And This One's For You (Moulin Rouge)

1. The End

It is now the year 1901, almost two years since the passing of my love Satine. I have continued to stay here at Montmartre district where once Bohemian life used to thrive in this place. Where the streets were full of chaos and music and life. Full of laughter and enjoyment, drama and theatre. But it is now a desolate place, with buildings crumbling, laughter disappeared. The streets just carry poverty and death, sadness and despair. It is no life no more. But I can't bare to live somewhere else. My place is here, where I can live close to where Satine used to live, breathe, laugh, and love. For it is only memories I only have of her. And it is only memories of her that keep me living, keeps me carrying on. For I want to tell my story, our story about our love that I found just two years ago. So in between the drinking and the crying, I typed our story all day and all night. I sent it to a small publishing company back in England, to a friend I used to know before moving to France. He published it, so other people could learn about our love, and to learn what true love looks like and feels like. I hope that maybe somebody who never knew love or believed it to only be a fairytale, will understand that it truly does exist and is the most greatest thing in the world. My fairytale ended so suddenly when tuberculosis took away my Satine. But the love I feel for her still remains, will always remain. For love will always exist, I had found my love.

Perhaps you only get one love in your lifetime. How can you love another when you have already found someone you love? You only get on chance with your soulmate, there are no more chances. So I live alone, in my small, beaten-down apartment next to the old Moulin Rouge that is now closed down, everyone gone. The only other residents that remain is Toulouse and his friends. They still continue to make drama scripts and performances in their apartment above mine. He comes to visit every now and then, always asking to join in their next performance or to just simply ask how I am. I give the same responses back- no and I'm fine. I would rather be on my own just trying to relive every memory I had with Satine. And I think that is how my life will remain, on my own in this small apartment trying to live in the past, not thinking about the present or my future. I shall drink and cry and write and sleep and I shall repeat that every day until death comes to take me too.

***

I walk onto the balcony of my apartment, looking over the streets of the Montmartre district. The moon is shining very brightly in the cloudless sky, its light gleaming in the puddles on the cobbled streets. It is a peaceful night tonight. Nobody is out because of the heavy rain we have had all day. It has made the outside very cold and damp, keeping away all the beggars, the children, the night workers who sell themselves to any young man that may have some money in his pocket. So it is quiet tonight. Apart from the hustle and bustle in Toulouse's apartment where they are enacted a scene from a Shakespearean play to give them inspiration for their next play. I watch over the quiet street, a scotch in my right hand. Myself drinking alone, enjoying the strong taste on scotch that tickles and burns my throat. I swirl the drink in my hand round and round as I now look at the bottom of the glass, trying to think of the time Satine and I would have a celebratory drink in my apartment when rehearsals for 'Spectacular Spectacular' were going very well. But I have noticed recently, that some of memories are beginning to fade, my mind forgetting certain parts, certain features, like a jigsaw puzzle all complete but with several holes where the missing pieces would go.

My thoughts are taken away from a knocking noise. I look over to my door, believing it to be Toulouse. I hear the knock again and walk to my front door. I open it but I am struck with confusion. Nobody stands at the other end of the door, nobody is here. I look out into the hallway, no form of life around apart from mine and Toulouse upstairs. I begin to think I am imagining things as I walk back into my apartment, closing the door behind me, until I hear the same knocking noise again. But this time it sounds more of a bang. Not from outside my door, but outside on the streets. I head towards my balcony once again when I hear a shout from Toulouse.

"Is everything alright Miss?" he calls out from the balcony above mine.

"Is this the Moulin Rouge? I've come to speak to a Harold Zidler!" a young, dainty voice calls out. I look down to the see the owner of the sweet voice from below. A young women, with long dark hair stands with several bags at the entrance to the Moulin Rouge. She wears a long, white and blue milkmaid dress. She doesn't look or even sound local, or even French.

"The Moulin Rouge closed almost two years ago. Zidler left with all the other tenants. It is just me and a couple of my friends who stayed behind." Toulouse calls back to young woman, delivering her some bad news.

"Oh right" she says disappointedly. "Thank you kind sir, I'm sorry I have disturbed you. I shall be off now." I recognise an English twang to her accent, as if she is trying to sound French but failing miserably.

"It is no problem young miss. Have you got somewhere to go? It's pretty dark out there!" Toulouse asks her. She looks around her, I can tell she is unsure what to do next now that she has learned that her destination no longer exists. She shivers in the cool breeze, no coat over her shoulders. I bet she is freezing down there with nothing on but her dress.

"Yes, I have a backup plan. I shall just head there now. It isn't too far and the streets are pretty empty so I'm sure I shall be fine. Thank you again." There's a slight tremble in her voice, as if she is trying to sound reassuring so that her nerves can calm down. She does a slight wave to Toulouse upstairs before picking up her bags and heading into the streets of the Montmartre district. She walks with a little sway in her hips, her dress flowing elegantly in the slight French breeze.

"Do you think she will be alright Christian?" Toulouse calls down to me, taking my eyes away from the mysterious girl. "She doesn't seem local at all. I thought everyone knew that the Moulin Rouge closed down."

"I am not sure Toulouse. Perhaps I should go, see if I can help her in any way. She must be very lost in this district." I say back to my good friend. I head back into my apartment and grab my jacket that is sprawled on my bed. I place my now empty glass on my bedside table and grab my keys that hang on a little hook on the wall beside my door. I head out of my apartment, down the hallway to a set of steep stairs that lead right onto the streets. To find this mystery English girl that has surprised everyone with her presence. I can't explain what, but I am drawn to her. Something called to me to go and follow her, to make sure she is alright. Wonder perhaps? Or curiosity? Or maybe something more? Something I haven't felt for a long time. But whatever it is, it has brought me outside onto the streets of the Montmartre district, walking in a quick pace to find this girl and I have no intention of going back until I find her.