Chapter 8: The Sixty Days

...bang...

        "Cwistian?", Toulouse looked over at the gothic tower from his room above Christian's garret. The bells have just rung its six o'clock chimes, as the sun began to peak up into its rise. Christian hadn't returned yet, and that gunshot got him worried. A little too worried, "Oh no, Cwistian!"
        He ran down the stairs from the garret, stumbling out of the door of the Chambres. Such an early morning, maybe they just woke up, looking up at the balcony, trying to see if anyone was around. From what-oh no, who was his admirer, anyway? It wasn't Nini, she was still at the Rouge that night... Was it that person he was staring at a few nights ago, when he, Christian, and the other bohos were out at the Rouge... But who was it? But no, whatever that shot was, it came from the tower, oh so many worries. Could his soulful little poet be dead? Was it a mere warning shot for something worse? Wait, a gun. Christian doesn't have a gun... who's the only person he knew that had a gun. Who would even use one? ...My way...
He hurried through the doors and up the stairs, so many more worries. So few could be true, so few could be false, but please, not his soulful revolutionary, not now! So many more, as he reached the top of the stairs, mildly breathless. The large door into the tower's room was ajar just a little bit, the sunrise light seeping through the crack. Toulouse pushed it open further, "Cwistian...?” opening the door fully. He looked straight ahead of him, and gasped. The light of the sun rise shown behind two silhouettes in the middle of the room. One of the silhouettes was standing stiffly, his hands at his sides, holding a gun. At his feet was an eerie silhouette, lying on his back. Reflections of dried-up blood on the side of his head, riveting down to a crimson puddle. "O-oh no... Cwis-"
        "He deserved it.", the standing silhouette interrupted, loosening up a little.
        He stood silent, a hand over his mouth, blinking up at the one standing, then back at the one dead.
        "He deserved it, that...", he couldn't finish.
        "Cwistian no..."
        "H-he deserved it, Toulouse. I couldn't s-stand it anymore. I'm sorry...” he sniffed back.
        "It's okay, weally, it is-"
        "I...I-I never k-killed anyone in my life.” another sniff back, but his mouth was trembling.
        "Cwistian, it's okay-"
        Christian turned around swiftly, "No it isn't! It isn't okay! I-I didn't mean to kill him, really I didn't!"
        "Cwistian ca'm down, pwease, I'm not accusin' you-", another interruption.
        "I just di-did-didn't want him to hurt anymore people! That god-dammed pimp!” Christian looked down at the Duke's dead body, "No more! You now have your r-rightful place in hell!", he screamed, then looking out at the balcony giving out a hard stare, loosening again and dropping the gun, "No... no no more... oh no, oh God what've I done? I'm sorry for killing him God, please d-don-don't take this as a sin, I don't want to go to hell! No no please! I want to be with Satine, I promised her I'd be w-with her again!” he fell to his knees, "Please why are you doing this... to.... me!" Those last words seem to break and run on as his breath was sharp and staggering, his body shivering. Toulouse grabbed him quickly before he fainted in his arms.
It's only getting worse.

~

        Days turned to weeks, and weeks into months. Christian's life was wimbling down slowly, he didn't want to do anything, only sleep and pray he woke alive. He knew he was going to die, and there was no stopping it. Another experience in that absinthe glass, that's all it was. Each day it would swirl, little drops would run down the glass and the stem. There were times when he'd cough up blood and get the others in a ready mode. Times he would faint and land hard on the floor, the glass tipping in major flicks, the bohos and others that cared did their best to keep it from the whole glass from going empty. Keep the Voice a-singing, the revolution can't be silent.
        Toulouse visited him every other day, keep him company and hear him speak of love and the Revolution. Reason from the dying Voice himself, such bliss. On Saturdays, the doctor who tended Satine would also visit, checking in on him, keeping the days he had left private. Yet no matter who cared for him, he still felt alone, sitting in his garret. Maybe he just didn't want people seeing him anymore, nobody knew. Maybe he wanted his privacy, to die in peace, but be remembered. His story was wrapped up in brown paper, tied in white string and still on the typewriter desk. A simple package from him, to her. Yes, he did write, but not as much as before. The only thing he would type were these quaint little poems. Poems about lovesickness, voyeurism, sorrow, death, suicide, anything classified as sorrowful and beautiful at the same time. At least, that's what the few that read them thought.

~

        His room barely changed, except for the small slashed tally-like lines on the wall behind his bed. A set of 6 roman numerals ran in a line, above ‘I' was already a 5-set of tally marks. Every morning, when Christian woke up, he took a pencil a would make another line. A chart, basically, for every morning he didn't wake up dead. 10 marks. Then 20. 30. 40.
That would pass, and he would just spend the rest of the morning and afternoon reminiscing mentally everything that happened to him. His birth, his father and his business, his mother, the day his mother died, his days in the private school, the times he got in trouble for daydreaming, his first typewriter, his first poems, his first crush, the day she moved, his 18th birthday, his 8th crush, the day she slapped him across the face, the day he heard of the Rèvolution de Bohème, the day he heard of Oscar Wilde, the day he read The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Importance of Being Earnest. The morning he left London for Paris, the afternoon he met Toulouse, the night he stepped in the Moulin Rouge, the moment he saw Satine on the trapeze, the hour in the Red Room, the minute he remembered his virginity, and the second he lost it...
        He sighed, sitting at the windowsill like he always did. The Rouge was lit up in red and white lights, glistening in his eyes like fainted stars. Diamant began to sing and whistle along to the band inside played. She did that every sunset, the only thing that would ever make Christian smile. At least somebody still loves me. The songs would be over and she'd flutter around in her cage, just around 11 o'clock at night. Christian would've already nod off to sleep, slightly hanging, slightly breathing, still alive.
45. 50. 55. 59...

