, he knew he had found her room. But since luck had been shining on him this entire time, he knew the door would be locked. And it was.
He looked down the hall and saw no movement. He sat in front of the door and pressed his face to the crack.
"Satine?" he whispered hoarsely, even the smallest sound seeming like a thunder clap. He heard shifting, but not much.
"Satine!" he called, his eyes darting about. Nothing. He looked about
again. There had to be a key.
Lady Luck again winked upon him as he spotted the key hanging from a crooked nail in the wall. It took a jump or two for him to reach it and remove it, and when he did he unlocked the door hastily for he knew someone's alert ears had to have noticed.
Once inside the elegantly girlish decorated room, he shut the door and did a quick scan. He knew none of this customary "Mademoiselle"-esque things were Satine's. Even though she was liking the silk and pink and pony things, he just felt as if she hadn't done any of it.
In the center on a raised plateau was a large canopy bed, whose sheets and blankets were in an uproar seemingly the aftermath of an earth quake. Or implosion. Toulouse wasn't sure, but as he went to the side, he saw amidst it all was Satine, her eyes closed and her mouth ajar, how she often
slept. Her face was creased slightly in a painful repose, and her body curled in a tiny defensive ball.
"Satine!" he insisted, jostling her lightly. His lisp was heavy on his tone now, for worry made his voice thick. She didn't stir.
"Satine!" he mutedly shouted in her ear. Was she dead? What would he do if she was? Fear gripping his body and making him icy, he grabbed her both shoulders and shook her.
"Please!" he cried. Finally, her eyes opened. But they weren't the same alive, vibrant, dreamy eyes. They were cold and cloudy. She was looking at him, no, she was looking through him. As his mother had . . .
"Toulouse." She said simply, as if identifying him for someone else.
"Yes, Satine, it's me? What's the matter with you?" He asked, sitting
in front of her, calm but his alarm growing. She sat on her own, and stared
into him.
"What isn't?"
"What does that mean? Why haven't you come to the clearing? Why are you still in bed?" a million questions pounded on his lips but her eyes
stopped him.
"Do you think for a minute, Toulouse, there may be more to life than our little fantasy inside that clearing? Life isn't all happiness and fortune! Why can't you see that? People are mean, dark, and not deserving of what they have!" she had to breathe for a moment, for that had come out in one breath, and Toulouse interrupted, slack-jawed.
"What do you mean? People . . . sure there are bad ones but not all people. What made you say this? What HAPPENED to you?" he asked, despair flooding his voice.
"I grew up! You of all people should know how unfair life is."
"Yes, unfair but there are some good things. Think about the good things, Satine, think about playing hide-and-seek, think about teaching me to swim, think about singing, acting, think about falling in love . . ." Satine had been non-reactive to this spiel until the word love came.
"Love? LOVE? You've got to be kidding! Your father, do you think he loves you? My mother, does she love me? My stepfather . . ." she jumped off the bed and threw the sheets back, hysterically crying and her voice to a pitch that only dogs could hear.
"This is what he thinks is love!" she told him, as his eyes went down to the vast stain on the bed. It was blood, and as Toulouse looked at her, he knew it was hers.
"Satine . . . what?"
"THIS is the bad that people are. How can you say that they are good?" she demanded, finally seeming deflated. Defeated.
Toulouse was sickened. If he had been anywhere else, he might have thrown up. But he couldn't let Satine see him do that. He had to get her back.
"What about your real father?"
She was immobile. "He's dead." She expressionlessly told him.
"Yes, but when he lived . . . do you think he loved you?"
"I don't know."
"Yes you do, Satine. You know love exists, because you know your father loved you. You remember him. You HAVE to. The stories about your father . . . you told them with such feeling I KNOW you believed in his love." He took a breath, his heart pounding. He had to save her. She stood still, but for the first time, she dropped her head.
"Ooh . . ." she moaned softly. Toulouse was soon on his feet, hugging
her, and at the moment felt very old next to her, even though she was only a little smaller than him.
