Inside the Tempest
© 2003 Black Tangled Heart

Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge.

Dedication: to sweet and incredible Milla, a cherished friend and true inspiration.

~*~

She holds the handkerchief to her lips. Its soft lace edges are crinkled beneath her anxious grip. She coughs, her throat burning. She struggles to inhale before glancing at the pale cloth clutched in her fist. A dark scarlet rivulet snakes its way across the fabric.

She is no stranger to blood. She has seen its presence on impassioned lips and starched bed sheets; on the thighs of virgins and palms of killers. She has watched haemoglobin darken from crimson to black on her own skin. She has tasted its salty edge and felt its warmth.

She stares into her mirror. Tiny droplets of blood fleck her face like tears. She hastily wipes them away with the back of her shaking hand. She has chosen her best dress tonight. She cannot let her own life-giving substance stain the rich velvet. She closes her eyes. A single, real tear mingles with the faint smears on her porcelain cheeks.

She stands, the soiled handkerchief between her fingers. With a small, disdainful cry, she tosses it onto her makeup table. It tarnishes the presence of perfume bottles and various creamy lipsticks. Tiny gems glitter beside the sticky cloth.

She hates it.

It is a cruel reminder that her life is not perpetual. She is no diamond. The time will come for her to fade away.

She wishes that death's kiss hadn't chosen her so soon.

She has barely lived.

She has been abused. Many men have left welts on her skin. She has been tormented by loneliness and pain. She has heard vindictive words uttered by her employer - an almighty god of the sordid Underworld. She has pressed the silver blade of a knife against her pale flesh. She has seen the lush lines that appear on her arms when the sweet slices open her skin. She has cried herself to sleep for too many nights.

She has known only shards of joy.

She has barely lived.

And she will die tonight, with no one there beside her.

The smeared handkerchief will be the only evidence of her suffering.

She swallows painfully and turns toward the door, preparing to step out and give the final performance of her life. She holds her head high, willing the tears to dissolve behind her opal eyelids.

She exhales, feeling blood rise in her throat. Nervousness or disgust often brings the taste and burn of bile to her mouth. Instead, the life-giving ruby fluid has become her executioner.

She passes Dominatrix as she heads toward the stage. The younger woman's eyes are ringed with kohl and filled with sympathy. She touches her shoulder, saying, "Babydoll, what's the matter? Anxious about the show?"

~*~