Chuck watches everything that happens with his eyebrows raised. Then hefollows Blair into the kitchen, while she enters, he stops in the doorway and leans against the doorframe.
She jumps in her skin at the sound of his voice. He isn't supposed to make any sound, or is he not part of the dream?
"It's going to be exactly like that," she replies, surprising herself with her own voice; choked and thick with tears. She covers her mouth, thinking no, no it isn't going to be like this at all.
Blair squeezes her eyes shut and looks away, trying not to believe something too good to be true. She remember telling someone else that she doesn't think she can handle being loved, not for this Blair Waldorf she made herself out to be, but for herself. How do you bear it?
"You'll get tired of me. You already know me --and I can't be better than I am now," she whimpers. "I love you, but I bore you."
runs in the family we tend to bruise easily, bad in the bloodworksmartJanuary 13 2010, 18:08:51 UTC
The apartment is a mess of echoes, many as noiseless as the silent movie being replayed across the generations within it. By the time he's watched the story through Chase has sunk down to sit with his back against the stairs, hands pressed to the chessboard floor as, successively, only the queen stays standing at the end of the game. Anyone with a passing familiarity of tactics knows that the king is the weakest piece, nothing to rely on.
Sound filters out from the kitchen, and that's an echo too, though he expects the clinking to be glassware, bottles emptied and left in the rubbish, disowned once beyond use. He tips his head back until it his the wall, the thud resounding through his skull, the bones of his neck. An echo.
"You can choose better," he says finally, loud enough, though the noises have stopped in the kitchen and he doesn't know if he's been heard.
runs in the family we tend to bruise easily, bad in the bloodmiss_waldorfJanuary 14 2010, 01:10:57 UTC
Blair drops the plate she was holding, letting it shatter on the floor with less sound than she expects it to make. Unfazed, she steps over the porcelain pieces, her feet safe because of the heels she wears. She appears in the doorway between the main room and the kitchen, watching the man by the stairs with muted curiosity.
She can feel the bile rising to her throat already.
runs in the family we tend to bruise easily, bad in the bloodworksmartJanuary 14 2010, 08:46:30 UTC
"You can choose better," he repeats, voice level and lower now that she's there in the door, just a few steps away if he decided to get up. He sets his shoulder against eggshell blue paintwork and looks up at her. "Maybe they won't be the easiest choices, but you're smart enough. You know the techniques."
And he knows the rhythm of gorging and purging, it's the same whatever the substance. Bodies have limits, physical and psychological. You push it past them, it's going to rebel. So he does stand, now, polished shoes slipping on the equal shine of the floor where the black squares reflect the white of his coat back up at him. The hospital ID clipped to his pocket reads Princeton Plainsboro, but he's seen her in a clinic somewhere else that the dream won't let him remember. This is a different kind of house call.
runs in the family we tend to bruise easily, bad in the bloodmiss_waldorfJanuary 14 2010, 09:41:40 UTC
It is what they always said to make her do what they want her to. They tell her she is smart, that she can overcome this, that this is as much a part of her as her clothes or her hairstyle is. They tell her that she can simply take it off and throw it aside. But if that were true, if this is something so removed from herself, then why is it that it chose her and not anyone else? Why did she choose it in the first place?
"I'll-- just be a moment," she rushes, before hurrying to the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
Blair has heard the doctors explain her condition time and time again, but they never got it quite right. No words can explain the way purging feels. Imagine being able to throw away everything you hate about yourself, every little habit, every trait, every deformity. Imagine feeling like the person you know you were meant to be before you messed it all up by living. Imagine being purer than a newborn. Though it lasts only for a split second, damn is it worth it.
"They suck." Nancy's love, hate relationship with silence is tilting hard on the hate. She stands on the black and white tile, a foot on each, her temporary wardrobe is of course black. "Boys suck. Mother's suck."
She glares at the elevator as though daring something else to emerge. Blair and Nancy have spoken once. The conversation was not long at all. And in spite of that, Nancy knows this girl. This is the girl who has to listen to the shit flung back and forth by parents. This is the girl who deals with idiot boys. That's about all the empathy she can muster. She shakes her head and combs her hair back, grasping at the hairs tightly until she knows she's not going to pieces.
Blair leans over the island covered with all sorts of food. In front of her is her father's infamous pumpkin pie, but she isn't crying anymore now. She contemplates the table calmly, like a drugged livestock led to the slaughter.
When Nancy enters the kitchen, she looks up, her eyes glassy and blank.
sit back and watch the bed burnadamantinedJanuary 13 2010, 20:14:14 UTC
Claire is already in the kitchen, having just come in through the refrigerator, a mess of twisting hallways and deserts behind her, and she only catches the tail end of shouting from a seemingly far off distance. The shoes on her feet are still dirty, and she has mustard in her hair now, but she's glad to at least be somewhere that looks remotely civilized, mustard or no mustard. She straightens her shirt as she holds onto her balance, reaching out for a counter and shutting the door behind her at the same time. Blair only comes into view as Claire straightens up herself, and even then, she wishes that she hadn't when she sees the look on Blair's face
( ... )
sit back and watch the bed burnmiss_waldorfJanuary 14 2010, 01:18:39 UTC
Blair chokes on her food when the refrigerator door opened by itself. Coughing several times, she grabs for a glass of water to help the food down.
