A/N: A strange little fic I dreamt up one day in Keyboarding class. A
different take on Moulin Rouge fanfiction. Does contain hints of Francesca
Lia Block and her wonderfully wonderful stories.
Through the lens of my camera, I can see things others don't normally see. Call me weird. It's just that way. I will be walking down the street, camera in hand, looking at someone and seeing things that someone else might not see about that person. Maybe vulnerability. Maybe ugliness.
It's strange. And even living in Los Angeles, the city of angels and the city of devils, where anything can and does happen, it's strange. It's as if my camera has a power of its own.
The weirdest thing that could ever happen, something so odd and supernatural it could've been in a movie, is what I'm about to disclose to you right now.
Imagine, if you will, me. Liam Bronx, with my messy black, purple-tinted hair and my dark-lined eyes, strolling casually down the beach, camera in hand, blasting The Sex Pistols through my headphones, ignoring the Los Angeles bustle. Ignoring the women in short-shorts rollerblading, the socialites with poodles in their purses, the homeless and the druggies, the vendors and the little children screaming incessantly. Ignoring the smog and the neverending stream of traffic, ignoring the lewd comments from scantily clad prostitutes.
I raised my camera to my eyes to look over the landscape of the wind against the water, water against the beach, every force of nature dueling over turf. It was nearing twilight; Los Angeles's smoggy sky was a purplish color, tinted with absinthe green. There were an overwhelming amount of sailboats on that polluted ocean, blocking my view. I cursed under my breath and brought the camera down, staring at the topaz-and-ruby blaze of sun.
The air suddenly became very cold. And I seemed to be the only one who noticed. I shivered slightly, bringing my camera to my eyes again. There, a solitary figure walking on the beach, was a very pale woman in a scarlet dress that looked timeworn. I took the camera away. She was gone. Raised it. There she was. Lowered it. She was gone.
What the hell? What was this beautiful woman doing, disappearing every time I lowered the camera? Was she a mirage? No. Was I hallucinating? No. I raised the camera again. There she was, red hair flying in the sudden wind, staring out into the ocean like someone looking for a lost lover. I moved closer to this elusive figure, looking for footprints in the sand. There were none. Baffled and transfixed, I lowered the camera. The beautiful mirage woman had disappeared yet again.
Disgruntled, I left the crowded beach and returned to my apartment.
My apartment isn't much. I'm just a struggling photographer, making some money once in awhile. It's small and dark, but that's okay. I'm never in it anyway. I've tried to make it homey; I hung up posters of my goddesses, Marilyn Monroe, Norma Shearer, Greta Garbo, and Judy Garland, and the works of my favorite painters: Monet, Kahlo, Warhol, Van Gogh, Lautrec. I threw down Oriental rugs and decorated the walls with Oriental scarves. I filled the shelves with my books, thousands of volumes ranging from Dickens to Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman to V.C. Andrews. The floors are cluttered with my painting materials, my photography supplies, negatives and prints.
In my intrigued state, I turned on my laptop and slid Janis Joplin into my CD player. I searched the Internet for supernatural happenings in Los Angeles; there were many, but no stories about a woman in red on the beach.
Maybe I'd been seeing things.
But the room became very, very quiet and very, very cold. I shivered, wondering what had happened to the electricity now. Janis's raw vocals ceased to play on the stereo. My apartment was ghostly silent. But underneath the currents of silence, I could hear a faint voice singing softly, "One day I'll fly away…"
Standing up from my place at the computer, I backed away a bit and looked around. There was nobody but myself here.
"You're wrong." A voice said. "I'm here too." It was a woman's voice, cultured, whispery.
"Who…who are you?" Was all I could say, my throat was so dry.
"Look in your camera." She instructed. I did so, my hands trembling. There, in the viewfinder, was the woman from the beach. Her skin was ghastly white, her lips, hair, and gown brilliant scarlet. The eyes, a glowing sapphire color, glistened with a somewhat wistful look. When she smiled at me, I noticed there were tear stains on her porcelain cheeks.
"Who are you?" I asked again.
"You're the one who can help me," the camera-ghost whispered. "Please, I need your help."
"Tell me who you are first." Another step back, a cautious glance at the woman. "Why are you here?"
