Author's note: I don't like this fic much. I did at first and now am not very kindly towards it. A reference from the film 'Practical Magic was used - a quote about spinning and love, hehe

Dedication: Cameron and his linguistic green eyes...oh, it's still funny thinking about it again

*~*

But who can decide what they dream?

And dream I do

I was wounded, a long time ago now. My life was destroyed; shattered by oblivious hands. My heart was crushed into a million pieces in one blow. One moment. One nightmare that became reality.

That was back in the time when I was alive and beautiful, not artificially beautiful like I am now. I don't like to think about it. I don't like to remember the cruelness of life. The harshness of fate. The bitterness of reality. I don't like to remember much at all.

In my field of paper flowers

And candy clouds of lullaby

I never believed that it was possible to die of a broken heart. I thought it was just a story made up by a lovesick poet. Lots of people thought that. That's how the world is; it makes things hard for you to believe until they actually happen - whether they are bad or good.

Do you know what it is like to fall in love? Hold out your arms and spin and spin and spin until you fall over; the feeling in your head, the intoxicating dizziness that you wish to end but at the same time can't get enough of. That's what love is like. An unbelievable thrill through the body; an instantly addictive drug, like Absinthe.

I fell in love once, a long time ago. That was the beautiful time, before the wounds, the pain, the addictions, the blood, the death, the cursed afterlife and the haunting memories that won't go away. Back in the carefree days at the Moulin Rouge.

You don't know how you betrayed me

You know you've got everybody fooled

I used to be the best dancer of the Moulin; this was in the years before any of the girls there now - Nini, Satine, China, Babydoll and all the rest of them. I was there when Harold was still relatively young, before his stomach ballooned outwards and he grew that ridiculous moustache, before he became obsessively greedy, I was one of the first ever Moulin Rouge dancers.

There were still all the same rules at the Moulin then, and I broke them all. I think that's why I was so desirable - I wasn't afraid of anything. Men would flood through the doors each night and seek me out - the notorious, teasing dancer in green.

And I indulged in all my fame, my popularity, even my sins - the things that got me to where I was in the first place. I'd wake up in the bed beside my customer - unconscious from drinking Absinthe; it was a trick of mine to always drink large amounts of the liquid with my customer, which would result in drunken sex, and sugary kisses until we both passed out unconscious. I would always wake before dawn and leave, pulling out my desired amount of payment at the time from the man's pocket. I never had to face them in the mornings and never remembered their faces. It hurt them when they returned to the Rouge nights later and I had no recollection of them.

I just want to feel, real love

Feel the home that I live in

I thought I was invincible. I was the best dancer and the best courtesan, other dancers looked up to me, others were too jealous to acknowledge me, and Harold adored me for all the business I brought. I was the main attraction, untouchable, desirable, irresistible.

Until one night in winter.

My customer for the night was a painter named Jacek. He was a depressed painter, dark and distant. Brilliant at his trade, I discovered - he paid me with a portrait he'd painted from one of the corners of the Moulin, I wish I still had it. He was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen with the softest and most gentle voice, a delicate touch and captivating warmth. There was no Absinthe with him; the moment he kissed me the world seemed to fall away at all corners, he made the exquisite world I lived in seem plain and unnecessary. I woke up in the morning like always but I found I could not leave, I could not move anywhere but closer to him.

The feel of his breath against my cheek and the touch of his arm about my waist made my head spin and spin and spin. He became an instant addiction. He became my love.

And I need to fell, real love

And a life ever after

He left as soon as he woke and was back the next night, with another painting as payment. I accepted him, of course. My heart burned with love for him, the feeling of him again, the mysteriousness of him and the voice of him.

Night after night he came and we made love. I never said I love you to him and he never said it to me, it seemed to be said by our bodies, our kisses, and our embraces. I often wondered if he was thinking the same things as me as we made love. I wondered if he actually loved me too. He held me like he did; he kissed me like he did, and he even spoke to me like he did. But those three words 'I love you' were never exchanged between us.

There was something else; looks to each other on the dance floor, entwined fingers as we lay beside each other, caresses behind closed doors, secret meetings in the streets, a longing for each other that we confessed to each night. But we never said we loved each other. I never knew why.

Silence shields the pain

So you say nothing

Winter was almost over, it was a particularly cold night and he came to me drunk. He was going through a phase of violent depression and I was used to them, I'd kiss him and hold him close until he calmed down and whispered gentle apologies in my ears.

That night was different, however.

He was drunker than usual, bloodshot eyes and breath that smelt of whiskey. A horrible violent temper and little patience. He demanded a drink as soon as we were alone; all I had was Absinthe - at least half a dozen bottles of it. He drank the green liquid by the bottle and I never tried to stop him. I've never forgiven myself for that. He drank and we made love, he drank some more and I fell asleep beside him and he went on drinking, losing more and more touch of reality.

In the morning he was dead. An overdose. A heart attack. A suicide. An accident. Who knew?

The world fell away from me at all corners again.

So go on and scream

Scream at me I'm so far away

It was my fault. I never stopped him drinking. I never kissed him and held him to make it better. I fell asleep. I fucking fell asleep and in the morning my love was gone. That's why I'm the way I am now, because it was all my fault.

I don't think I'd ever cried in my entire life until that morning. My heart split and cracked in two inside my chest - I felt it. I was wounded. Wounded from my own mistakes. My screams echoed through the Moulin, so painful and wrenching. That was it, my life melted away in one moment, one nightmare turned reality. I screamed for him, I cried for him, my senses faded in and out of functioning. The world was blurring away, disappearing, as the gaping wound in my heart grew wider.

I held him, I tried to shake him awake, I kissed him, I whispered to him. But he was cold, I could not feel his heartbeat, I could not fell his breath against my cheek. My heart split and shattered some more.

I've been living a lie

There's nothing inside

I stopped dancing. I refused to go back on the dance floor. I disappeared from the Moulin Rouge nightlife. I stayed locked away in my own little room, lying on my own little bed, crying until my eyes were bleeding red. I drank Absinthe to numb my senses and became addicted to it. My heart was broken, I was waiting to die, and I wanted to die. I slashed my wrists - my sheets were regularly stained red.

One summer day, it's true, I died of a broken heart.

I know I can stop the pain if I will it all away

If I will it all away

Death is cruel. The afterlife is cruel. I wasn't admitted into heaven and I wasn't admitted to hell. I was sentenced to suffer. I was sentenced to live forever in torment. I was sentenced to dance in my green dress forever.

I was sentenced to an afterlife as a hallucination of the substance that killed everything I ever loved...

Absinthe.