THE FOUR DEATHS OF THE VAMPIRESS SATINE.
one (the death of celine laurent): for all intents and purposes, celine laruent is dead. she is dead in spirit and she is dead to all who knew her (and those were a very few, because to know her was to be more than a body to her, was to allow her to open herself up ... in retrospect, its as if no one knew celine laurent). celine was found on the streets of montmarte by harold, a man who was just about to finish his creation: a beautiful dance hall, a bordello as well, and he had a vision. this place, decorated with a red windmill, would need a star: and there sat, starving and desperate on the streets, a red headed girl looking for somewhere to sleep, somewhere with a roof, somewhere that needed her. he offered her his hand, and celine took it with hesitation. there he asked for her name, and with one quick swing of a knife, against her own throat in her own mind, was the first death. " satine, " she answered, and he grinned, that was a name of a star ... in that moment, celine laurent was dead, killed by someone who was both her and not her. the name meant nothing in that very moment, and the name would mean nothing to anyone ever again.
two (the dimming of mortality): it was across time that the duke had hinted at a future for satine, one beyond fame and stardom, but something so unholy it rose above that. she had learned to never care for the sanctity of her actions, and where they fell in the religious gaze of those who sat just outside of montmarte with judgmental gaze. it intrigued her, but never enough to care for his time ––- until she needed to be a very part of his time to save herself, harold, and all the dancers who relied on her steadfast determination. it was here that he promised her no more pain, no more anguish, and eternal beauty. " a gift," was what he called it, as he sunk his teeth into her nick, and drained her slowly ... slowly. she grew cold, she grew quiet, and then suddenly there was nearly nothing, with the last thing she could see being christian's face, as if he were there, as if he were watching ... and the first thing she had called out was his name, after the dukes wrist dropped from her lips, after blood dripped onto the floor as she clung to each and every sound around her with an awareness she hadn't previously had. it was here that satine, was officially dead, and yet ––- officially alive once more.
three (the falsification of her last breath): when harold had informed satine that if she dared try and stay with christian, the duke would only have him killed ... she believed him. the duke was, as harold described, a powerful man, and now as she sat, hearing her own blood pumping, feeling over aware of everything around her, she knew that was true. she sat in fear, she waited in fear of what the duke could do beyond the trap that he had placed her in ... so she went the next night, right before the opening of spectacular, spectacular, to tell christian that she was choosing the duke ... but when she got to him, the sight of christian was too much, the smell of him even worse. she had wanted him before, craved his touch and his words and his love, but never like this, never with the quiver in her lip that wanted to attached onto the crook of his neck, no ... never like this. she did her best, still reeling from the "gift," and left him there in shambles, screaming for her and begging to know what was wrong. it pained her in a way she hadn't thought possible, as if the ache was accentuated by a drug that flowed within her. it didn't matter tho, this ache was hers and hers alone, the duke was her companion, it had to be so. that is: until christian showed up to her performance, a performance that almost drove her mad ––- she knew then, as her hands shook and eyes connected to the vein in his neck, that he had to be hers, and the duke ... whatever would happen, would happen. it was harold who had informed her only the night before that she was dying, and if it was a show they wanted ... then it was a show they would get. so she died in his arms, she took a breath and coughed up blood she spit from her inner cheek, she died to save him, she hurt him to save him. to the moulin, to harold, satine had died there on the stage, where she was always meant to be. the duke, instead of ripping her apart as he wished, abandoned her, as he had many fledglings before. she would starve, and suffer, and go mad with hunger, and if he had his way: she would've torn christian's throat out instead. but, no. satine was dead to them all, to all of them except christian, for whom she revealed her fabrication later on that night. satine was declared dead, satine would no longer be a problem, not to paris, not to the moulin.
four (the cessation of immortality): there would be no forgetting of christian's voice, it was an impossibility. decades could pass, even hundreds of years and it would not matter: it was there, in the back of her mind like a haunting, always ready to whisper in her ear and have her check over her shoulder for his hair or his eyes. never was he actually seen, and with every passing year, with every reckless decision, she would grow lonelier, lonelier, lonelier. that is, within itself, a madness, to crave something untouchable, to love someone that death had taken. it kept making her worse, and he slowly grew louder, and louder. weeping or cries, screams or whispers, she could hear every breath of him in the corners of walls or in the key of a piano. and without him, mistakes became her second nature, tactics used to draw and dull the sound or subdue the hurt only became more and more of a reminder of the empty room she would sleep in, of the coffin that felt far too large for her liking without another iced body pressed next to her. it was one night tho, when the voice had turned from a crying to a begging, that she stared out an open window into the moonlight that bathed her skin. he called, he called, he begged, with a whimper that she knew and needed ... so, it was one night when she sat outside for all hours until the sun rose, sitting and letting his voice carry in the winds to ease her until a sense of peace, even as the sun burned and pulled her apart. many men had tried to disect her like this before, but none had succeeded like him: her christian, who, with his whimpers and cries, lulled her into the sun, into nothingness.
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