She smiled that melancholy smile again before speaking. "In another time, in another place, my name was Satine."
Through the lens of my camera, I can see things others don't normally see. Call me weird. It's just that way. I will be walking down the street, camera in hand, looking at someone and seeing things that someone else might not see about that person. Maybe vulnerability. Maybe ugliness.
It's strange. And even living in Los Angeles, the city of angels and the city of devils, where anything can and does happen, it's strange. It's as if my camera has a power of its own.
The weirdest thing that could ever happen, something so odd and supernatural it could've been in a movie, is what I'm about to disclose to you right now.
Imagine, if you will, me. Liam Bronx, with my messy black, purple-tinted hair and my dark-lined eyes, strolling casually down the beach, camera in hand, blasting The Sex Pistols through my headphones, ignoring the Los Angeles bustle. Ignoring the women in short-shorts rollerblading, the socialites with poodles in their purses, the homeless and the druggies, the vendors and the little children screaming incessantly. Ignoring the smog and the neverending stream of traffic, ignoring the lewd comments from scantily clad prostitutes.
I raised my camera to my eyes to look over the landscape of the wind against the water, water against the beach, every force of nature dueling over turf. It was nearing twilight; Los Angeles's smoggy sky was a purplish color, tinted with absinthe green. There were an overwhelming amount of sailboats on that polluted ocean, blocking my view. I cursed under my breath and brought the camera down, staring at the topaz-and-ruby blaze of sun.
The air suddenly became very cold. And I seemed to be the only one who noticed. I shivered slightly, bringing my camera to my eyes again. There, a solitary figure walking on the beach, was a very pale woman in a scarlet dress that looked timeworn. I took the camera away. She was gone. Raised it. There she was. Lowered it. She was gone.
What the hell? What was this beautiful woman doing, disappearing every time I lowered the camera? Was she a mirage? No. Was I hallucinating? No. I raised the camera again. There she was, red hair flying in the sudden wind, staring out into the ocean like someone looking for a lost lover. I moved closer to this elusive figure, looking for footprints in the sand. There were none. Baffled and transfixed, I lowered the camera. The beautiful mirage woman had disappeared yet again.
Disgruntled, I left the crowded beach and returned to my apartment.
My apartment isn't much. I'm just a struggling photographer, making some money once in awhile. It's small and dark, but that's okay. I'm never in it anyway. I've tried to make it homey; I hung up posters of my goddesses, Marilyn Monroe, Norma Shearer, Greta Garbo, and Judy Garland, and the works of my favorite painters: Monet, Kahlo, Warhol, Van Gogh, Lautrec. I threw down Oriental rugs and decorated the walls with Oriental scarves. I filled the shelves with my books, thousands of volumes ranging from Dickens to Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman to V.C. Andrews. The floors are cluttered with my painting materials, my photography supplies, negatives and prints.
In my intrigued state, I turned on my laptop and slid Janis Joplin into my CD player. I searched the Internet for supernatural happenings in Los Angeles; there were many, but no stories about a woman in red on the beach.
Maybe I'd been seeing things.
But the room became very, very quiet and very, very cold. I shivered, wondering what had happened to the electricity now. Janis's raw vocals ceased to play on the stereo. My apartment was ghostly silent. But underneath the currents of silence, I could hear a faint voice singing softly, "One day I'll fly away…"
Standing up from my place at the computer, I backed away a bit and looked around. There was nobody but myself here.
"You're wrong." A voice said. "I'm here too." It was a woman's voice, cultured, whispery.
"Who…who are you?" Was all I could say, my throat was so dry.
"Look in your camera." She instructed. I did so, my hands trembling. There, in the viewfinder, was the woman from the beach. Her skin was ghastly white, her lips, hair, and gown brilliant scarlet. The eyes, a glowing sapphire color, glistened with a somewhat wistful look. When she smiled at me, I noticed there were tear stains on her porcelain cheeks.
"Who are you?" I asked again.
"You're the one who can help me," the camera-ghost whispered. "Please, I need your help."
"Tell me who you are first." Another step back, a cautious glance at the woman. "Why are you here?"
She smiled that melancholy smile again before speaking. "In another time, in another place, my name was Satine."