June 23, 1900--

Don't ask me why I'm writing this account, because I have no idea. It was an impulsive decision on my part, to snatch up a worthless book of paper I saw in a window. Foolish, as well, because I could have used the three francs I wasted on this book to buy food, or a place to sleep. The Moulin ruined me. I no longer know how to live on my own. My loss, I suppose.
It has been four months since the Moulin Rouge, that wonderful, terrible place I called my home for far too long, closed its doors. What was the point of leaving them open, anyway? There's nothing left there for any of us. The star is dead. The writer may as well be. Harry, our beloved owner, took what he could salvage and left for England. Toulouse, that foolish , dwarfish hanger-on, has been committed to a sanitarium, as far as I can tell.
And me?
Me, I have been on my own, as I said. It was a shock at first, not having anywhere to turn to, having to start over. It was a slow beginning, and I confess that I still haven't got the hang of it yet. I've found a few odd jobs, but I've never been able to keep them longer than a few weeks. So, I've been reduced to what I do best, satisfying the lust of men for a fee-- a fee significantly smaller than what I'm used to. The Moulin ruined me. I find myself forgetting everything I may have learned, everything I could use. The one thing I can remember is my name, and I hold onto that. Nini Legs-in-the-Air. A name and a profession, wrapped into one small package.
Yes, this is Nini. Who were you expecting, Satine? Everyone expects her, and who could blame them? The darling of the dance hall, the sweetheart of the stage. No, never mind all the marriages she may have ruined, all the hearts she broke, all the promises she so flagrantly forgot...no, no, that doesn't matter. Satine could do no wrong, not to Harry, not to anyone. Any other girl could have got the shit beat out of her by an unhappy customer, and she would have just been patted on the back with a hearty "The show must go on." If Satine stubbed a precious toe, the club would be overwhelmed in flowers while she lay on her bed, putting on a brave face and trying to hold back the tears.
She sickened me.
Do you find me callous? Do you dare to tell me I have no respect for the dead? Do you think, deep down in your heart, that I've deserved everything I've got? Well, of course you do. All you know of me is from what that silly English writer told you, and of course he never took kindly to me. Mean, vindictive, jealous Nini. How could I possibly feel such hate for such a bright and shining jewel? For the Sparkling Diamond? It is easier than you think, Messieurs et Madames. Satine was no different from the rest of us, just marketed better. In fact, she was worse. Much worse.
You do not believe me, mes amis? In the days to come, I will explain to you exactly how I mean, and then, for once, you will know the truth.
For now, however, I must put down my pen and find some work. Whores punch a time clock just like the rest.