"Love, Satine. You have to believe in it, or there's nothing." He whispered. She shook her head.
"How? How, Toulouse? Your life hasn't been good, and yet you believe this? How?" she moaned.
"My Mama. I'll always remember her, and the love she gave me. It existed once, and if it takes me all my life I'll find it again."
Satine didn't want to leave the house, so she and Toulouse spoke for a while before she fell asleep. Not the zombie sleep Toulouse had found her in, but real sleep. He left after her breathing became even.
Her final thought before drifting into blissful sleep was, "I hope he's right. . ."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's Note: Another chapter! Yay! And just in case you're wondering, this will never ever ever ever turn into a romance between Satine and Toulouse. My friend read it and said it seemed that I was going that way but I'm not! I promise! And thanks to all who reviewed . . . it took me a bit to get this chapter up, and I'm sorry about the big time gaps but I'm trying! Okay, I'll stop because I'm rambling. Thanks again!
I used "When You Cry" by Faith Hill without permission. Sorry! ; - )
Summary: Satine's childhood . . . and now partly Toulouse's!
Disclaimer: In the movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.
Reviews: I would greatly GREATLY appreciate any, good or bad!
July 25th, 1881
Nice, France
It wasn't the cold that made Satine pull her shawl tighter, although the wind had picked up. It wasn't even the impending rain, advertised by the slate- colored clouds that loomed overhead. As she opened her dull eyes, caked in sleepiness, she drew her knees closer to her chest. That wasn't a result of the cold either.
"Damn him. . ." she said aloud, the obscenity flowing easier than she liked.
The night before, from which little sleep had come, was the source of
her sudden need for warmth. As she sat upon the rock in the clearing, waiting but not anxiously Toulouse's arrival, she began to tremble at the memory.
In the past year and some, Satine's life had been at its best. She left early in the morning for the clearing with no questions asked, long before Marguerite arose. She returned after sunset for dinner, and then shuffled to her bedroom. Marguerite was sometimes at the table but seemed to be in some kind of catatonic state.
Also, as Satine got older, she got bigger. Sa-Teeny would not have been appropriate any more. Even at eight years old, she was one and half meters
tall (four feet three inches), her legs the longest feature on her. From constant swimming and running, she had acquired a physical strength she had never had. She had noticed her own growing boldness, too. She believed it was because of Toulouse's own soft, shyness that she had become the way she was. She also lost the severe need to please, and mostly kept herself out of other's ways.
With all these attributes, it was hard for Marguerite to invent a reason to physically hurt her, but the occasional insults were a given.
The only problem that remained was Philip. Satine was finally able to
admit she feared that man, more than anything. Nightmares haunted her a lot, and she was avoiding much physical contact unconsciously. But there had never been a repeat performance of that one night. Satine dreaded it with all her heart, and when he hadn't shown for a month, two months, even three she began to think maybe he wouldn't. But on some cold, dark, nights, she knew she was a fool and soon, he would return.
And last night, he had.
He hadn't come in, but she knew, KNEW he had been outside the door. She had awoken sometime in the darkest of the night from the chill, and as she wrapped up in the blankets, a notoriously creaky board belched its customary CRE-OAK as a foot pressed on it. She had bolted upright, her body paralyzed and her mind retreating back to that night. As the footfalls
slowly retreated, she remained awake and alert. For the rest of the night, as well.
Now, here she sat, the sound of CRE-OAK whispering in her ear, a constant reminder. She felt sick, dirty every time she thought about it.
Her intense reverie was interrupted when she looked below at the cul- de-sac of rocks with the pond splashing around within. In the swirling waters was a dark head. Toulouse, swimming over from his side of the river. She stood up, her arms wrapped in a self-hug, and jumped down to greet him. But as she got to sea level, she saw he wasn't swimming. He was just . . . there.
"Toulouse?" she said curiously. Nothing.