Eyes still teary from the coughing, she watches Claire rather tensely, waiting for the other girl to make a comment on the number of empty plates piled up --and the number of still full plates strewn all over the kitchen island. "Hey," she rasps in reply, with relief.
sit back and watch the bed burnadamantinedJanuary 14 2010, 02:31:02 UTC
She isn't an idiot, but she's not as much of a bitch as she used to be either, and Claire refrains from making any sort of of comment in regard to the plates upon plates piled across the kitchen space. Blair is something that's easier to focus on, something that matters more than stacked Pfaltzgraff. Claire smiles as if to break some sort of tension banked and burning in the room, then lets it fall as she says, "My parents used to yell like that."
sit back and watch the bed burnmiss_waldorfJanuary 14 2010, 02:55:53 UTC
Royal Doultons. Blair considers her for a moment. Her modus operandi is that you are an enemy until proven otherwise, guilty until proven innocent. But Claire is not laughing or sneering or treating her like an idiot, and Blair feels a little safer when the other girl chooses to focus on something else other than the plates.
She rolls her eyes and scoffs. "I bet your dad never left your mom for her male model while she pretends she has no daughter because it 'hurt her too much'?" In the back of her mind she realizes that she is being unfair, that she is blaming them because she isn't strong enough to put the blame where it is due, on herself.
Inara follows Blair into the kitchen, curious. She watches her, hesitant to interfere because she knows how vulnerable crying makes her feel. It is a long time before she speaks.
"We're not doomed to repeat the sins of those that came before us. We can always change things."
"That's just something people say to justify behavior," Inara assures her. She moves over closer to Blair, not quite ready to 'comfort' her as she doesn't know whether it's allowed or not but she's trying to provide a comforting presence at least. "Maybe that's what this is about?"
Blair smiles wryly, edging back onto the kitchen counter and leaning against it. "You don't know what this is about," she says, but softly, without anger. "I don't."
She thinks for a moment, her whole body calm as if nothing had happened just before. "Imagine, if our lives are movies then we would know our theme, our part, our lines. We would know what to watch out for --the turning points, the scenes that makes or breaks the movie."
Comments 44
"It's not going to be like that, you know?"
Reply
"It's going to be exactly like that," she replies, surprising herself with her own voice; choked and thick with tears. She covers her mouth, thinking no, no it isn't going to be like this at all.
Reply
He walks upto her. "You might just give up. But I'm Chuck Bass. I don't let go of something I want."
Reply
"You'll get tired of me. You already know me --and I can't be better than I am now," she whimpers. "I love you, but I bore you."
Reply
Sound filters out from the kitchen, and that's an echo too, though he expects the clinking to be glassware, bottles emptied and left in the rubbish, disowned once beyond use. He tips his head back until it his the wall, the thud resounding through his skull, the bones of his neck. An echo.
"You can choose better," he says finally, loud enough, though the noises have stopped in the kitchen and he doesn't know if he's been heard.
Reply
She can feel the bile rising to her throat already.
Reply
And he knows the rhythm of gorging and purging, it's the same whatever the substance. Bodies have limits, physical and psychological. You push it past them, it's going to rebel. So he does stand, now, polished shoes slipping on the equal shine of the floor where the black squares reflect the white of his coat back up at him. The hospital ID clipped to his pocket reads Princeton Plainsboro, but he's seen her in a clinic somewhere else that the dream won't let him remember. This is a different kind of house call.
"Do you need to be sick?"
Reply
"I'll-- just be a moment," she rushes, before hurrying to the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
Blair has heard the doctors explain her condition time and time again, but they never got it quite right. No words can explain the way purging feels. Imagine being able to throw away everything you hate about yourself, every little habit, every trait, every deformity. Imagine feeling like the person you know you were meant to be before you messed it all up by living. Imagine being purer than a newborn. Though it lasts only for a split second, damn is it worth it.
Reply
She glares at the elevator as though daring something else to emerge. Blair and Nancy have spoken once. The conversation was not long at all. And in spite of that, Nancy knows this girl. This is the girl who has to listen to the shit flung back and forth by parents. This is the girl who deals with idiot boys. That's about all the empathy she can muster. She shakes her head and combs her hair back, grasping at the hairs tightly until she knows she's not going to pieces.
Nancy wanders now to the kitchen, curious.
Reply
When Nancy enters the kitchen, she looks up, her eyes glassy and blank.
Reply
Reply
Eyes still teary from the coughing, she watches Claire rather tensely, waiting for the other girl to make a comment on the number of empty plates piled up --and the number of still full plates strewn all over the kitchen island. "Hey," she rasps in reply, with relief.
Reply
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She rolls her eyes and scoffs. "I bet your dad never left your mom for her male model while she pretends she has no daughter because it 'hurt her too much'?" In the back of her mind she realizes that she is being unfair, that she is blaming them because she isn't strong enough to put the blame where it is due, on herself.
Reply
"We're not doomed to repeat the sins of those that came before us. We can always change things."
Reply
"The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree," she replies. "I don't even know what it is I'm supposed to not repeat."
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Reply
She thinks for a moment, her whole body calm as if nothing had happened just before. "Imagine, if our lives are movies then we would know our theme, our part, our lines. We would know what to watch out for --the turning points, the scenes that makes or breaks the movie."
Reply
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