Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl.
A/N: So I was watching Gossip Girl, the show, the other night and I wondered why the hell the writers haven't done anything with Blair's little problem, you know, the eating disorder? That thought and art school led to this Blair-centric piece. I suppose it might be sensitive to some, but I still rated in T because there really isn't any real mention of bulemia.
Alright - if you don't know a word, it's a shade of red, haha.
Um - first time I dab in the Gossip Girl fandom, I'm really more of a Bones-kinda gal, but I wanted to give it a try.
Summary: Blair sees red. (Blair-centric, one-shot / drabble)
Desperate times call for desperate measures, but this - resorting to this, having to resort to this - gives desperate a whole new meaning, Blair thinks as she's bent over the spotless porcelain. Spotless. Perfect.
The places where the skin of her bare arms merge with the cold oval are burning, tingling, and for a second they become one as she spouts out her weaknesses, her blatant imperfections into the watery depths of Manhattan's sewer system.
She dreams red. Manila and vermillion and burning, blazing carmine. Flashes of alizarin, amaranth, persimmon, for God's sake - she's tired of trying to fit everything into neatly lined squares. Tired of not calling the beastie by its name. This dance she's dancing is causing her muscles to spasm and her throat to burn and every time, again and again, crimson turns to rust splattered on the sides of the pristine whites. Stark contrasts, that's what her life's been reduced to.
Blair Waldorf doesn't think when she stands in front of the mirrors that surround her in the bathroom, tired and aching. Nothing flashes through her mind when she pulls out the familiar, sleek black tube and coats her lips with a fresh layer of carnelian.
There's a flicker of maroon trickling down the corner of her newly glossed mouth.
Later that day, Blair Waldorf collapses in a trembling heap of pure, unaltered scarlet; when her hand grasps another in a last attempt to clutch life close, her fingers are almost as pristinely white as the porcelain bowl they've hugged so often.
Thanks for reading. C