"Toulouse?" she asked a bit more demanding. Silence.
She started down to the water, calling his name, getting more frantic.
Finally, she laid the shawl aside and started to wade out to him. Why
was he doing this? Surely he didn't think she'd find it funny. Toulouse had
odd ways of expressing his own odd sense of humor, but fake drowning was not one of them.
Satine was waist-high with water when she closed both hands on his shoulders and pushed him up so his face was out of the water.
"Stop it! Toulouse!" she exclaimed, shaking him gently. This was not funny. He was unconscious. Oh god . . .
"No . . . no!" she told herself as she dragged Toulouse across the buoyant water, his own buoyancy failing him. When she finally got him to the shore and laid him on his side, she was aghast. Covering his legs were scratches and lines that seemed to be from being lashed.
"C'mon Toulouse . . . tell me what happened." She clapped her hand on the center of his back repeatedly as she had seen Philip do to Marguerite when she choked. Finally, he began to cough, though it was strangled, and spat out the water in his lungs. As the coughing subsided, a more despairing sound escaped him and it wasn't long before Satine saw he was crying.
"Toulouse! What's wrong? What were you doing?" she demanded, lying herself beside him.
"She's gone, Satine . . . he . . . she's gone!" he bemoaned.
"WHO?" Satine asked, her brows furrowed. Toulouse rolled to his back and between sobs, cried, "My Mama!"
"Oh no . . ." Satine said softly. Toulouse's mother, Hélène, was the kindest, gentlest, most loving person by his own description. She was small, like he, and carried a similar lisp. While his father greatly favored his two younger brothers Raul and Tomas, his mother had shown Toulouse enough love to suffice the apparent favor. She loved his art and encouraged it. Satine remembered a particular incident where he had drawn a sketch and his brothers had burned it, much to their father's preference. It was only to Hélène's chagrin, yet they had not suffered consequences because after all,
Toulouse's father had not allowed it.
Satine knew what it was like to loose your only life line. Right now, as she lay next to Toulouse who was hopelessly a wreck, she envisioned herself when she was smaller, in a similar position at the loss of her father. Now, he too would experience an incurable loneliness.
Even though she knew what he was feeling, she could muster no words to fulfill him. When she had been in this state, no words could have helped. She imagined he felt the like, so she slipped closer and wrapped her arms around him and just let him cry. Even when the sobs became chest wracking, she said nothing. When his cries abated, he croaked,
"Will you sing?" she looked in his eyes and knew he had never wanted anything so much.
"Of course. . ." she replied, and the words swam through the air.
Don't be ashamed to say you need a hand
I understand
Sometimes the night can be so dark and cold
No one beside you
And no one to hold
When you cry
I will dry your eyes
When you fall
I'll lift you up high
You just reach
For these arms of mine
I promise they won't let you go
And I'll make you smile
When you cry . . .
July 25th, 1881
Nice, France
As the night progressed, Satine's mind was not on her predator from the night before but on Toulouse. After she sang they laid for a long time staring at the sky. After a while, Satine began to randomly tell stories about her father, and she at the time wondered why she had. But soon, Toulouse chimed in with his own tales about his mother. Soon, they were laughing.
How soothing a laugh, high or low pitched, loud or soft. How powerful it was, too. You could laugh so hard that you ended up crying. But
to Satine, a real trick would be to cry so hard that you end up laughing.
She tugged on her now shoulder-length hair, knotting it around the tip of her finger. The chill had abated, gradually warming, and Jean, the farmer, had predicted warmer weather. Finally. She hadn't even needed the top covers or her flannel night gown. The silky one had fulfilled the needs.
At last, her mind and senses began to routinely dim as she slipped between the realities, and she felt peaceful.
How long it was exactly before her eyes opened to see a figure leaning in the arch of the doorway, she was never sure. But it stirred her, and she pushed herself up to a sitting position. If she hadn't been alert, she wouldn't have known who it was. But the thin jaw, straight build, and fright- instilling eyes gave him away.
