Hey everyone! Thanks a bunch for the luvly reviews. they make us feel so
loved!! Anyways, we're still checking back EVERYDAY for reviews, and we
are serious about not uploading unless we get more! This will most likely
be the last chapter for a while, cuz we'll be leaving for sleepaway camp
this week . . . *sniffle* . . . sorry to those who we're leaving in
suspense!! Expect MUCH more when we get back, in about a month. This is
goin 2 be a long fic. We'll be posting in August, we promise!! Please.
we're begging u on hands and knees . . . READ and REVIEW!! Thank you so
much to Diamond Absinthe, Nugristiel08LG, and sweetiepie22 . . . we love
you guys so much!! Here's chapter 3 . . . enjoy . . .
OOH!! And it's Anna's (RougeChic) birthday today! (6/20) Woohoo! Yes, lucky me, I share a bday w/ Nicole Kidman who happens to be my idol. AND for my bat mitzvah (Anna) . . . I got Ewan's autograph! No joke. I won't give u the details, but he really did it! I'll just say that I have connections . . . to his agent in London . . .lol. I brag so much. I'll shut up. . . .I promise. Just read. Please. Thank you!
Montmartre, Paris, France, 1899
Breaking her gaze from the chipped walls of the garret, Satine smiled almost lovingly at her dear artist friend, swiping furiously at a worn easel. Toulouse's vivid colors beautifully portrayed the Bohemian lifestyle Satine had quickly accustomed to. The once gawky redhead had grown to be a gorgeous young lady. Her skinny proportions gave way to a slim, beautiful figure as she matured, catching the lusty eye of many a man. An accomplished actress and singer, she enjoyed the life of a starving artist with the help of Toulouse.
But life hadn't always been so easy.
Satine closed her eyes against the pain of remembrance. She couldn't remember much-it was almost all lost from her mind. All that remained was pain, cold, darkness, and a dream flying away . . .
*~*Montmartre, Paris, France, 1889*~*
*~*"What is this place . . ."*~*
*~*"Witwwe giwl? Awe . . .awe you okay?"*~*
*~*"Y-yes . . .I . . .I think so, sir, thank you-"*~*
*~*"Oh my! You'we shivewing! Come now, we'll get you wawm . . .you got a pwace to wive?"*~*
*~*"N-no s-sir, I'm not from here-"*~*
*~*"Oh, you poow deaw! Come, come now . . .my gawwet is just down the stweet hewe . . ."*~*
Satine shook herself out of her daze. Toulouse had taken her in so many hears ago as a young girl. A young, helpless girl with no where to go, and he had given her more than he could afford to give. With a final wistful sigh, she stretched her legs to the floor, ready for a new day.
London, England, 1889
'Beautiful,' Christian typed, as he tried his best to think of the woman he might fall for someday. These thoughts, he knew, he must write down before they escaped his head. 'Silky soft skin, blue eyes--sparkling blue eyes, filled with curiosity and passion, but above all things, of course, love-- eyes so powerful, that you could gaze into their depths for hours--not looking away for even a second; red, luscious lips, so kissable . . .; long locks of fiery red hair--'
He stopped typing abruptly when, yet again, that ghost from the past ran through his head.
He was typing about her.
'God, why do I still think of her . . ." Christian mused, "I mean, what was so special about that girl anyway . . . I never loved her . . .I can't even remember who she was . . ."
Christian was still buried in his thoughts when his father came stomping into his room, followed by his father's clone- Christian's brother. Their expressions were, as usual, stolid and stony, their eyes never holding the love they should have. His father's composure was lost, however, when he saw that Christian was writing.
"Why do you waste your life like this, boy? You could be making use of yourself, working in the bank like your brother here."
Christian rolled his eyes. Always being compared to his brother. Ever since his mother had died of consumption nine years ago, Christian was left behind even more than he had been from the start, and his father was never kind to him. Never a supportive word, especially in the area of writing. His father wanted him to be in the banking business, just like him and his perfect brother . . .perfectly boring brother . . .
"Father, you know that writing is-"
"WRITING is a bunch of CRAP! There are so many more important things in the world! You're turning into one of those . . . one of those . . . those . . . BOHEMIANS!" his father sputtered in rage.
His brother snickered. "You're only writing about pointless things, brother. Poetry, love, all that stupid-"
"LOVE IS NOT STUPID!" Christian blurted, shooting up from his chair in a rage.
"Love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is-"
Christian was cut off by an almighty blow from his father, flinging him into the desk behind him. He raised a hand to rub his sore, stinging cheek, his normally gentle gray eyes shooting daggers at the two people he loathed most.
Sturdying himself on the rickety old chair, he reached for his typewriter. Under the stunned, icy glower of his father and brother, his typewriter was enclosed in its case, soon joined by his beloved journal. Everything he had ever written was in there, and that was all he needed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Christian James?" his father spat, letting the last two words escape gritted teeth with all the hatred the old man possessed.
Matching his tone and then some, Christian retorted, "Goodbye Father, Brother."
He slipped past his frozen so-called "family", he slipped out the door, escaping what had been his home for 22 years. His prison. His cage. He was finally leaving. He was off to live a penniless existence, to join the Bohemian Revolution, and to write about Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and that which he believed in above all things . . .
