This is just a little piece describing some of the characters feelings in
the aftermath (hence the name) of Satine's death, kind of a lament. Hope
you like it!
***
Time to lay the ideals down to rest
They're sick of coming second best
A picture painted on the wall
And echoes of a lovers call
Toulouse walked aimlessly in a careless shuffle around his garret, whispering the words with a half full Absinthe bottle lolling loosely in his hand. She had died and taken the Moulin and all the Bohemian Ideals with her, nothing would ever be the same.
He paused before a portrait he'd painted of her on his wall near the window and let his eyes rest on the photograph of her and her poet that was stuck on the wall beside the painting. She'd taken his voice with her into death and his voice was the voice of the Revolution.
Frozen boy, leave your whore
The most tragic thing we've seen before
Jaded girl, you were so cruel
Left your love and played the fool
The Argentinean strolled the dank streets of Monemarte and stumbled down the grime filled alleyways singing fragments of a song under his alcohol- drugged breath.
He'd abandoned any efforts to try and sleep that night, the strangled cries of the writer in the garret below had become too much for him to stand, he'd spent nights lying stiff in his bed listening to the agonizing yells and shuddering sobs of the writer as he cried and drank through the night because his jaded whore had left him.
The poor writer was frozen up now, numb to life and all it's surroundings, he was a living tragedy.
My bonds hold tight to me
Despite my yearning to be free
A footprint smeared in snow
Another wound from another blow
Christian slumped awkwardly in his chair, staring reluctantly at his typewriter, whispering depressed poetry to himself as he examined his once treasured machine from a distance. He'd made a promise and he regretted it. He didn't want to write their story, he wanted instead to end it all and be with her then he could be free again.
Absinthe had made his throat red raw now, the burning of it slicing down his throat was now the only feeling he could sense and his wounds, oh how they tortured him; a shattered heart that stung to beat, a ripped up soul that cursed to survive, a frozen mind that throbbed to think with memories that did nothing but haunt.
His footprints were still visible in the snow from when he left the Moulin that fateful night, they were smeared and uneven as he wandered home after seeing her body being carried away, the bitter wind stung his face, but he couldn't bring himself to feel it because he was no longer an innocent boy, but a broken soul.
Drunken boy, you've lost your grin
While we all drown in despair and sin
Sullen girl you lost your flame
Tell me whom we've got to blame
Harold sometimes watched the writer on Sundays when he would appear in the Red Room of the elephant. He always went there on Sundays, he remembers her happily on Sundays. But he is still drunk on Sundays when he goes to her room and he never smiles as he sits on her bed or breathes in her scent that still coats the room.
Harold thinks he can see her with the writer on Sundays in the elephant, but she never smiles either as she sits beside him. She can't feel him and he cant feel her, she is sullen and lost as she watches him. Harold looks between the two, the diamond that lost its glitter and her poet who lost his words, Harold always takes the blame.
Wipe the dirt and blood away
I'll sing the pain for today
I hear your cry in the night
Behind a dying candles light
Satine sits beside him as he sleeps, she is trapped between the worlds, there is no returning to the world of living and no moving on to the afterlife without her lover, so she sits by him as he sleeps waiting for him to join her. She hears him cry in his sleep as every light in Paris dies, she tries to sing a song for him, but he can't hear her.
She touches his face with a hesitant hand, to wipe away the blood from where he'd fallen drunkenly onto the smashed glass of an Absinthe bottle. She sings the heartbreak for the night and she kisses his face through tormenting dreams, but he can't feel her, he can't feel at all anymore so she waits.
Lover boy, forget your song
I'll pick up where you go wrong
Fallen girl, walk in the rain
You don't deserve this kind of pain
Nini always felt guilt, she never saw the writer again after that fateful night, and she couldn't stand to see his torn face. She stands upon the corner every night and looks to his window, she sings his songs, she keeps them alive when they have been forgotten by him and his diamond, she sings them to the night so the stars may remember the two lovers that danced among them so long ago.
She walks the streets when it rains, catching raindrops in her hands because that's what the diamond used to do, she walks in the rain with hopes that the diamond may walk with her catching raindrops to ease the pain.
She thinks that if she keeps their songs alive and tries to help the pain, the guilt might go away.
