-Bury Me Beneath the Willow-
A/N- This is my third Moulin Rouge fanfic, and my first take on this genre / type of writing, so please be kind and review! (I don't mind constructive criticism, though no flames please!)
Disclaimer- The song I used in this fic is, 'Bury Me Beneath The Willow' by Woody Guthrie.
The Moulin Rouge is not mine, but the Baz Luhrmann's... Actually, apart from the story I own nothing... so bleh...
'The truth? The truth is, I am the Hindu courtesan. And I choose the maharajah. That's how the story really ends.'
Those words keep on circling around in his mind. Taunting him. Mocking him.
He ran out onto the street after her. So naive. He tried to ignore the truth, even though it was staring straight at him.
'Satine!' He called her name three times. He was desperately trying to cling onto his dream world so then he could live in his happy bubble.
Night after night passers by would hear the anguished cries from his window, they've got use to it though; its been going on for two years now. Sometimes they would hear laughter, other times crying, sometimes the smashing of bottles, and other times the clinking of typewriter keys. But today they heard something different, singing.
Oh, bury me beneath the willow,
Under the weeping willow tree,
So she will know where I am sleeping,
And perhaps she'll weep for me...
Poor boy, they would whisper to each other; 'Spectacular Spectacular' had been a big hit, everyone had seen it. But the Moulin Rouge had ripped him off, he only did it for her they say; did he still not know that she had died a year ago? No. He hasn't stepped a foot out of that garret of his for around a year, probably gone mad with loneliness and despair by now.
My heart is sad I am lonely,
For the only one I love,
When shall I see her oh no never,
'Til we meet in heaven above...
That friend of his, Toulouse they say. Does he still look after him? Yes they say, day after day. Every week you will see him dragging bottles of absinthe and rubbish behind him, weariness and hurt etched onto his face. But still he toils on.
She told me that she dearly loved me,
How could I believe it untrue,
Until the angels softly whispered,
She will prove untrue to you...
'If I died tomorrow, would she care? Would she cry, or would she laugh?' he whispers to himself.
Christian stared at his typewriter, one hand beating a tattoo into the desk, the other mindlessly fiddling with his hair. The only reason Christian's garret wasn't a complete state and carpeted with absinthe bottles was that Toulouse would help him clear up every week, - Christian, he would say softly - Please, move on, help me here. But there would always be that silence.
Tomorrow was to be our wedding,
God oh God where can she be,
She's out a courting with another,
And no longer cares for me...
Not that far from the truth probably, mused Christian. After that show he hadn't seen or heard any news about her. It had been two years now. - Time to get over it boy, the Argentinean had whispered, they were all hiding something from him, but he didn't care. But they were right. It is time for him to get over it.
- Time to get up Christian. Grabbing his coat he swung it over his shoulders and reached out for the door, pausing only for a second as a small but harsh cough erupted from him. Opening the door he quickly descended the stairs, pulling up his collar as the first flakes of snow touched his cheek. Shaking his head he watched the snow danced slowly towards the ground, mixing with the small red drops that had also fallen with the snow.
A/N- Now submit to me! Not really, a review would enough... bleh bleh