. . .Love.
Dun dun dun . . . lol . . . well, not really, since the story's getting MUCH happier now, thank god. We're having soo much fun writing this =) Like we said, this is the last chapter until August, and we better come home from camp to loads of reviews!! Heehee . . . thanx every1!!
OOH!! And it's Anna's (RougeChic) birthday today! (6/20) Woohoo! Yes, lucky me, I share a bday w/ Nicole Kidman who happens to be my idol. AND for my bat mitzvah (Anna) . . . I got Ewan's autograph! No joke. I won't give u the details, but he really did it! I'll just say that I have connections . . . to his agent in London . . .lol. I brag so much. I'll shut up. . . .I promise. Just read. Please. Thank you!
Montmartre, Paris, France, 1899
Breaking her gaze from the chipped walls of the garret, Satine smiled almost lovingly at her dear artist friend, swiping furiously at a worn easel. Toulouse's vivid colors beautifully portrayed the Bohemian lifestyle Satine had quickly accustomed to. The once gawky redhead had grown to be a gorgeous young lady. Her skinny proportions gave way to a slim, beautiful figure as she matured, catching the lusty eye of many a man. An accomplished actress and singer, she enjoyed the life of a starving artist with the help of Toulouse.
But life hadn't always been so easy.
Satine closed her eyes against the pain of remembrance. She couldn't remember much-it was almost all lost from her mind. All that remained was pain, cold, darkness, and a dream flying away . . .
*~*Montmartre, Paris, France, 1889*~*
*~*"What is this place . . ."*~*
*~*"Witwwe giwl? Awe . . .awe you okay?"*~*
*~*"Y-yes . . .I . . .I think so, sir, thank you-"*~*
*~*"Oh my! You'we shivewing! Come now, we'll get you wawm . . .you got a pwace to wive?"*~*
*~*"N-no s-sir, I'm not from here-"*~*
*~*"Oh, you poow deaw! Come, come now . . .my gawwet is just down the stweet hewe . . ."*~*
Satine shook herself out of her daze. Toulouse had taken her in so many hears ago as a young girl. A young, helpless girl with no where to go, and he had given her more than he could afford to give. With a final wistful sigh, she stretched her legs to the floor, ready for a new day.
London, England, 1889
'Beautiful,' Christian typed, as he tried his best to think of the woman he might fall for someday. These thoughts, he knew, he must write down before they escaped his head. 'Silky soft skin, blue eyes--sparkling blue eyes, filled with curiosity and passion, but above all things, of course, love-- eyes so powerful, that you could gaze into their depths for hours--not looking away for even a second; red, luscious lips, so kissable . . .; long locks of fiery red hair--'
He stopped typing abruptly when, yet again, that ghost from the past ran through his head.
He was typing about her.
'God, why do I still think of her . . ." Christian mused, "I mean, what was so special about that girl anyway . . . I never loved her . . .I can't even remember who she was . . ."
Christian was still buried in his thoughts when his father came stomping into his room, followed by his father's clone- Christian's brother. Their expressions were, as usual, stolid and stony, their eyes never holding the love they should have. His father's composure was lost, however, when he saw that Christian was writing.
"Why do you waste your life like this, boy? You could be making use of yourself, working in the bank like your brother here."
Christian rolled his eyes. Always being compared to his brother. Ever since his mother had died of consumption nine years ago, Christian was left behind even more than he had been from the start, and his father was never kind to him. Never a supportive word, especially in the area of writing. His father wanted him to be in the banking business, just like him and his perfect brother . . .perfectly boring brother . . .
"Father, you know that writing is-"
"WRITING is a bunch of CRAP! There are so many more important things in the world! You're turning into one of those . . . one of those . . . those . . . BOHEMIANS!" his father sputtered in rage.
His brother snickered. "You're only writing about pointless things, brother. Poetry, love, all that stupid-"
"LOVE IS NOT STUPID!" Christian blurted, shooting up from his chair in a rage.
"Love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is-"
Christian was cut off by an almighty blow from his father, flinging him into the desk behind him. He raised a hand to rub his sore, stinging cheek, his normally gentle gray eyes shooting daggers at the two people he loathed most.
Sturdying himself on the rickety old chair, he reached for his typewriter. Under the stunned, icy glower of his father and brother, his typewriter was enclosed in its case, soon joined by his beloved journal. Everything he had ever written was in there, and that was all he needed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Christian James?" his father spat, letting the last two words escape gritted teeth with all the hatred the old man possessed.
Matching his tone and then some, Christian retorted, "Goodbye Father, Brother."
He slipped past his frozen so-called "family", he slipped out the door, escaping what had been his home for 22 years. His prison. His cage. He was finally leaving. He was off to live a penniless existence, to join the Bohemian Revolution, and to write about Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and that which he believed in above all things . . .
. . .Love.
Dun dun dun . . . lol . . . well, not really, since the story's getting MUCH happier now, thank god. We're having soo much fun writing this =) Like we said, this is the last chapter until August, and we better come home from camp to loads of reviews!! Heehee . . . thanx every1!!