*~*
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge isn't mine as usual. Hope you enjoyed this, it was good to write, feedback is always appreciated and loved.
***
Time to lay the ideals down to rest
They're sick of coming second best
A picture painted on the wall
And echoes of a lovers call
Toulouse walked aimlessly in a careless shuffle around his garret, whispering the words with a half full Absinthe bottle lolling loosely in his hand. She had died and taken the Moulin and all the Bohemian Ideals with her, nothing would ever be the same.
He paused before a portrait he'd painted of her on his wall near the window and let his eyes rest on the photograph of her and her poet that was stuck on the wall beside the painting. She'd taken his voice with her into death and his voice was the voice of the Revolution.
Frozen boy, leave your whore
The most tragic thing we've seen before
Jaded girl, you were so cruel
Left your love and played the fool
The Argentinean strolled the dank streets of Monemarte and stumbled down the grime filled alleyways singing fragments of a song under his alcohol- drugged breath.
He'd abandoned any efforts to try and sleep that night, the strangled cries of the writer in the garret below had become too much for him to stand, he'd spent nights lying stiff in his bed listening to the agonizing yells and shuddering sobs of the writer as he cried and drank through the night because his jaded whore had left him.
The poor writer was frozen up now, numb to life and all it's surroundings, he was a living tragedy.
My bonds hold tight to me
Despite my yearning to be free
A footprint smeared in snow
Another wound from another blow
Christian slumped awkwardly in his chair, staring reluctantly at his typewriter, whispering depressed poetry to himself as he examined his once treasured machine from a distance. He'd made a promise and he regretted it. He didn't want to write their story, he wanted instead to end it all and be with her then he could be free again.
Absinthe had made his throat red raw now, the burning of it slicing down his throat was now the only feeling he could sense and his wounds, oh how they tortured him; a shattered heart that stung to beat, a ripped up soul that cursed to survive, a frozen mind that throbbed to think with memories that did nothing but haunt.
His footprints were still visible in the snow from when he left the Moulin that fateful night, they were smeared and uneven as he wandered home after seeing her body being carried away, the bitter wind stung his face, but he couldn't bring himself to feel it because he was no longer an innocent boy, but a broken soul.
Drunken boy, you've lost your grin
While we all drown in despair and sin
Sullen girl you lost your flame
Tell me whom we've got to blame
Harold sometimes watched the writer on Sundays when he would appear in the Red Room of the elephant. He always went there on Sundays, he remembers her happily on Sundays. But he is still drunk on Sundays when he goes to her room and he never smiles as he sits on her bed or breathes in her scent that still coats the room.
Harold thinks he can see her with the writer on Sundays in the elephant, but she never smiles either as she sits beside him. She can't feel him and he cant feel her, she is sullen and lost as she watches him. Harold looks between the two, the diamond that lost its glitter and her poet who lost his words, Harold always takes the blame.
Wipe the dirt and blood away
I'll sing the pain for today
I hear your cry in the night
Behind a dying candles light
Satine sits beside him as he sleeps, she is trapped between the worlds, there is no returning to the world of living and no moving on to the afterlife without her lover, so she sits by him as he sleeps waiting for him to join her. She hears him cry in his sleep as every light in Paris dies, she tries to sing a song for him, but he can't hear her.
She touches his face with a hesitant hand, to wipe away the blood from where he'd fallen drunkenly onto the smashed glass of an Absinthe bottle. She sings the heartbreak for the night and she kisses his face through tormenting dreams, but he can't feel her, he can't feel at all anymore so she waits.
Lover boy, forget your song
I'll pick up where you go wrong
Fallen girl, walk in the rain
You don't deserve this kind of pain
Nini always felt guilt, she never saw the writer again after that fateful night, and she couldn't stand to see his torn face. She stands upon the corner every night and looks to his window, she sings his songs, she keeps them alive when they have been forgotten by him and his diamond, she sings them to the night so the stars may remember the two lovers that danced among them so long ago.
She walks the streets when it rains, catching raindrops in her hands because that's what the diamond used to do, she walks in the rain with hopes that the diamond may walk with her catching raindrops to ease the pain.
She thinks that if she keeps their songs alive and tries to help the pain, the guilt might go away.
*~*
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge isn't mine as usual. Hope you enjoyed this, it was good to write, feedback is always appreciated and loved.