Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge belongs solely to Baz Luhrman and his team of
producers, writers, etc. Lucky bastards.
Chapter Five..
Toulouse looked around wildly. He was back again. Stuck in a room. A room with bars on the windows. His head was throbbing, his legs were cramping. He felt dizzy. Carefully, he tried to stand and hobble to the stark, white door. Toulouse banged on the door, but no one answered it, and the door wouldn't open. He was sealed inside. The room began to spin, and Toulouse sunk to his knees. The room faded rapidly from sight. Toulouse screamed and his voice was consumed by the great darkness that he was rapidly free- falling into.
Panting, Toulouse opened his eye. What greeted him was a happy sight. His studio, an Absinthe bottle, his sketches.
"Nightmare Just a nightmare," he gasped. "I'm not there. I'm not there anymore, thank God. I'm in my apawtment. Yes," he laughed," I am being siw- wie. I'm not insane. Mother just oveh-weacted. Dat's all. Yes, dat's all."
Toulouse was not unfamiliar with nightmares. And lately, all of his were about the time he spent inside the insane asylum.
Ha! Like he was insane! If anyone belonged in an asylum, it was his father. Or mother. Both. They were both crazy. His father-well, he barely knew his father anyway-was eccentric. He'd dress in a kilt one day, a suit of armor the next.
His mother was obsessive. She was constantly worrying about the state Toulouse lived in. She enjoyed reminding him constantly that he was the last of the Lautrec's. She'd always hint that he should come back and live with her. She always would tell him what a prestigious family they were.
Of course, she wasn't lying. Count and Countess Lautrec were prestigious. In fact, his mother and father were first cousins who had married each other to keep the name of Lautrec directly in the family. Toulouse despised it. He despised his childhood. Growing up in mansions, manors, and chateaux.
Toulouse secretly despised the fact that he was crippled. He used to be good-natured about it, making jokes even. When he was thirteen, he put on a tough face, and rarely complained. When he was fourteen, he did the same. But deep down inside, he loathed himself and his crippled body.
Toulouse hated that day when he was thirteen. The servants had just polished and waxed the floors of the chateau he was staying in. Someone had come to call. The doorbell had just rung. Toulouse ran to get the door. However, as he jumped up and began to run, his foot caught his pants leg, and he fell down hard, breaking his leg.
Toulouse had broken his other leg at fourteen. He had been riding with his aunt, perhaps. Or maybe it was his grandmother. But he had been riding, and he slipped off the saddle and fell into a small ditch. Toulouse had been so angry at himself for that. He rarely ever fell. Toulouse had been a good rider, his father had taught him. His father loved to ride, and to hunt. Count Alphonse Lautrec frequently inhabited a hunting lodge while Toulouse and his mother lived in Southern France.
Toulouse was sure his father was disappointed he got a son who did not enjoy hunting and riding as much as his father did. No, what his father got was a son who came on hunting trips to sketch. Toulouse loved to draw pictures of the hunt, since he couldn't do it himself.
Quietly, Toulouse cursed himself. He cursed his lisp, his crippled legs, his repulsive face. No one would accept Toulouse. He was far too ugly.
But at that moment, as Toulouse hugged himself and curled (as best he could) under his covers, he cried. He had never wanted someone so bad in his life. Someone who would accept him the way he was. A girl who would really, truly care for him. Someone who would love him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When Toulouse woke up that morning, he couldn't remember the nightmare. Instead he woke and grabbed his cane, pencil, and sketchpad. Quickly, he made his way up to the roof to sketch. As he looked out on the bleak sunrise, he noticed something grim and shocking. Hanging off the side of Satie's old balcony was a girl.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dominique Colet had risen very early. She could no longer stand her life. She hated everyone in it. She hated Satie with a passion. Or perhaps she loved him with a passion. Whatever it was, however, Dominique couldn't tell.
End it. End all the pain and suffering right here. Right where Satie left you, Dominique thought.
Dominique took the scarf she had found, and tied tightly around her neck. She'd do it this time. This time, Satie's presence wouldn't stop her. Today was grey and the forecast was pain and agony. Why bother with it all?
