InsaneJournal

♦Who: Satine and OTA
♦When: Day 9, Morning
♦What: Satine gets to know her new home and its inhabitants
♦Where: The Sitting Room
♦Rating: TBD, though PG to be safe
♦Status: Complete


Two days. It was hard to believe, really, that she'd been there for two full days already. The transition from life to afterlife had not been an easy one, yet it had not been as entirely difficult as she had expected it to be. The fact that this place, this hotel of sorts, had a room ready for her upon arrival had been exquisite. It had possessed anything and everything that she could possibly want in a room, including an expanded version of her already extensive wardrobe. There had been an entire closet of clothes, including many of the outfits she wore in shows; on top of that, there had been an entire armoire and set of drawers filled to bursting with underthings. Satine had an unhealthy obsession with lingerie. It was practically her work uniform. Knowing that she wouldn't have to go without infinite choice was more than comforting, it was downright homey. And the jewels! They had replicated her collection of gifts and trinkets perfectly, and there were a few new surprises. Top it all off with the makeup, and she was convinced that she was still herself, even in death, though noticeably without that wracking cough. The pressure in her chest was there but it was not that important.

The sleepy courtesan had spent the previous day in isolation, and getting up and getting dressed this morning was a bit of a chore. After that sudden and all-consuming episode with Monsieur Snape upon her arrival to the afterlife a deep and crushing sorrow had consumed her heart. He certainly was nice enough to her, treated her properly, and was incredibly affectionate. Definitely one of her favorite gentlemen callers, and she was certain that she'd welcome him back again. All he would have to do would be to say the word. She was, as they say, what she was, and that was that. But allowing herself to love, even physically, had brought thoughts of Christian crashing down upon her. Though she had died in his arms, had confessed her love for him, the bad tended to stick better than the good. This woman is yours now. I've paid my whore. I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love. Had he meant it? How could such a beautiful and sensitive artist have such darkness inside of him? She had never been abused that badly before, at least mentally. The Duke, unfortunately, had the honor of possessing her worst physical beating. She was shocked to find that his jewels were now in her collection. She had moved the box to the back of the chest, all but locking it away; it was cursed.

Not aware that there were dress codes anywhere in the world unlike the Moulin Rouge, Satine had left her room in, frankly, not much. She was not sure exactly what time it was; the storm that seemed to be going on outside had prevented her from accurately estimating. It wasn't like it mattered either way. This was a timeless place. She had slipped on a silky, black, kimono-like dressing gown over her corset and stockings, made sure her makeup was impeccable, put a few necessary things in a small purse, and set out to wander the halls like a ghost. She felt as hopelessly and utterly lost as one. Her love was gone, there was no Harold to tell her who to take as clients, and she had no real name here. People were not beating down her door in order to bask in her presence; that deeply troubled her and left her feeling empty.

When she arrived in what appeared to be the parlor, she had not yet seen anyone. Were there that many people around, she found herself wondering. She hadn't been disturbed by anyone, and she had only encountered Monsieur Snape thus far. Maybe the afterlife didn't have as many people in it as she had expected. Taking a seat on one of the soft sofas, the style of which was completely unfamiliar and, in her opinion, a bit tacky, she looked out a window to watch the rain. There was no bustling street out there, no Children of the Revolution to be seen. It was boring compared to Mont Martre; she assumed that it was boring in comparison to the whole of Paris. Pulling out a hair comb, she twisted the mass of red up and pinned it atop her head. She liked her hair up, and having it down reminded her too much of Christian. Lost in thought, she was completely oblivious to any other souls for the time being. Perhaps that was why she started singing in such a place, and none too quietly. Her voice was a comfort, her livelihood. It reminded her of home. At this point, though, home was nowhere.