~

        It was 11:00, on a cold, Saturday evening. Christian looked over at the 59 tallies marked on the wall behind his bed from the windowsill. Soon, it would be sixty. Two months since that horrible night he had blocked out of his mind, or so tried. The gun shot still rang in his ears. He could still feel the Duke's hand around his neck and then let go, as his head went lower...
...and then after, the sense of a dark and twisted reality clicked. How anyone so cruel like him was in a place of high society. He had no right to treat a revolutionary, like him, like that. Those letters, those two manila-color notes, were just romantically perverse invitations to a prostitution ring. How could he accept them, how could he accept him. After his ‘ange gardienne' left, he knew what he had to do. Standing up carefully, he slipped his hand gently into the Duke's pocket, taking out the gun. As he stood up fully, He put it behind his back, waiting.
"...Hell it is, then."
Bang. Hope you're enjoying your stay.
        Christian stood up. Diamant finished her song about ten minutes ago, and was gently sleeping in the night air. He wasn't sleeping, he knew tonight would be the night. A knock came from the door suddenly, Christian put on his robe on, wrapping the ends closer to him. "I-it's open.", shivering.
        The door opened; it was Nini, "Chris?"
        "Oh, h-hi Nini. W-wh-what are you doing h-here?"
        "Toulouse... he wanted me to check in on you.” she couldn't help but look at him in shock. The tie wrapped around his waist was so small, so much slack from the ends of the knots. His skin was ghostly white, literally glowing under near-midnight moonshine. He was just so... thin. His ribs showed, making long, rounded curved hills on his chest. His arms, holding the robe protectively, were lean, the slight curves of his bones and tendons easily seen. His stomach probably concaved inward beneath the robe. Oh this poor, enchanted boy... his hair was oily and long, drifting over his eyes. Oh his eyes, a strange lazy glaze, dark rings around them like eyeliner. Such a sad-eyed fallen angel.
        "Well, tell h-him I'm d-doing fine."
        She sighed, "You aren't doing fine, Christian. Look at yourself, come back to the Rouge and at least have some fun."
        He looked down at himself, "I'm f-fine, really. I look fine."
        "No you don't, you look horrible! You're thinner than I am! That's not good! Come on, please, everyone wants to see you."
        "I don't c-care."
        "Chris come on!"
        "I'm going to die anyway, why do you all even care!?"
        She froze, looking at him. They both were silent until Nini nodded her head goodbye and slowly walked out. Christian relaxed his shoulders, unwrapping the robe and looked down at himself again. He wasn't fine. "I'm going to die anyway..."

~

        11:50 was the time his pocket watch read, standing on his night stand. Christian laid on his bed, his fingers following the creases in the sheets, lightly wheezing. A cloud began cover the moonshine, on and off, just like his own life. He felt like crying, but what was the point. Nobody cries before they die, only the ones holding them. The one they love the most. In a bed of rose petals. After the greatest show in Paris. The world. Oh Satine, I'm coming. I don't know when, but I'm coming. I'll love you until my dying day, and beyond. My Ange Gardienne...
11:55. A piano began to play in the Moulin Rouge's dance hall. Such a sweet, sorrowful melody. Christian sat up on the end of his bed, looking out from the window. The lights were dimmer than usual, but why? Why were they playing that sorrowful melody on a night like this? Were they playing it for him?...He sang along quietly, making up words...

"Come on, oh my star is fading,
as I swerve out of control
And if I, if I only waited
I'd not be stuck here in this hole.
Come here, oh my star is fading,
and I swerve out of control
And I swear, I waited and waited
I got to get out of this hole...", he looked up at the clouds.
"But time, is on your side,
It's on your side now.
You're pushing me down, and all around
It's no cause for concern
Come here, oh my star is fading
And I see no chance of release
And I know, I'll be dead on the surface
But I'm screaming underneath
And time, is on your side, its on your side now
You're pushing me down, and all around
It's no cause for concern...", he looked down at the floor.
"You can say what you mean, but it won't change a thing
I'm sick of these secrets
Stood on the edge, tied to a noose", he looked up again.
"But you came along, and cut me loose..."
Inhale, exhale. Sharper and raspier they became. Diminish... diminish...
~
Toulouse made his way up the stairs.
~
The bells struck midnight.
Outside, a dark cloud covered the moon again, it began to snow.

 

_.~Fin~._

 

 

Song used: Amsterdam by Coldplay

 

 

 

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