Disclaimer: Don't look at me, I just work here. All right, so I don't. I
just swipe the characters and twist them as I see fit.
**Palingenesis: a second life or reincarnation**
It was supposed to be perfect.
By rights, it should have been. The two of them had beaten the odds, slain the dragon, triumphed over evil, conquered every obstacle that threw itself in the path of their love. It was like a fairy tale; she constantly played out the obvious analogy in her mind. They had been nearly torn apart, she herself had nearly died that night on the stage, and yet they had emerged from it all without a scratch.
Without many scratches, anyway. She had been in bed for a long time afterward, hacking and convulsing like a horse in heat. Most unbecoming of a tragic heroine, who would have gasped forth the occasional breathy cough. But that time, they both knew, had passed, and they had paid doctor after doctor for every concoction on the market that might make her well again. There were tonics that left her weak and woozy. There were powders that left her with a throat burning like brandy and eyelids drooping over streaming eyes. There was laudanum to ease the pain and dull the senses. And, in times of desperation, there was always wine.
When she finally coaxed her wasted legs into taking a few tottering steps, he had been ecstatic. So sure she would soon be healthy and ready for the long life they would live together. Satine, never one to crush a man's ideals, had beamed outwardly and done her best to smother the doubt in her heart. Of course she would live. She wanted to believe that more than anything, and Christian had such fervent faith in it that it was almost impossible not to convince herself of it.
He would enthusiastically speak of marrying her, once he could afford a ring, and she would smile, muffling qualms and coughs alike--if a coughing fit came on her, it brought such a concerned look to his face that she invariably forced herself to laugh afterward and claim the coughs would go away in time. All the same, she took to carrying two handkerchiefs, a soiled one to take the blood and a clean one to show him as proof of her recovery.
There was no need for him to know the bleeding had not stopped. Nor that she was still taking her medicines, hiding them well in slits in the mattress and folds of her dresses. Nor that the doctor's bills and her debts at the Moulin Rouge had taken everything she had.
But there was nothing tougher than a diamond, it was said. She was well enough to paint her face, applying rouge to pale cheeks and wan lips that always wore a smile. It was a habit by now. /Keep smiling/, Zidler had often said, /never let it slip/. She wore a lot of dark colors, or red, to hide any accidents, and said she would get well. And Christian would press her hand (diaphanous as glass and nearly as transparent) in return and earnestly talk of their future.
He did not talk of such things now.
Writers would be writers, she told herself, and his work wasn't selling as well as anticipated. Irritable, he had taken to drinking more often than usual, which she conceded was understandable. It was only natural for him to grow moody and seek elsewhere for the solace she was unable to provide. She was too weak, in every sense of the word, and could only stand by as Toulouse left Paris for what was to be the last time, the publishers' rejections arrived one after another, and the landlady once again began complaining that someone had better pay for that hole in the ceiling if they knew what was good for them. The knowledge of it chilled Satine to the bone, but she truly had nothing left to offer him.
It certainly wasn't her place to approve or disapprove of his actions at this point, yet she was unable to suppress the occasional selfish impulse. His work was important, of course; it was the work that would make him rich, rich enough to buy them both a life of happiness. And yet one afternoon, when she felt more keenly than usual that she was being replaced by Christian's Underwood, she let her coughs spill out uncontrolled, catapulting crimson spatters onto her sleeve, staggering back against the wall. Anything to make him look at her again, even if only through the bottom of a glass. Anything to send him running over with anxious eyes and open arms.
At his typewriter, Christian sighed obliviously and took another sip of wine.
And she still told herself it was to be expected. He was under enough stress without her contribution.
Not that he could be blamed for it. Paris life was rough; he could hardly remain unscathed forever, and surely underneath it all he was the same gentle English writer, she knew it. It was only a matter of time before he succeeded and the moodiness passed.
So she kept her bottles hidden and started taking laudanum again, primarily for the pleasant thoughts it evoked. She would revive, he would prosper, and then things would truly be perfect. It had to work out, she swore, even when she received word that Polka Dot, her own illness overshadowed by the Sparking Diamond's dilemma, had succumbed to the same disease only the day before. They had come through too much to have it all shatter now. Christian was more snappish than ever; it couldn't be too much longer before the publishers saw his genius and he became himself again.