"Good evening, Genevieve."
Satine, loathing herself, hadn't enough strength to respond. A million harsh words died on her lips as he made his way to her bedside.
"You have been waiting, mais no?" he asked, his voice like sandpaper. He ran his fingers through her hair, and began to softly speak to her as he had that night. As the memory of shame, fear, guilt, burning, and aching filled her mind, she finally said, "No."
It was like a whisper.
Like smoke on satin.
Like the wind blowing past a window pane.
But it had the power as if she had screamed at her full volume. He froze immediately.
"What?"
"No." she repeated, soft but firmly. He stared, astonished. She finally met his eyes with her own, copying the fierceness she had seen Marguerite instill. He actually seemed worried, rethinking this action, but then, to Satine's intense dismay, he grinned.
"Whatever do you mean, chérie? No? Say no to something that you were made for?" now it was her turn to be shocked.
"Made for? No, I am not . . ."
"A whore?" he wailed a deep, malevolent chortle. When he recovered, her spat, "Of course you are. You were made to be one! I know what you're thinking, you tease. Don't do this . . . don't lie to yourself! You know you're only worth this . . ."
August 1st, 1881
Nice, France
This is too much . . . Toulouse thought as he shoved the brambles and bushes out of his way, carefully tracking his steps. He had never made this journey and his sense of direction was disorienting to say the least.
Fact was, he wouldn't be making this journey if it hadn't been for Satine. No one else could inspire such bravery from him. But she hadn't come for five days now to the clearing, and his pessimist inside told him to fear the worst. On the 26th, he had not gone to the clearing because it was his mother's burial. But on the 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th, and 31st, he had and she had not. He had waited all day, and nothing.
So here he was, determined to rescue his only friend from what he was sure was a few steps less than purgatory.
As he saw the back of the Pinchot property come into view, an interesting concept came to mind. Satine, just a friend? He used to term to describe her in a-many paintings, writings, and personal testimonies, but he knew she was more than that. She was a sister, friend, confidante, and now she would be an informed person when it came to grief. As he thought of the comparable Hell she lived in, he paused.
Satine described the house many times, and now he wracked his brain to remember her details. Her room was on the second floor, an octagonal window, and had a spiral staircase for the service to use right outside the door. As he watched the back door, he saw a peasant-like woman leave and decided that must be the service entrance. So inside nearby, there must
be a service staircase.
Looking from side to side, he dashed across the yard and into the slightly ajar door.
After a brief moment of overwhelm from the vast size and great architecture, he slipped through the kitchen and out a swinging cherry door.
"Thank you, God . . ." he whispered as he was confronted, in a narrow hall, with a spiral staircase. He tore up the steps, the sound of his shoes disguised by the business of the house.
When he reached the top, out of breath, he paused outside the biggest door, engraved with children playing on a French countryside, he knew he had found her room. But since luck had been shining on him this entire time, he knew the door would be locked. And it was.
He looked down the hall and saw no movement. He sat in front of the door and pressed his face to the crack.
"Satine?" he whispered hoarsely, even the smallest sound seeming like a thunder clap. He heard shifting, but not much.
"Satine!" he called, his eyes darting about. Nothing. He looked about
again. There had to be a key.
Lady Luck again winked upon him as he spotted the key hanging from a crooked nail in the wall. It took a jump or two for him to reach it and remove it, and when he did he unlocked the door hastily for he knew someone's alert ears had to have noticed.
Once inside the elegantly girlish decorated room, he shut the door and did a quick scan. He knew none of this customary "Mademoiselle"-esque things were Satine's. Even though she was liking the silk and pink and pony things, he just felt as if she hadn't done any of it.
In the center on a raised plateau was a large canopy bed, whose sheets and blankets were in an uproar seemingly the aftermath of an earth quake. Or implosion. Toulouse wasn't sure, but as he went to the side, he saw amidst it all was Satine, her eyes closed and her mouth ajar, how she often
slept. Her face was creased slightly in a painful repose, and her body curled in a tiny defensive ball.