She pulled the scarf to make sure it was tight. With shaking hands, she tied it to the rail of the balcony. Slowly, she climbed over the edge of the balcony, lowering herself with the rails.
"See Satie? I'm my own hangman. You didn't kill me after all," Dominique laughed.
When she could lower herself no farther, she let go. Her throat began to seize up, but she was determined to keep her eyes open.
The last thing she saw was a funny man up on the roof.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Toulouse was sickened. But he forced himself to look. He recognized that twisted, macabre face. Satie's friend. Dominique something. They were always hanging around together. She had even been in 'Spectacular Spectacular'.
He wondered what had driven her to suicide. Was it a family issue? Did someone you love die? Did your one true love leave? Or did you just lose hope? Did you just forget about life?
For some unknown reason, Toulouse knelt and began to pray. Something he had needed to do for a long time.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Christian looked out his window. He saw a body dangling. Christian looked back at his typewriter. He began to type again. He wouldn't look. He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't notice that she took her own life. That she could have kept living. That maybe God could have taken her and left Satine, since the suicidal woman wanted to go so damn bad.
Christian felt the anger boiling red-hot inside of him. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to tell her that someone, somewhere cares about you. He wanted to tell her that no one wants to watch someone they love die.
"Satine. Satine! Are you there? Where are you?! You said you'd be here with me! Where are you now, eh? Where are you?! Satine, I loved you! I love you! Where are you?!" Christian cried. Nothing happened. Then slowly, a small ray of sun poked out from behind the clouds and shone through Christian's window.
"Sa-Satine?" Christian began to cry. "You're here. I know you are."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
In Arceuil, Satie was just unpacking the contents of his trunk when he suddenly got very cold. Something was wrong.
Satie had a very strange feeling. "Dominique?"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: ahhhhh, I had to, I'm sorry. anyway, I really feel inspired to finish the whole fanfic. thank you everyone out there in readerland who has reviewed and read my story. if you haven't reviewed yet, please do! I love getting feedback! even flames! ahh, the miracles diet pepsi, moulin rouge soundtrack, and a little encouragement from readers can work. GO RANGER WRESTLERS! sorry, I just had to!
Chapter Five..
Toulouse looked around wildly. He was back again. Stuck in a room. A room with bars on the windows. His head was throbbing, his legs were cramping. He felt dizzy. Carefully, he tried to stand and hobble to the stark, white door. Toulouse banged on the door, but no one answered it, and the door wouldn't open. He was sealed inside. The room began to spin, and Toulouse sunk to his knees. The room faded rapidly from sight. Toulouse screamed and his voice was consumed by the great darkness that he was rapidly free- falling into.
Panting, Toulouse opened his eye. What greeted him was a happy sight. His studio, an Absinthe bottle, his sketches.
"Nightmare Just a nightmare," he gasped. "I'm not there. I'm not there anymore, thank God. I'm in my apawtment. Yes," he laughed," I am being siw- wie. I'm not insane. Mother just oveh-weacted. Dat's all. Yes, dat's all."
Toulouse was not unfamiliar with nightmares. And lately, all of his were about the time he spent inside the insane asylum.
Ha! Like he was insane! If anyone belonged in an asylum, it was his father. Or mother. Both. They were both crazy. His father-well, he barely knew his father anyway-was eccentric. He'd dress in a kilt one day, a suit of armor the next.
His mother was obsessive. She was constantly worrying about the state Toulouse lived in. She enjoyed reminding him constantly that he was the last of the Lautrec's. She'd always hint that he should come back and live with her. She always would tell him what a prestigious family they were.
Of course, she wasn't lying. Count and Countess Lautrec were prestigious. In fact, his mother and father were first cousins who had married each other to keep the name of Lautrec directly in the family. Toulouse despised it. He despised his childhood. Growing up in mansions, manors, and chateaux.
Toulouse secretly despised the fact that he was crippled. He used to be good-natured about it, making jokes even. When he was thirteen, he put on a tough face, and rarely complained. When he was fourteen, he did the same. But deep down inside, he loathed himself and his crippled body.
