~*~
Three
--
She'd made herself numb to all but her dignity.
She'd escaped the wrath of her mother at an early age, after seeing her parents' marriage crumble and her father befriend an absinthe bottle. Her broken-hearted sister had slit her pale wrists, leaving Nini alone. Never a dependant person, she was rapturous at her newfound freedom. She fled to the streets of the Village of Sin, where she'd walked on her hands until delighted men and women littered the dirty ground in front of her with coins.
She'd known of the Moulin Rouge from a young age, and was lured to its doors by fascination. A place that freely embraced dance was one she couldn't resist. Its fiery can-can drew her like a moth, and she let herself be incinerated in the heat.
She didn't search for fame or fortune, only a place to whirl with the girls in bright skirts and let her voice hit the back walls of the bordello. She'd never before been given any sort of opportunity to do what she loved. It was almost a pity that she found her passion so early, but the Moulin Rouge was the only place where she could be extraordinary.
She'd been the first of Zidler's girls to accept the rule that forbade love. She'd never favoured anything resembling tenderness or compassion, and adapted all too easily to life as a whore. Her speech was brash; her beauty incarnate: the embodiment of aquamarine stones, ivory snow, crimson blood and raven's feathers. Her eyes were always alight; alabaster skin only flushed when she spun and high-kicked. Her scarlet kiss tasted of cigarettes; her obsidian hair was a twist of silk, spun up to ward off heat from her body when she took part in the dizzying nightly spectacle that always seemed to light the Moulin Rouge aflame. Singing lived in her throat and as a child she had danced down the street while the other urchins walked.
She was the most independent of the girls; Babydoll and Garden Girl always asked Elizabeth to sew the intricate patterns onto their dresses. Nini opted to fix her costumes herself. On the rare occasion that her skirt hem frayed, she sewed it together without any problem. Travesty had taught her how one evening after requesting help to stitch broken-in pointe shoes. Nini could blot on the rouge and fill in her lips without even glancing in a mirror. Even after a bout of insomnia or a rough client, she emerged from her room looking flawless. She settled for nothing less.
She was a realist, and her reality was brutal. She'd vanquished every last trace of modesty or regret. She wore her talent like a brand, for its fire scorched her skin and seared her mind. It kept her up during the long nights. She remained on the dance floor long after Spanish had fallen asleep in a hard-backed chair or Dominatrix had chained a man up in her tower to cover thick flesh in lacerations.
The first time a customer had raised his hand and left her ivory face shades of red and blue, she'd swiped powder over the bruises and sucked hard on absinthe. She never let on that his fingernails had gouged her mouth raw and his teeth marks resided beneath her breasts. The one time a savage beating had left her in bed for eleven days, she hated her tears. It wasn't because they aggravated the cuts on her cheeks, but because she'd allowed herself to shed them. If there was one thing her mother had taught her, it was never to cry. Nini still remembered her father's anger bursting like a hot geyser, as her mother's sobs grew loud enough to wake her and her sister from their tangled dreams.
Her upbringing forced her to make herself understood. While she could easily turn circles around Harlequin, she never tiptoed about the meaning of her words. The sharpness of her mind was matched by the viciousness of her tongue. While Tartan used colourful words to fill silences, a blaspheme on Nini's lips was born of defence. Wounded pride hurt far more than wounded flesh.
She'd known that any problems with the Duke would bring the Moulin Rouge to ruin, but she couldn't resist telling the rat-faced investor of a love that had never been a secret to begin with. The man was not as innocuous and daft as he seemed; she only gave him a violent shove into reality, so that he fell from the glittering fantasy Satine had woven around him and hit rock bottom. No pity lingered with her after she'd sauntered away from him. Victorious laughter replaced the remorse one would have expected her to feel. She was the slap in the face, and she loved it.
It wasn't as though she felt nothing. When she danced, there was electricity in her blood and passion in her eyes. Without her graceful movement, her face hardened and metaphorical spines bristled on her back; still there was life in her heart, brought forth only by a thirst to hear the staccato cracks of her shoes and the swish of her skirt.
She'd known the South American tango dancer for years, but only by his face and fame beneath the spotlight, never by his name. It seemed as though he had watched her for far longer than she'd realized, and just by observing the way she spun and hearing the siren call of her voice, he knew her.
There had been a time in her life when she'd given her trust to another, only to have it shattered. From then on, rather than stepping precariously around the broken pieces of a bond she had once believed to be unbreakable, she crushed the shards with vindictive words, for from the age of five after breaking her mother's favourite brooch, she'd learned that lamentations would get her nowhere. She hadn't felt remorse after she and Satine had turned their backs on one another. Survival was her priority, as it was the other woman's. Ruined friendship wouldn't even cut her skin deep.
She'd made one mistake with trust, and she wouldn't do it again. Not even when she let the narcoleptic hold her close and fill her bones and flesh with fire; not when their rhythm was one unlike any she'd ever known. She lost touch with reality, and knew only his anguish and lust. He tasted her fear, traced his roughened fingertips and bruise burned knuckles across her vulnerability.
Despite the agony of many and the silent apologies many made to the Sparkling Diamond on Opening Night, Nini held her head high, finding she had no tears to suppress as she heard Satine's laboured breathing and saw the blood trickle across the porcelain face. She expected to feel a red-hot flash of regret, like the one she knew had clawed its way into Harold's heart, but there was none.
Even with the warmth of her lover's body beside her, and the heat she had felt from years of passionate motion, on the petal-scattered stage, she became ice.
--
A million thanks to Petal for her encouragement with this chapter, for Nini is Petal's baby and it made me very happy to hear that I'd successfully writ her at least a little in-character. I'm terrified of being out of character for anything, Nini in particular, so thank you goddess Petal. I love you.
