Christian finds himself a year later still living in Montmarte unwillingly holding onto the memory of Satine. It is early fall of the year 1900 and on a not so very special day he sits down at his typewriter to tell the sad story about the love he lost…
He remembered that day all too well. That last fateful day when everything that had made his world finally complete, died right there in his arms.Christian could still hear the roar of the audience cheerfully clapping in acceptance of the play, all oblivious to what was actually happening behind the curtian. It was in that place that she left that night, her last breath drawn within inches of his own face. Closing his eyes, he let one subtle tear streak down his cheek as he replayed this image in his mind. The window of his apartment was wide open letting a belated summer wind blow in across the room filling it with a bittersweet scent that almost made him feel at peace for a only but a moment. But only almost.
Taking a breath, he typed the last 2 words of his story which read, "The End." and that was that. With his story now finished, Christian hoped that whatever had taken control over him the past year would just let him be at peace. If only that could ever be a reality. Christian was never going to be Christian again. Not when the one person he had lived for all his life had left him to rot in this miserable world alone.
A part of him felt overjoyed that he had kept his promise to her; his love Satine. Before she had slipped away into darkness she told him, "Tell our story Christian, tell our story and that way I'll always be with you…" And that's just what he did. A year after her death on that petal covered stage, he sat in front of his Underwood typewriter and wrote. For hours he click, click, clicked letting every angry emotion he felt for her passing away pound into each key, each word, each page. "The End." he repeated silently. He couldn't believe it. It was done. He had finished the story. Yet, why did he still feel so miserable? Why did he feel even emptier?
Christian let out another sigh and got up to look out his window. So much had changed in a year.The town itself seemed to mirror what Christian was feeling himself. Ragged drunks lined the streets singing meloncoly filled songs of the Bohiemian days of old. Nearby stores and shops were left fo whoever wanted them and the Moulin Rouge itself was left abandoned. The little town of Montmarte was dying. Much like Satine had, much like Christian was now. Perhaps his father had always been right. Perhaps he was always doomed to waste his life at the Moulin Rouge with a can can dancer. Perhaps he should of never got onto that train to take him here. Walking away from the window, Christian grabbed for his coat. He figured the only way to drown his sorrows was to get a bottle or two of Absynthe and let the intoxicating drink slip him into forgetfull sleep.