"Satine!" he insisted, jostling her lightly. His lisp was heavy on his tone now, for worry made his voice thick. She didn't stir.
"Satine!" he mutedly shouted in her ear. Was she dead? What would he do if she was? Fear gripping his body and making him icy, he grabbed her both shoulders and shook her.
"Please!" he cried. Finally, her eyes opened. But they weren't the same alive, vibrant, dreamy eyes. They were cold and cloudy. She was looking at him, no, she was looking through him. As his mother had . . .
"Toulouse." She said simply, as if identifying him for someone else.
"Yes, Satine, it's me? What's the matter with you?" He asked, sitting
in front of her, calm but his alarm growing. She sat on her own, and stared
into him.
"What isn't?"
"What does that mean? Why haven't you come to the clearing? Why are you still in bed?" a million questions pounded on his lips but her eyes
stopped him.
"Do you think for a minute, Toulouse, there may be more to life than our little fantasy inside that clearing? Life isn't all happiness and fortune! Why can't you see that? People are mean, dark, and not deserving of what they have!" she had to breathe for a moment, for that had come out in one breath, and Toulouse interrupted, slack-jawed.
"What do you mean? People . . . sure there are bad ones but not all people. What made you say this? What HAPPENED to you?" he asked, despair flooding his voice.
"I grew up! You of all people should know how unfair life is."
"Yes, unfair but there are some good things. Think about the good things, Satine, think about playing hide-and-seek, think about teaching me to swim, think about singing, acting, think about falling in love . . ." Satine had been non-reactive to this spiel until the word love came.
"Love? LOVE? You've got to be kidding! Your father, do you think he loves you? My mother, does she love me? My stepfather . . ." she jumped off the bed and threw the sheets back, hysterically crying and her voice to a pitch that only dogs could hear.
"This is what he thinks is love!" she told him, as his eyes went down to the vast stain on the bed. It was blood, and as Toulouse looked at her, he knew it was hers.
"Satine . . . what?"
"THIS is the bad that people are. How can you say that they are good?" she demanded, finally seeming deflated. Defeated.
Toulouse was sickened. If he had been anywhere else, he might have thrown up. But he couldn't let Satine see him do that. He had to get her back.
"What about your real father?"
She was immobile. "He's dead." She expressionlessly told him.
"Yes, but when he lived . . . do you think he loved you?"
"I don't know."
"Yes you do, Satine. You know love exists, because you know your father loved you. You remember him. You HAVE to. The stories about your father . . . you told them with such feeling I KNOW you believed in his love." He took a breath, his heart pounding. He had to save her. She stood still, but for the first time, she dropped her head.
"Ooh . . ." she moaned softly. Toulouse was soon on his feet, hugging
her, and at the moment felt very old next to her, even though she was only a little smaller than him.
"Love, Satine. You have to believe in it, or there's nothing." He whispered. She shook her head.
"How? How, Toulouse? Your life hasn't been good, and yet you believe this? How?" she moaned.
"My Mama. I'll always remember her, and the love she gave me. It existed once, and if it takes me all my life I'll find it again."
Satine didn't want to leave the house, so she and Toulouse spoke for a while before she fell asleep. Not the zombie sleep Toulouse had found her in, but real sleep. He left after her breathing became even.
Her final thought before drifting into blissful sleep was, "I hope he's right. . ."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's Note: Another chapter! Yay! And just in case you're wondering, this will never ever ever ever turn into a romance between Satine and Toulouse. My friend read it and said it seemed that I was going that way but I'm not! I promise! And thanks to all who reviewed . . . it took me a bit to get this chapter up, and I'm sorry about the big time gaps but I'm trying! Okay, I'll stop because I'm rambling. Thanks again!
I used "When You Cry" by Faith Hill without permission. Sorry! ; - )