Post by Luthiel on Oct 18, 2003 11:04:42 GMT -5
Hey guys! Leeny suggested a group story about what happened to Christian after Satine died, so I'm just gonna start it. Feel free to add on! ;D
Click, click, click, click-click.
Ching!
Click click...click...
The only noise in the small bedroom was that of the typewriter, its keys now being prodded by the young man hunched over them. He paused for a moment, resting his head on his hands as if in deep thought. A second or two later, he positioned his hands back onto the keys, but they remained still, as if the energy and inspiration that fueled them had all but diminished and sputtered out. He sighed defeatedly, pushing the carved wooden chair away from the table, and stood up whilst running a beaten hand through his dark locks of hair.
It had been three years. Three years since Christian left Montemarte and the Moulin Rouge. Three years since she died in his arms that fateful night. The wound in his heart had been deep; it had nearly killed him. But Toulouse, dear, drunken Toulouse, had urged him to go on, to leave France and forget.
But he could never forget. Not really.
Sure, the nearly fatal wound had healed over and scarred, but oh, what a nasty scar it left behind. The slightest prod and it would tear, letting the blood spill freely once again. No, the wound would never really heal, just like he would never really forget. And part of him didn't want to forget. Part of him wanted to wallow in misery till the end of his days. But the other part of him, combined with help from those around him at the Moulin Rouge, had been stronger.
And so it was that he ended up in a small town in Spain, a little ways away from the city of Barcelona. He had rented a small, one-bedroom apartment in which he was currently residing, and had continued writing to this day. Though it seemed that inspiration was cut short these days. He had long before finished writing her story. The story of him and Satine. But never had he let anyone read it, or know its location. He wasn't ready for that yet.
He sighed, already seeing a tint of orange lining the horizon. Tall mountains stood high and proud miles away, and their tops could be seen from the roofs of many buildings. His gaze shifted to the town below him. It wouldn't be long now till the whole place started to come to life after a long night of slumber.
A knock sounded on the door. He frowned, curious as to who it would be at this hour, and strode over to it. He still donned the clothes he had worn yesterday, a dark pair of trousers and a loose, white shirt, the first couple of buttons undone. He turned the flimsy handle and saw a fellow tenant standing on the other side.
"Hello, Marianna," he greeted amiably.
"Hola, señor," she nodded with a smile. The woman was middle aged, possibly ten or fifteen years his senior, and had a kind face and warm eyes. Her hair was kept back into a neat bun, a few loose tendrils dangling around her bronzed face. He looked down at her hands and saw that they were nervously wringing the material of her dark green dress, a color that brought out the stunning green of her eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked with genuine concern.
"It's...it's Julianna."
"What is it? Is she alright?" he pressed anxiously. She looked to the floor, continuing to mangle the fabric of her dress with her hands.
"I think, señor, that you'd better come with me."
Add on!
Click, click, click, click-click.
Ching!
Click click...click...
The only noise in the small bedroom was that of the typewriter, its keys now being prodded by the young man hunched over them. He paused for a moment, resting his head on his hands as if in deep thought. A second or two later, he positioned his hands back onto the keys, but they remained still, as if the energy and inspiration that fueled them had all but diminished and sputtered out. He sighed defeatedly, pushing the carved wooden chair away from the table, and stood up whilst running a beaten hand through his dark locks of hair.
It had been three years. Three years since Christian left Montemarte and the Moulin Rouge. Three years since she died in his arms that fateful night. The wound in his heart had been deep; it had nearly killed him. But Toulouse, dear, drunken Toulouse, had urged him to go on, to leave France and forget.
But he could never forget. Not really.
Sure, the nearly fatal wound had healed over and scarred, but oh, what a nasty scar it left behind. The slightest prod and it would tear, letting the blood spill freely once again. No, the wound would never really heal, just like he would never really forget. And part of him didn't want to forget. Part of him wanted to wallow in misery till the end of his days. But the other part of him, combined with help from those around him at the Moulin Rouge, had been stronger.
And so it was that he ended up in a small town in Spain, a little ways away from the city of Barcelona. He had rented a small, one-bedroom apartment in which he was currently residing, and had continued writing to this day. Though it seemed that inspiration was cut short these days. He had long before finished writing her story. The story of him and Satine. But never had he let anyone read it, or know its location. He wasn't ready for that yet.
He sighed, already seeing a tint of orange lining the horizon. Tall mountains stood high and proud miles away, and their tops could be seen from the roofs of many buildings. His gaze shifted to the town below him. It wouldn't be long now till the whole place started to come to life after a long night of slumber.
A knock sounded on the door. He frowned, curious as to who it would be at this hour, and strode over to it. He still donned the clothes he had worn yesterday, a dark pair of trousers and a loose, white shirt, the first couple of buttons undone. He turned the flimsy handle and saw a fellow tenant standing on the other side.
"Hello, Marianna," he greeted amiably.
"Hola, señor," she nodded with a smile. The woman was middle aged, possibly ten or fifteen years his senior, and had a kind face and warm eyes. Her hair was kept back into a neat bun, a few loose tendrils dangling around her bronzed face. He looked down at her hands and saw that they were nervously wringing the material of her dark green dress, a color that brought out the stunning green of her eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked with genuine concern.
"It's...it's Julianna."
"What is it? Is she alright?" he pressed anxiously. She looked to the floor, continuing to mangle the fabric of her dress with her hands.
"I think, señor, that you'd better come with me."
Add on!
;D 