Carefully, Satine patted more makeup over the bruise on her cheekbone. Tomorrow would bring better things.
**Palingenesis: a second life or reincarnation**
It was supposed to be perfect.
By rights, it should have been. The two of them had beaten the odds, slain the dragon, triumphed over evil, conquered every obstacle that threw itself in the path of their love. It was like a fairy tale; she constantly played out the obvious analogy in her mind. They had been nearly torn apart, she herself had nearly died that night on the stage, and yet they had emerged from it all without a scratch.
Without many scratches, anyway. She had been in bed for a long time afterward, hacking and convulsing like a horse in heat. Most unbecoming of a tragic heroine, who would have gasped forth the occasional breathy cough. But that time, they both knew, had passed, and they had paid doctor after doctor for every concoction on the market that might make her well again. There were tonics that left her weak and woozy. There were powders that left her with a throat burning like brandy and eyelids drooping over streaming eyes. There was laudanum to ease the pain and dull the senses. And, in times of desperation, there was always wine.
When she finally coaxed her wasted legs into taking a few tottering steps, he had been ecstatic. So sure she would soon be healthy and ready for the long life they would live together. Satine, never one to crush a man's ideals, had beamed outwardly and done her best to smother the doubt in her heart. Of course she would live. She wanted to believe that more than anything, and Christian had such fervent faith in it that it was almost impossible not to convince herself of it.
He would enthusiastically speak of marrying her, once he could afford a ring, and she would smile, muffling qualms and coughs alike--if a coughing fit came on her, it brought such a concerned look to his face that she invariably forced herself to laugh afterward and claim the coughs would go away in time. All the same, she took to carrying two handkerchiefs, a soiled one to take the blood and a clean one to show him as proof of her recovery.
There was no need for him to know the bleeding had not stopped. Nor that she was still taking her medicines, hiding them well in slits in the mattress and folds of her dresses. Nor that the doctor's bills and her debts at the Moulin Rouge had taken everything she had.
But there was nothing tougher than a diamond, it was said. She was well enough to paint her face, applying rouge to pale cheeks and wan lips that always wore a smile. It was a habit by now. /Keep smiling/, Zidler had often said, /never let it slip/. She wore a lot of dark colors, or red, to hide any accidents, and said she would get well. And Christian would press her hand (diaphanous as glass and nearly as transparent) in return and earnestly talk of their future.
He did not talk of such things now.
Writers would be writers, she told herself, and his work wasn't selling as well as anticipated. Irritable, he had taken to drinking more often than usual, which she conceded was understandable. It was only natural for him to grow moody and seek elsewhere for the solace she was unable to provide. She was too weak, in every sense of the word, and could only stand by as Toulouse left Paris for what was to be the last time, the publishers' rejections arrived one after another, and the landlady once again began complaining that someone had better pay for that hole in the ceiling if they knew what was good for them. The knowledge of it chilled Satine to the bone, but she truly had nothing left to offer him.
It certainly wasn't her place to approve or disapprove of his actions at this point, yet she was unable to suppress the occasional selfish impulse. His work was important, of course; it was the work that would make him rich, rich enough to buy them both a life of happiness. And yet one afternoon, when she felt more keenly than usual that she was being replaced by Christian's Underwood, she let her coughs spill out uncontrolled, catapulting crimson spatters onto her sleeve, staggering back against the wall. Anything to make him look at her again, even if only through the bottom of a glass. Anything to send him running over with anxious eyes and open arms.
At his typewriter, Christian sighed obliviously and took another sip of wine.
And she still told herself it was to be expected. He was under enough stress without her contribution.
Not that he could be blamed for it. Paris life was rough; he could hardly remain unscathed forever, and surely underneath it all he was the same gentle English writer, she knew it. It was only a matter of time before he succeeded and the moodiness passed.
So she kept her bottles hidden and started taking laudanum again, primarily for the pleasant thoughts it evoked. She would revive, he would prosper, and then things would truly be perfect. It had to work out, she swore, even when she received word that Polka Dot, her own illness overshadowed by the Sparking Diamond's dilemma, had succumbed to the same disease only the day before. They had come through too much to have it all shatter now. Christian was more snappish than ever; it couldn't be too much longer before the publishers saw his genius and he became himself again.
Carefully, Satine patted more makeup over the bruise on her cheekbone. Tomorrow would bring better things.