Three
--
She'd made herself numb to all but her dignity.
She'd escaped the wrath of her mother at an early age, after seeing her parents' marriage crumble and her father befriend an absinthe bottle. Her broken-hearted sister had slit her pale wrists, leaving Nini alone. Never a dependant person, she was rapturous at her newfound freedom. She fled to the streets of the Village of Sin, where she'd walked on her hands until delighted men and women littered the dirty ground in front of her with coins.
She'd known of the Moulin Rouge from a young age, and was lured to its doors by fascination. A place that freely embraced dance was one she couldn't resist. Its fiery can-can drew her like a moth, and she let herself be incinerated in the heat.
She didn't search for fame or fortune, only a place to whirl with the girls in bright skirts and let her voice hit the back walls of the bordello. She'd never before been given any sort of opportunity to do what she loved. It was almost a pity that she found her passion so early, but the Moulin Rouge was the only place where she could be extraordinary.
She'd been the first of Zidler's girls to accept the rule that forbade love. She'd never favoured anything resembling tenderness or compassion, and adapted all too easily to life as a whore. Her speech was brash; her beauty incarnate: the embodiment of aquamarine stones, ivory snow, crimson blood and raven's feathers. Her eyes were always alight; alabaster skin only flushed when she spun and high-kicked. Her scarlet kiss tasted of cigarettes; her obsidian hair was a twist of silk, spun up to ward off heat from her body when she took part in the dizzying nightly spectacle that always seemed to light the Moulin Rouge aflame. Singing lived in her throat and as a child she had danced down the street while the other urchins walked.
She was the most independent of the girls; Babydoll and Garden Girl always asked Elizabeth to sew the intricate patterns onto their dresses. Nini opted to fix her costumes herself. On the rare occasion that her skirt hem frayed, she sewed it together without any problem. Travesty had taught her how one evening after requesting help to stitch broken-in pointe shoes. Nini could blot on the rouge and fill in her lips without even glancing in a mirror. Even after a bout of insomnia or a rough client, she emerged from her room looking flawless. She settled for nothing less.
She was a realist, and her reality was brutal. She'd vanquished every last trace of modesty or regret. She wore her talent like a brand, for its fire scorched her skin and seared her mind. It kept her up during the long nights. She remained on the dance floor long after Spanish had fallen asleep in a hard-backed chair or Dominatrix had chained a man up in her tower to cover thick flesh in lacerations.
The first time a customer had raised his hand and left her ivory face shades of red and blue, she'd swiped powder over the bruises and sucked hard on absinthe. She never let on that his fingernails had gouged her mouth raw and his teeth marks resided beneath her breasts. The one time a savage beating had left her in bed for eleven days, she hated her tears. It wasn't because they aggravated the cuts on her cheeks, but because she'd allowed herself to shed them. If there was one thing her mother had taught her, it was never to cry. Nini still remembered her father's anger bursting like a hot geyser, as her mother's sobs grew loud enough to wake her and her sister from their tangled dreams.
Her upbringing forced her to make herself understood. While she could easily turn circles around Harlequin, she never tiptoed about the meaning of her words. The sharpness of her mind was matched by the viciousness of her tongue. While Tartan used colourful words to fill silences, a blaspheme on Nini's lips was born of defence. Wounded pride hurt far more than wounded flesh.
She'd known that any problems with the Duke would bring the Moulin Rouge to ruin, but she couldn't resist telling the rat-faced investor of a love that had never been a secret to begin with. The man was not as innocuous and daft as he seemed; she only gave him a violent shove into reality, so that he fell from the glittering fantasy Satine had woven around him and hit rock bottom. No pity lingered with her after she'd sauntered away from him. Victorious laughter replaced the remorse one would have expected her to feel. She was the slap in the face, and she loved it.
It wasn't as though she felt nothing. When she danced, there was electricity in her blood and passion in her eyes. Without her graceful movement, her face hardened and metaphorical spines bristled on her back; still there was life in her heart, brought forth only by a thirst to hear the staccato cracks of her shoes and the swish of her skirt.
She'd known the South American tango dancer for years, but only by his face and fame beneath the spotlight, never by his name. It seemed as though he had watched her for far longer than she'd realized, and just by observing the way she spun and hearing the siren call of her voice, he knew her.
There had been a time in her life when she'd given her trust to another, only to have it shattered. From then on, rather than stepping precariously around the broken pieces of a bond she had once believed to be unbreakable, she crushed the shards with vindictive words, for from the age of five after breaking her mother's favourite brooch, she'd learned that lamentations would get her nowhere. She hadn't felt remorse after she and Satine had turned their backs on one another. Survival was her priority, as it was the other woman's. Ruined friendship wouldn't even cut her skin deep.
She'd made one mistake with trust, and she wouldn't do it again. Not even when she let the narcoleptic hold her close and fill her bones and flesh with fire; not when their rhythm was one unlike any she'd ever known. She lost touch with reality, and knew only his anguish and lust. He tasted her fear, traced his roughened fingertips and bruise burned knuckles across her vulnerability.
Despite the agony of many and the silent apologies many made to the Sparkling Diamond on Opening Night, Nini held her head high, finding she had no tears to suppress as she heard Satine's laboured breathing and saw the blood trickle across the porcelain face. She expected to feel a red-hot flash of regret, like the one she knew had clawed its way into Harold's heart, but there was none.
Even with the warmth of her lover's body beside her, and the heat she had felt from years of passionate motion, on the petal-scattered stage, she became ice.
--
A million thanks to Petal for her encouragement with this chapter, for Nini is Petal's baby and it made me very happy to hear that I'd successfully writ her at least a little in-character. I'm terrified of being out of character for anything, Nini in particular, so thank you goddess Petal. I love you.