shoulders slouched dejectedly, and a single tear making it’s lonely way down his cheek. Each face was forever imbedded in his mind. The look of horror on the occupants of the Moulin Rouge, Zidler’s look of sadness, and Satine, looking up at him for the last time with bright green eyes, struck with horror and pain. She was gone. She had declared her love, and made it clear who she would spend her life with, and then she was gone, consumed by a fiery illness that no one could compete with.
He staggered up the rickety stairs of the apartment and collasped on his bed, too heartbroken to even cry. For four days he slept, and stared at the wall, ignoring all those who came to him. He blocked them out, ignoring what they said to him. Even Zidler himself could not reach him.
By the fifth day, Christian had began to numble wander about, not talking to anyone very much, not doing anything, eating just enough to sustain life and crawl back into bed at night.
On the sixth day, he looked out the window at the ever revolving windmill of the Moulin Rouge. The place had quieted, and mellowed drastically, something that would have seemed impossible only a few weeks earlier. The show had been at full tilt... so had the romance.
Christian left his room again and walked through the town, stopping at the bar to buy as much brandy and gin he could afford. He brought it back to the apartment and sat, socking shot after shot into his body, hoping to feel something... anything. Other than nagging guilt.
And so it went on. Day after day... week after week... month after month. Christian slowly drowned himself in the bottle, avoiding human contact, watching the Moulin Rouge deteriorate. What was once a young man, in the peak of his years and vibrant with youth and love, was now a ragged old man with the sour smell of alcohol on his breath.
And then one day, he found his old typewriter. He lugged it to the table, and sat staring at the paper with his hands suspended in midair, looking at the slightly yellowed blank paper. Then, he typed.
And as he did, he recalled every movement of the past year, feelings enveloping him as he remembered each day... from the day he had come to this strange land of Paris... to the first meeting with Satine;wishes made, dreams shared, love created, hearts broken. All the way to one year ago.....
By nightfall, the story of Satine was told. He lay a red and white rose from the garden outside under the twine that held the pages together; Satine's symbols. The red rose of her fiery passion, the white for her tranquil and angelic beauty.
Exhausted from the day's work, Christian wandered towards the bed, when something rolled out at him. He picked it up, and examined the cloudy green liquid he had not seen for so long. Abysinthe.
Shrugging, he uncorked the bottle and took a long, breathsucking gulp, that lasted for 30 seconds.
When he put the bottle down, there was an instant rush of alcohol streaming into his system, followed by rainbow dots infront of his eyes. Then, shimmering into view, came a small petite creature. Christian dropped the bottle and hiccupped. He had forgotten about the green fairy.
But something about her looked different. She wore the same dress, and had the same look about her, but there was something different about her...
"Satine?" Christian slurred drunkenly, squinting at the figure before him.
"Yes, you old drunken fool."
"But, how?--"
"Don't you know the way of the abysinthe??" He shook his head dumbly.
Satine, now the fairie, sighed and fluttered down to a stop. "When a man drinks to a lost love, a form of the love becomes the fairy. When you drank the last time, the bottle had been used before you, and the fairy you saw was the previous drinker's true love. When you drank this time, that fairy disappeared, and I took her place."
"But why do you look so sad? Now we can be together forever!"
Satine shook her head and fluttered up to Christian's face. "No. The spell of the abysinthe will last for a short time only, and then I will be gone. Besides, I was always with you."
Christian furrowed his brow, and opened his mouth to ask what she meant. But she already knew.
"For a man who writes of love, you know so little about it. True love cannot be broken, even in death. You were so far down in your drunkeness that you did not even feel me when I was near you, trying to coax you. You could not even see me when I stood on your balcony at night, using what little earth time I had to visit with you. I have a night a year on a full moon to return, and you have wasted it."
"Will you come back?"
"Yes, eventually. Will you see me?"
"I saw you before," Christian whispered. "I thought I was delusional from liquor."
Satine's eyes flashed red, token of her status. "I know. Do you know how many people I will visit now that you have wasted a year of your life in the bottle? I will have to be a giggly seductress for hundreds of drunken imbosiles exactly like you. I thought that death would be the end of that."
"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm not your conscience. Just make sure you're not drunk the next time we meet. I only have one night, I'd like to make the best of it."
Christian nodded wordlessly.
"Good. Now begone with you!" With that, she tossed a handful of sparkly dust at him, and disappeared.
Christian crawled into bed, and was asleep, with dreams of Satine.
