In Torment
Disclaimer and Author's Note: I really own nothing from Moulin Rouge. This fic, however, is mine, in all it's... rather creepiness. Don't ask me where it came from, I have no idea. Dark.
* * *
She waits for him in torment, for each moment burns with agony for his absence. She is no longer beautiful, but is an outward reflection of the disfigurement that was always contained within her soul. All of it is bared now, and she cannot hide what she is, what she was. The disease that ravaged her lungs has now spread over her once-pale skin, marring her former beauty.
When it had first begun, she had wanted to fight it, to somehow stop the filth that covered her now. But she had not understood then, as she did now. She had seen the others, indeed, but had not realized that what had happened to them must happen to her as well. The others were deformed and distorted as well with all of their lifetime crimes and sicknesses. They were repulsive, and she had longed to hide from them, to shy away from their touch.
But then she had stopped staring at the others and had turned her eyes to herself. Then she had realized that their curse was hers as well. No longer was she beautiful and desirous. Her skin was marred with blood and decay, her lips were cracked and pale, her eyes were hollow, and her hair was limp and bedraggled. Her clothing hung from her wasted body in tatters of its former glitter; she is barely enough to warrant the ragged cloths. Her bones protrude grotesquely from beneath stretched, taut skin, her eyes have sunken back into her skull, glassy and pained.
She thirsts, though she has drunk a river of her own blood, and though she has not eaten in years, she has not yet wasted away. Her strength remains, even though her spirit has long since died. She waits.
But he is waiting as well, waiting with bloodied breaths to join her. He knows it will be soon. At night, he sings and becomes lost in his memories of her, so much that he thinks that she is once again here to tempt him. He has gone a bit crazy in her absence, but does not know it. All he knows is that in the mornings she is gone, and that he hates the daylight. He curses it with words he didn't realize he knew. He wants the night, wants sleep. Oh, why can he not sleep forever?
But he will. Soon, he will close his eyes and not open them any longer, least not in Paris. They will grow glassy and dim, and his skin, though already old, will decay and bleed with the disease they share. And he will have his darkness. He may pain now for want of her, but he should be wary of what he desires of. He does not know, does not understand.
But soon, soon he will.
Because she is waiting.
END
Disclaimer and Author's Note: I really own nothing from Moulin Rouge. This fic, however, is mine, in all it's... rather creepiness. Don't ask me where it came from, I have no idea. Dark.
* * *
She waits for him in torment, for each moment burns with agony for his absence. She is no longer beautiful, but is an outward reflection of the disfigurement that was always contained within her soul. All of it is bared now, and she cannot hide what she is, what she was. The disease that ravaged her lungs has now spread over her once-pale skin, marring her former beauty.
When it had first begun, she had wanted to fight it, to somehow stop the filth that covered her now. But she had not understood then, as she did now. She had seen the others, indeed, but had not realized that what had happened to them must happen to her as well. The others were deformed and distorted as well with all of their lifetime crimes and sicknesses. They were repulsive, and she had longed to hide from them, to shy away from their touch.
But then she had stopped staring at the others and had turned her eyes to herself. Then she had realized that their curse was hers as well. No longer was she beautiful and desirous. Her skin was marred with blood and decay, her lips were cracked and pale, her eyes were hollow, and her hair was limp and bedraggled. Her clothing hung from her wasted body in tatters of its former glitter; she is barely enough to warrant the ragged cloths. Her bones protrude grotesquely from beneath stretched, taut skin, her eyes have sunken back into her skull, glassy and pained.
She thirsts, though she has drunk a river of her own blood, and though she has not eaten in years, she has not yet wasted away. Her strength remains, even though her spirit has long since died. She waits.
But he is waiting as well, waiting with bloodied breaths to join her. He knows it will be soon. At night, he sings and becomes lost in his memories of her, so much that he thinks that she is once again here to tempt him. He has gone a bit crazy in her absence, but does not know it. All he knows is that in the mornings she is gone, and that he hates the daylight. He curses it with words he didn't realize he knew. He wants the night, wants sleep. Oh, why can he not sleep forever?
But he will. Soon, he will close his eyes and not open them any longer, least not in Paris. They will grow glassy and dim, and his skin, though already old, will decay and bleed with the disease they share. And he will have his darkness. He may pain now for want of her, but he should be wary of what he desires of. He does not know, does not understand.
But soon, soon he will.
Because she is waiting.
END