"Christian, promise me."
The crowd was spread, clustered in groups on the stage in the sickly sweet rose-scented air. Tears began to itch at the sides of Christian's clouded blue eyes. He held her slim, silk-clad body, her fiery red hair spilled over his arms.
"Satine," he whispered, his hot breath softly touch her tear stained cheek.
All the time he had spent with Satine ran through Christian's mind and thin streams of tears finally trailed down his face. All the times they'd made love, the rehearsals, the laughter... the love. It was all dying with Satine.
Another skinny stream of blood trickled out of side of her mouth, spotting on her collarbone. Christian felt it drip onto his hand, warm and wet. He tried frantically to wipe it away, pretend it wasn't real. "I-I'm dying. I'm so sorry." She tried to clutch at his shirt with shaking, pale hands, but she couldn't get a grip. She was terrified.
"You'll be alright," he murmured, stroking her hair, holding her tightly to him, wishing he could absorb her sickness into his body, take away her pain.
"I'm cold, I'm cold - hold me."
"I love you." He whispered sadly, he knew there was nothing he could do, the blood was coming faster and thicker.
Satine looked up, her misty, crystal blue eyes filled with all the tender love she had for him. "You've got to go on, Christian."
"I can't go on without you." He cried brokenly.
"You've got so much to give. Tell our story, Christian. Promise me... Promise me I'll always be with you." Satine stroked his face, his beloved face that was blurring away and his voice was so far away... everything was so far away...
Christian watched her eyelashes close, and they cast long shadows on her deathly pale skin. He felt the life drain quickly from her body, and he sat completely still, feeling her body get heavier. Her arms went limp and fell away from him, her mouth went slack. Disbelief filled his features, and his chin began to tremble painfully as he tried to hold in his pain. His surroundings blurred, everything seemed disgustingly surreal. He lowered his head to hers mechanically and began to sob.
Satine, he cried out, almost screaming, over and over again. The crushed rose petals clung to their clothes, fluttered in the air. The never-ending stream of red...
Satine, Satine....
Christian rolled over, his lean, sweaty body wrapped in the itchy white sheets. Shock and pain rolled into a cold, hard lump in his chest that matched the thick knot in his throat. His cheeks were hot and sticky with drying tears.
Reaching up, Christian ran a hand through his sweaty dark brown hair. Looking around wildly, the bright morning sunlight streamed in through the slits in the chipping-green painted shutters. Letting his breath out slowly, Christian sat up and rubbed a hand over his sleek, shiny chest to relieve the tense feeling.
He gasped, the dream hitting his sweaty body like ice water. Christian rubbed his eyes, trying to push the vivid, beautiful picture of Satine from his mind.
Christian wiped at his cheeks and turned to the makeshift table next to the large bed.
His eyes fell upon the two stacks of papers on the table. The leather bound one was the old script to 'Spectacular, Spectacular'. The thicker one was the finished story of the Moulin Rouge. His experiences, their experiences, his love, their love, her love... Their story. He had written it a year after Satine's death, as he'd promised silently, and it had been sitting there for almost two years.
Three years he'd been alone. He'd barely even noticed. The days had blurred into months, those months into years, and now here he was.
Christian wasn't sure what do with it yet... Getting out of the bed he had spent so many cherished nights and days with Satine in, he walked to the window and flung the shutters open. It was a new day, a new time to begin.
He could begin with the script.
The crowd was spread, clustered in groups on the stage in the sickly sweet rose-scented air. Tears began to itch at the sides of Christian's clouded blue eyes. He held her slim, silk-clad body, her fiery red hair spilled over his arms.
"Satine," he whispered, his hot breath softly touch her tear stained cheek.
All the time he had spent with Satine ran through Christian's mind and thin streams of tears finally trailed down his face. All the times they'd made love, the rehearsals, the laughter... the love. It was all dying with Satine.
Another skinny stream of blood trickled out of side of her mouth, spotting on her collarbone. Christian felt it drip onto his hand, warm and wet. He tried frantically to wipe it away, pretend it wasn't real. "I-I'm dying. I'm so sorry." She tried to clutch at his shirt with shaking, pale hands, but she couldn't get a grip. She was terrified.
"You'll be alright," he murmured, stroking her hair, holding her tightly to him, wishing he could absorb her sickness into his body, take away her pain.
"I'm cold, I'm cold - hold me."
"I love you." He whispered sadly, he knew there was nothing he could do, the blood was coming faster and thicker.
Satine looked up, her misty, crystal blue eyes filled with all the tender love she had for him. "You've got to go on, Christian."
"I can't go on without you." He cried brokenly.
"You've got so much to give. Tell our story, Christian. Promise me... Promise me I'll always be with you." Satine stroked his face, his beloved face that was blurring away and his voice was so far away... everything was so far away...
Christian watched her eyelashes close, and they cast long shadows on her deathly pale skin. He felt the life drain quickly from her body, and he sat completely still, feeling her body get heavier. Her arms went limp and fell away from him, her mouth went slack. Disbelief filled his features, and his chin began to tremble painfully as he tried to hold in his pain. His surroundings blurred, everything seemed disgustingly surreal. He lowered his head to hers mechanically and began to sob.
Satine, he cried out, almost screaming, over and over again. The crushed rose petals clung to their clothes, fluttered in the air. The never-ending stream of red...
Satine, Satine....
Christian rolled over, his lean, sweaty body wrapped in the itchy white sheets. Shock and pain rolled into a cold, hard lump in his chest that matched the thick knot in his throat. His cheeks were hot and sticky with drying tears.
Reaching up, Christian ran a hand through his sweaty dark brown hair. Looking around wildly, the bright morning sunlight streamed in through the slits in the chipping-green painted shutters. Letting his breath out slowly, Christian sat up and rubbed a hand over his sleek, shiny chest to relieve the tense feeling.
He gasped, the dream hitting his sweaty body like ice water. Christian rubbed his eyes, trying to push the vivid, beautiful picture of Satine from his mind.
Christian wiped at his cheeks and turned to the makeshift table next to the large bed.
His eyes fell upon the two stacks of papers on the table. The leather bound one was the old script to 'Spectacular, Spectacular'. The thicker one was the finished story of the Moulin Rouge. His experiences, their experiences, his love, their love, her love... Their story. He had written it a year after Satine's death, as he'd promised silently, and it had been sitting there for almost two years.
Three years he'd been alone. He'd barely even noticed. The days had blurred into months, those months into years, and now here he was.
Christian wasn't sure what do with it yet... Getting out of the bed he had spent so many cherished nights and days with Satine in, he walked to the window and flung the shutters open. It was a new day, a new time to begin.
He could begin with the script.