Toulouse hated that day when he was thirteen. The servants had just polished and waxed the floors of the chateau he was staying in. Someone had come to call. The doorbell had just rung. Toulouse ran to get the door. However, as he jumped up and began to run, his foot caught his pants leg, and he fell down hard, breaking his leg.
Toulouse had broken his other leg at fourteen. He had been riding with his aunt, perhaps. Or maybe it was his grandmother. But he had been riding, and he slipped off the saddle and fell into a small ditch. Toulouse had been so angry at himself for that. He rarely ever fell. Toulouse had been a good rider, his father had taught him. His father loved to ride, and to hunt. Count Alphonse Lautrec frequently inhabited a hunting lodge while Toulouse and his mother lived in Southern France.
Toulouse was sure his father was disappointed he got a son who did not enjoy hunting and riding as much as his father did. No, what his father got was a son who came on hunting trips to sketch. Toulouse loved to draw pictures of the hunt, since he couldn't do it himself.
Quietly, Toulouse cursed himself. He cursed his lisp, his crippled legs, his repulsive face. No one would accept Toulouse. He was far too ugly.
But at that moment, as Toulouse hugged himself and curled (as best he could) under his covers, he cried. He had never wanted someone so bad in his life. Someone who would accept him the way he was. A girl who would really, truly care for him. Someone who would love him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When Toulouse woke up that morning, he couldn't remember the nightmare. Instead he woke and grabbed his cane, pencil, and sketchpad. Quickly, he made his way up to the roof to sketch. As he looked out on the bleak sunrise, he noticed something grim and shocking. Hanging off the side of Satie's old balcony was a girl.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dominique Colet had risen very early. She could no longer stand her life. She hated everyone in it. She hated Satie with a passion. Or perhaps she loved him with a passion. Whatever it was, however, Dominique couldn't tell.
End it. End all the pain and suffering right here. Right where Satie left you, Dominique thought.
Dominique took the scarf she had found, and tied tightly around her neck. She'd do it this time. This time, Satie's presence wouldn't stop her. Today was grey and the forecast was pain and agony. Why bother with it all?
She pulled the scarf to make sure it was tight. With shaking hands, she tied it to the rail of the balcony. Slowly, she climbed over the edge of the balcony, lowering herself with the rails.
"See Satie? I'm my own hangman. You didn't kill me after all," Dominique laughed.
When she could lower herself no farther, she let go. Her throat began to seize up, but she was determined to keep her eyes open.
The last thing she saw was a funny man up on the roof.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Toulouse was sickened. But he forced himself to look. He recognized that twisted, macabre face. Satie's friend. Dominique something. They were always hanging around together. She had even been in 'Spectacular Spectacular'.
He wondered what had driven her to suicide. Was it a family issue? Did someone you love die? Did your one true love leave? Or did you just lose hope? Did you just forget about life?
For some unknown reason, Toulouse knelt and began to pray. Something he had needed to do for a long time.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Christian looked out his window. He saw a body dangling. Christian looked back at his typewriter. He began to type again. He wouldn't look. He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't notice that she took her own life. That she could have kept living. That maybe God could have taken her and left Satine, since the suicidal woman wanted to go so damn bad.
Christian felt the anger boiling red-hot inside of him. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to tell her that someone, somewhere cares about you. He wanted to tell her that no one wants to watch someone they love die.
"Satine. Satine! Are you there? Where are you?! You said you'd be here with me! Where are you now, eh? Where are you?! Satine, I loved you! I love you! Where are you?!" Christian cried. Nothing happened. Then slowly, a small ray of sun poked out from behind the clouds and shone through Christian's window.
"Sa-Satine?" Christian began to cry. "You're here. I know you are."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
In Arceuil, Satie was just unpacking the contents of his trunk when he suddenly got very cold. Something was wrong.
Satie had a very strange feeling. "Dominique?"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: ahhhhh, I had to, I'm sorry. anyway, I really feel inspired to finish the whole fanfic. thank you everyone out there in readerland who has reviewed and read my story. if you haven't reviewed yet, please do! I love getting feedback! even flames! ahh, the miracles diet pepsi, moulin rouge soundtrack, and a little encouragement from readers can work. GO RANGER WRESTLERS! sorry, I just had to!