The show must go on

'Satine is dead.'
That's how they broke it to us. They came to the room where we were making up, dressing our faces in paint and stroking our silky skirts. They walked in, looked us over, their cold eyes sneering as though we were so far below them they should be treading upon us. And they said that. So cold. So...inhuman.
'Satine is dead.'
We turned away. Maybe some of us cried. Maybe some of us didn't. We could only listen as those words echoed up into the dome of the room, caught themselves in our skirts, caught in our hearts.
'Satine is dead.'
And me? I just stood in the corner, hiding my face behind a fan. I looked down, smoothed my dress and bit back tears. Satine? Dead? Impossible. Satine couldn't be dead.
Satine was an angel.
Satine was gentle.
Satine was smart and shy and beautiful.
They bowed their heads, leered at us in cold delight. I knew them, these policemen. They often peopled the bar, often danced with us. Sometimes they'd even danced with her. And everyone had wanted to dance with her.
Did they forget her so easily?
She wasn't all that good, really. Oh, she had style and finesse. She knew what she was doing. As an actress, she was the crème de la crème, the pick of the crop. She was Zidler's favourite. But a dancer? She was no dancer.
I wasn't jealous.
Yes I was. Green with jealousy. So full of it that it hurt. Impossibly, unbelievably, endlessly jealous.
But we loved her.
Why am I so mixed up? I barely even knew the girl. I was just a street kid who idolised her from the door where I sold drinks, until Harold Zidler picked me up and taught me to dance. This whole thing is ridiculous. Because Satine can't die. It can't be happen.
Zidler's crying when he comes into the room. His face is redder than ever, his eyes huge and filled with grief. He looks a broken man. We understand. Satine was his girl. His first true girl. He loved her like a daughter.
He beckons us, and we walk after him. We paste lipstick smiles on our faces, try and make ourselves seductive, try and carry on with our lives, with what we are paid to do. We can hear the people in the bar. Harold shouts into the smoky air, cutting through the beer and the cigarette fumes. We stand, unsure, unnerved. But as he announces us, we run, we mince, we smile. Smile. Smile.
Satine is dead.
The Moulin Rouge is dead.
But the show must go on.