Status: Complete.
Peepshow Ruffles
Chapter Three
Glancing once again at the empty bottle of wine, he couldn’t help but curse the tainted holy water that gently slid down his throat. It created a mild burning sensation, as if stabbed by several sweet smelling roses until his taste buds surrendered to the harmony that it created. Slowly swaying the splendid concoction of fruit and poisons around the glass, he peered through flooded tear ducts and soaked pupils at a simple clock on the adjacent wall.
It read 8:45. Perhaps he still had enough time to make himself appear presentable. Perhaps the young poet could rummage through his wardrobe, searching for a spot of remotely opulent clothing. Despite the amount of possibilities available, Christian remained seated, clutching his glass of pure disgust, staring at the Paris scenery, occasionally checking the time.
Paris was magnificent, the city of passion. The city of art. The city of love. Why else would a penniless artist relocate to such a destination?
The Montmartre district was truly an amazing sight, jubilant musicians crowded street corners, whilst sensuous women dressed in the finest of rags skipped across a prosperous evening.
Intoxicated, Christian admired the view from his grimy window, smirking crookedly at what he saw as a corrupted neighborhood. Of course, he would never admit that his father was right about Paris. In actual fact, he adored Paris, and all the lively characters whom inhabited it. Though, ever since love had evaporated from his very arms, he had never seen the world as he once had. Life was an adventure; it contained enigmas, beauty, and women as fine as the glorious golden days of spring. At that very moment, upon that very stage, surrounded by certain people, clinging to a certain corpse, his eyesight adjusted, and the world was suddenly much more sinister than ever before.
His intense blue eyes viewed the world solely in greyscale, as bleak sunsets reigned over a barren underworld. Women lifted their skirts for golden coins, as dashing men betrayed the essence of marriage within the walls of unsanitary theaters, on cheap bed sheets and cheap ladies.
The miserable wanderer gazed at the minute hand once again. 8: 55. Despite the circumstances of this meeting, he decided it would be better suiting if he finished his glass of wine before making the slightest effort at appearing somewhat tolerable. Well, better suiting for him. Christian no longer showed any regard for anything apart from himself, his typewriter, and the wine currently circling his glass.
Rising from his stool, he stirred his glass one final time. His face now bared a tortured grimace, as his teary eyes lifted to face the ceiling. Taking a short breath, he swallowed heavily.
“How wonderful life is, now you’re in the world…” Christian sang, a hobby he had abandoned long ago, as he saw it as too merry.
Swallowing the corrosive formula, and grabbing his jacket from the back of a flimsy oak chair, he exited the unsettling room. Walking at a steady pace on the fading cobbles, he viewed the surrounding streets. There was nothing new to Christian, he had seen it all before, including the face of an old friend whom he currently faced.
Christian lacked effort when it came to life. At that very moment in time, he was perfectly aware of the meeting, yet failed to shower, dressed in a creased shirt and brown, casual trousers, complete with braces and a black fedora hat. His acquaintance simply looked at him in disgust, resisting to make a comment about Christian’s current attire. Of course, it would have all been in good humor.
“Christian, I have come here with a business offer. Zidler wants your story for his theater. We’re back in the Moulin rouge, my friend”
It read 8:45. Perhaps he still had enough time to make himself appear presentable. Perhaps the young poet could rummage through his wardrobe, searching for a spot of remotely opulent clothing. Despite the amount of possibilities available, Christian remained seated, clutching his glass of pure disgust, staring at the Paris scenery, occasionally checking the time.
Paris was magnificent, the city of passion. The city of art. The city of love. Why else would a penniless artist relocate to such a destination?
The Montmartre district was truly an amazing sight, jubilant musicians crowded street corners, whilst sensuous women dressed in the finest of rags skipped across a prosperous evening.
Intoxicated, Christian admired the view from his grimy window, smirking crookedly at what he saw as a corrupted neighborhood. Of course, he would never admit that his father was right about Paris. In actual fact, he adored Paris, and all the lively characters whom inhabited it. Though, ever since love had evaporated from his very arms, he had never seen the world as he once had. Life was an adventure; it contained enigmas, beauty, and women as fine as the glorious golden days of spring. At that very moment, upon that very stage, surrounded by certain people, clinging to a certain corpse, his eyesight adjusted, and the world was suddenly much more sinister than ever before.
His intense blue eyes viewed the world solely in greyscale, as bleak sunsets reigned over a barren underworld. Women lifted their skirts for golden coins, as dashing men betrayed the essence of marriage within the walls of unsanitary theaters, on cheap bed sheets and cheap ladies.
The miserable wanderer gazed at the minute hand once again. 8: 55. Despite the circumstances of this meeting, he decided it would be better suiting if he finished his glass of wine before making the slightest effort at appearing somewhat tolerable. Well, better suiting for him. Christian no longer showed any regard for anything apart from himself, his typewriter, and the wine currently circling his glass.
Rising from his stool, he stirred his glass one final time. His face now bared a tortured grimace, as his teary eyes lifted to face the ceiling. Taking a short breath, he swallowed heavily.
“How wonderful life is, now you’re in the world…” Christian sang, a hobby he had abandoned long ago, as he saw it as too merry.
Swallowing the corrosive formula, and grabbing his jacket from the back of a flimsy oak chair, he exited the unsettling room. Walking at a steady pace on the fading cobbles, he viewed the surrounding streets. There was nothing new to Christian, he had seen it all before, including the face of an old friend whom he currently faced.
Christian lacked effort when it came to life. At that very moment in time, he was perfectly aware of the meeting, yet failed to shower, dressed in a creased shirt and brown, casual trousers, complete with braces and a black fedora hat. His acquaintance simply looked at him in disgust, resisting to make a comment about Christian’s current attire. Of course, it would have all been in good humor.
“Christian, I have come here with a business offer. Zidler wants your story for his theater. We’re back in the Moulin rouge, my friend”