He'd promised to go on and write their story, he'd promised to live on to
show the world his wonderful talent through their story. He'd promised her
and he'd kept his promise.
He sat at his desk with his well-worked typewriter sitting in front of him with a huge tall stack of papers next to it - it was their story titled 'A love that will live forever'. He had finished it; he had poured his soul into it, all the feelings of truth, beauty, freedom but above all things love, jealousy, anger, hate, passion, ecstasy, grief and despair, he'd relived it all for her so that she would live forever, he'd kept his promise and now he was finished. It was the story of the Bohemian Revolution as well as the story of their love.
Yes, he had finished it and was now tired, exhausted in fact sick of life; sick of living a pointless existence in his shambled messed up dull and dark garret. All that was left of his spirit had been buried into the pages, buried so that he too will live forever. He was nothing now, everything in him had gone and now he wanted to sleep, wanted to leave this place, he wanted to follow her into the realm of forever sleep so they could be together for eternity. He'd grieved for a whole year, fulfilled his promise and now it was time to join her.
He would be with her soon, yes, reunited with his love soon all he had to do was close his eyes and let his finger that was on the trigger seal his fate - it was that simple. But something was missing; there was something he had to do before he entered his slumber, something to make sure they would live on forever.
He moved to stand for the last time and picked up the huge heavy wad of papers bound together by the ribbon of a can can dress and climbed up the ladder into Toulouse's apartment and placed it on the desk next to Toulouse's canvas and crept back down the ladder past the unmoving Toulouse who had fallen asleep from Absinthe again.
Now he was ready, ready to leave and fly away to her, he sat back down in his chair in front of his typewriter - a fitting way for a poet to die - at his workbench, his typewriter where all his poetry came to life. He picked up the gun again and held it to his temple right next to his eye with no intention of backing out now he was not afraid; he closed his eyes and pressed down on the trigger..
He awoke again seconds later he'd felt nothing, it was like he was awaking from an afternoon nap. He'd experienced no pain, not even the slightest sharpness of impact or pang as the bullet entered his head and he began to wonder if he had actually killed himself. He was still in his garret, although it was different there were no discarded empty or half full bottles of Absinthe laying cluttered or smashed around the floor or in the corners, there were no papers stuck on the walls some torn others tattered, the smell of sweat, alcohol and tears no longer coated the air.
A shower of sunlight shone through the open window, lighting up the room enormously along with a cool summer breeze that ruffled his hair. His garret was clean and tidy with his typewriter sitting polished on his smooth wooden desk without a trace of dust. He stood up from where he was sitting at his desk and looked around, he thought he was dead but he wasn't sure. His hand moved up to his chin and he found that the coarse beard that once adorned it had gone and his face was now clean-shaven like it was once before, he was wearing a clean handsome shirt and black trousers with suspenders - not what he'd been wearing before. He went out onto his balcony and looked over the city, it looked the same only, only a golden light seemed to glow over the whole place, the streets weren't thick with disease ridden prostitutes or thugs willing to kill for something of value, instead strolling the streets were well dressed ladies and men dancing, falling in love, some even singing.
He was staring in awe and confusion down at the city below when there was a knock at his door. He walked across his strangely clean garret and pulled open the door to find.. Toulouse?
Author thing: that's it for now, I've got you on a cliffhanger sort of. But I'll post the next and final bit ASAP. Please review as it keeps me alive oh and I have an idea of how I'm going to end this but if anyone wants to contribute please do! (. I don't own Moulin Rouge - if I did I would be the happiest kid alive.
He sat at his desk with his well-worked typewriter sitting in front of him with a huge tall stack of papers next to it - it was their story titled 'A love that will live forever'. He had finished it; he had poured his soul into it, all the feelings of truth, beauty, freedom but above all things love, jealousy, anger, hate, passion, ecstasy, grief and despair, he'd relived it all for her so that she would live forever, he'd kept his promise and now he was finished. It was the story of the Bohemian Revolution as well as the story of their love.
Yes, he had finished it and was now tired, exhausted in fact sick of life; sick of living a pointless existence in his shambled messed up dull and dark garret. All that was left of his spirit had been buried into the pages, buried so that he too will live forever. He was nothing now, everything in him had gone and now he wanted to sleep, wanted to leave this place, he wanted to follow her into the realm of forever sleep so they could be together for eternity. He'd grieved for a whole year, fulfilled his promise and now it was time to join her.
He would be with her soon, yes, reunited with his love soon all he had to do was close his eyes and let his finger that was on the trigger seal his fate - it was that simple. But something was missing; there was something he had to do before he entered his slumber, something to make sure they would live on forever.
He moved to stand for the last time and picked up the huge heavy wad of papers bound together by the ribbon of a can can dress and climbed up the ladder into Toulouse's apartment and placed it on the desk next to Toulouse's canvas and crept back down the ladder past the unmoving Toulouse who had fallen asleep from Absinthe again.
Now he was ready, ready to leave and fly away to her, he sat back down in his chair in front of his typewriter - a fitting way for a poet to die - at his workbench, his typewriter where all his poetry came to life. He picked up the gun again and held it to his temple right next to his eye with no intention of backing out now he was not afraid; he closed his eyes and pressed down on the trigger..
He awoke again seconds later he'd felt nothing, it was like he was awaking from an afternoon nap. He'd experienced no pain, not even the slightest sharpness of impact or pang as the bullet entered his head and he began to wonder if he had actually killed himself. He was still in his garret, although it was different there were no discarded empty or half full bottles of Absinthe laying cluttered or smashed around the floor or in the corners, there were no papers stuck on the walls some torn others tattered, the smell of sweat, alcohol and tears no longer coated the air.
A shower of sunlight shone through the open window, lighting up the room enormously along with a cool summer breeze that ruffled his hair. His garret was clean and tidy with his typewriter sitting polished on his smooth wooden desk without a trace of dust. He stood up from where he was sitting at his desk and looked around, he thought he was dead but he wasn't sure. His hand moved up to his chin and he found that the coarse beard that once adorned it had gone and his face was now clean-shaven like it was once before, he was wearing a clean handsome shirt and black trousers with suspenders - not what he'd been wearing before. He went out onto his balcony and looked over the city, it looked the same only, only a golden light seemed to glow over the whole place, the streets weren't thick with disease ridden prostitutes or thugs willing to kill for something of value, instead strolling the streets were well dressed ladies and men dancing, falling in love, some even singing.
He was staring in awe and confusion down at the city below when there was a knock at his door. He walked across his strangely clean garret and pulled open the door to find.. Toulouse?
Author thing: that's it for now, I've got you on a cliffhanger sort of. But I'll post the next and final bit ASAP. Please review as it keeps me alive oh and I have an idea of how I'm going to end this but if anyone wants to contribute please do! (. I don't own Moulin Rouge - if I did I would be the happiest kid alive.