Author's Note: I don't own Moulin Rouge. I do own my OCs. I hope you enjoy and please reivew. Thank you.
The Silver Stage
Christian was still lingering in deep depression over the death of his beloved Satine. It has already been nearly two years since she died and even though he was able to write down their story and published his work he still did not feel complete. There was still emptiness inside him and he doubted if there would be any hope of a love to fill it once again. After all, he didn't want to have it filled. He didn't want just get over it or move on like his friends from Spectacular, Spectacular suggested. Yet, he had gotten quite a lot of fame over his little story. The money he was receiving was paying the bills and making ends meet, but he felt languished and hollow underneath. It was like he was walking in a colorless dream were he was simple going through the motions, but really nothing matter anymore. Life was no longer beautiful and new. It was like he'd experienced heaven and was then cast out like an archangel into hell.
Though, recently he'd taken a job at a local newspaper and wrote up simple advertisements for silly products. Nick-knacks like perfumed soaps and ladies under things. It wasn't like his heart was in what he did, but he needed an excuse to get out of his apartment. However, sometimes on cloudy, rainy days he'd sit in his lonely flat and just think of her—he'd think about her face—he'd think about her voice—he'd think about her laugh. It was times like that he felt something close to being alive.
One day while at his work at the newspaper, Christian was informed by his employer, Mr. Du Bois that he was assigned to write up an ad on a new theatre house that was opening soon, called the Silver Stage. It used to be owned and operated by a gentleman named Mr. Peters, but after his health declined he sold it to some wealthy American. Mr. Du Bois said he wanted an interview and a few words on a one of their shows. It was supposed to be a real report and not some poster billboard. The reporter who was supposed to write up the article was on sick leave because they had contracted influenza.
Well, Christian was at first hesitate about setting foot inside anything remotely like a stage, it conjured up to many bad memories of his late Satine. All the flashing lights and glittering clothes and faces were too agonizing. Though, he gave Mr. Du Bois his word that he'd go. He was very persistent—and threatened to fire him if he didn't.
And so, on a clear Tuesday night, Christian set out to the Silver Stage to make his report and interview. He dressed in his usual shirt and coat, put on his hat and rubbed his beard and out the door his went. He wasn't exactly a patron so he figured he didn't have to dress for the evening since he was on the job.r
Meanwhile, on opening night at the Silver Stage things was chaos. The leading lady for the opening act, Ms. Nightingale had somehow lost her voice while consuming a love potion on her day off. It turned out that Ms. Nightingale was very superstitious and had fallen head over heals for her new beau. Apparently, he was a very rich man and she wanted to woo him so she'd be his future wife.
However, perhaps it was too much wasabi or chilly-powder in the tonic, but the diva lost her song and now the stage-manager was in an uproar in finding a replacement at the last minute. The stage-manger, Mr. Fits shouted, "I'm ruined! I need someone to take over for Ms. Nightingale, but who?"
Though, suddenly Cherie, a dancer grabbed the bookish looking Abigail and shoved her in front of Mr. Fits. And with a firm hand on her shoulder she said, "Here, monsieur. La petite, Ms. Abigail has a lovely singing voice. She can cover for Ms. Nightingale till she is well."
Appalled, Mr. Fits replied, "But look at her! She's a door-mouse. She—she a wall flower. No! Bring me someone else."
Cherie frowned and shouted, "No! It is you who are wrong, Monsieur Fits. She is the best we have. Give me 10 minutes and I will have this wall flower sparkle like a diamond."
The poor stage-manager groaned and rubbed his balding head for the fifth time and said, "Fine. We haven't got time for all this. Paint that plain Jane still she looks like Helen of Troy. We need a miracle people, now let's go!"
Location: Dressing rooms
With a moan, Abigail whined, "Oh, Cherie! I can't believe you suggested such a thing. I can't go out on stage. I just can't. I'll make a fool of myself and die in humiliation."
The dancer pulled on the young woman's arm and pushed her behind a changing screen and then rummaged through a rack of costumes and till she find what she was looking for and threw it into Abigail's face.
"Here, my pet. Put this on and quite your bellyaching. The show must go on. And besides, you said you loved the theatre."
Meanwhile, behind the screen Abigail twisted and turned to change her clothes and replied, "Yes, I do love theatre, Cherie but not to perform. I love literature. I love romance. I told you I want to write, not be somebody to be written about."
The dancer laughed and then pulled Abigail away from the screen and sighed. "You, my petite are too timid. You need music. You need dance. You need some excitement. Oh, you need a little romance."
Cherie then moved Abby to sit down on a stood and clutched her tongue. "You need to do something with that hair."
Abby then turned around with alarm and said, "No, no, no—please Cherie. Don't make me into your painted dolls."
The dancer then placed her hand on her head and turned it back around to face the mirror. "No complaining. In fact, I think I have a brilliant idea to fit your stage fright and allow me to do your hair properly."
Abby narrowed her eyes and said, "And what would that be?"
Cherie laughed and replied, "You will just have to wait and see, my petite."