Disclaimer: I do not own Gossip Girl or any of its any characters.
Her body is fashioned from the most colorful of all nebulae, the rarest of the rarefied gasses condensed and molded into scales of colors and hues that simply don't even exist for regular human beings like you or me. And her eyes, her beautiful and endless blue eyes that burn bright with all the infinite possibilities of her future, are plucked carefully from the cosmos as shrunken stars.
And into that brilliant array of celestial dust, Serena van der Woodsen was born.
When she first came into the world on a bleak Tuesday morning at 3:47 AM, she was smiling. Or, at least, that's what the doctors and everyone told her when they recounted the story.
Later, when she was much, much older, she would learn that it was that same smile—that stunning, sweet, lovely smile she'd become known for— that she would choose to end her short life with.
Ironic, in the end, that it began it too.
And as she grows up, she becomes the typical spoiled trust-fund brat that got everything she wanted. And her parents, Lily and William Van Der Woodsen, simply adored and loved her, just like everyone else on the Upper East Side did, who she had wrapped around her little finger.
In fact, one of the earliest memories she can recall is of her birthday. She's six and beautiful, picture-perfect, with her little cream and pale pink dress from Fendi's new children's wear line, long golden curls that sit on her shoulders, and her rosy red cheeks. And all of her aunts and uncles and cousins and family friends have gathered around the table where she sat and keep on squealing things like, "God, she's so pretty!" and "Look how cute she is!"
She pastes a charming smile, bats her blonde eyelashes, and thanks them, putting on the mask of a perfect child, radiating the elegance and politeness one would expect from a child that was the prized heir of the most prominent old money families in the entire country. But what they didn't know was that she was really thinking, "Do they really have nothing better to do than tell me things I already know?"
Even as a child, it was obvious she had a wild streak. She couldn't have known it'd cost her everything.
Because through the years of partying and high society, of drinking too much wine they couldn't pronounce and taking joy rides in daddy's new jaguar, of the late nights in the hottest clubs and early mornings in hotel rooms, of the white lies and the white lines and the constantly being featured on page six of all the major papers, she always thought that she was untouchable.
But it seems that this city's golden girl isn't as invincible as everyone believed - herself included - and when she watches one of her friends overdose in front of her, after having snorted some coke she had given him, she runs away as fast as she can; packs up everything she owns in a single suitcase and buys a one-way train ticket headed for boarding school out north without telling anyone so that she can pretend it never happened.
It'll be good for you. It's supposed to be a fresh start, her mother tells her as she hugs her goodbye and Eric cries as they see her off at Grand Central Station. She tries to believe it too after she's already boarded the train and looks out the window and sees images of greeneries and rolling hills passing by her, a far cry from the impossibly tall skyscrapers and high rise building she's become so accustomed to.
But the weight pressing down on her conscience never does really lessen, nor does the blood on her hands wash really ever away, and she finds herself wishing she was anywhere but Connecticut.
And so she rots away in her self imposed exile as her parent overcompensate for never visiting and forgetting to call or write back to her letters with expensive gifts from Italy and perfumes from France. It's so typical that they don't understand her at all; they think forgiveness can be bought. They don't get that the only thing that she wants is to be back where she belongs.
She finds herself missing everything about New York; how it was bright and bustling with thousands of people like it really did never sleep and fall in the park and the museums and the restaurants and the department stores and all of the shopping and the good memories it held.
Even more, she misses her life and her friends and her family, as flawed as they are. And she wonders late while her roommate is sleeping if they miss her as much as she misses them - so much that it physically hurts, that it makes her toss and turn at night.
She is sixteen when her mother finally lets her off for good behavior and she's allowed to return back to the glorious kingdom of Manhattan. To her rightful throne on the steps of the Met and to her courtiers, who wore headbands and the latest couture.
She even had it all planned out – upon her highly anticipated arrival, she'd regain her title of both the It Girl and the Queen of the Upper East Side, and the family penthouse overlooking Central Park would become her castle where she ruled once again.
But apparently things have changed while she was gone and they never do go back to the way they were; because it turns out Blair isn't her best friend anymore and Nate won't talk to her and Chuck only cares about himself and her mother is too busy with her latest boyfriend and her brother is falling apart and all the girls at Constance whisper about her behind her back and spread rumors about why she left in the first place. Yet what is most surprising of all, is the way that she finds herself falling in love with Daniel Humphrey, the scholarship kid from St. Jude's who is more of a pauper than a prince and was definitely never a part of her plan.
And its not because he was perfect, or because he was rich, like her, because he wasn't and isn't.
Instead, she loves him because he is different, enthralling, intelligent. He reads books she's never heard of and likes debates and rejects the stupid, shallow world of his peers. And he's the first person that wants to get to know the real Serena van der Woodsen; to see past her sweet, Maraschino cherry lips and look into the depth of her eyes. Because to him, she matters. He tells her all the time that she's kind and interesting and funny, words no one has used to describe her before; and she's more than just a pretty face and her last name for once in her life.
The first few months together are perfect and magical and complete bliss, and neither of them think they've ever been this happy in their entire lives.
"I love you," Dan suddenly announces one day in December. He's nervous; it's the first time he's ever said that to someone he wasn't related to and he doesn't even notice the way his hands shake. "I mean it - I love you everything about you, Serena."
She's done so much bad in her life she isn't sure what she's done to deserve someone like him but she's not one to question fate. "I love you too, Dan," She smiles, grabbing his hand. The space between his fingers were where hers fit perfectly. It all felt so right.
But they come from completely different worlds because Brooklyn and the Upper East Side aren't really in the same city, now are they? And soon enough the lying and the scheming and the drama and the class divide all became too much bear for one little couple. So they break up and get back together. Break up and get back together. Break up and get back together again.
It's a silly and vicious cycle, really, and it should've been a warning sign of what was to eventually come – but she was barely twenty, young and naïve still, and is blinded by the sheer beauty of her first love, by this man that constantly inspires her to be a better person, so she never doubted they'd run into each other arms and be all right at the end of the day.
After all, whenever she imagined her future, it was always with him. No matter what the variables were, no matter what happened, he was in it, her one constant. Her forever.
She assumes this time will be no different. That the reoccurring pattern that had kept them together for more years than she cared to count would keep them together then too and they would surely end up together again, after arguing a bit first and calling each other names like selfish and snobby and pretentious before apologizing and hugging and kissing and making-up.
Yet that's not the case because somewhere along the line, he forgets to remember their routine and leaves with all his stuff. And she's not quite sure what she's supposed to do as she watches him slowly drift away her.
And she's not sure how to act when he suddenly stops paying attention to her all together, and instead takes an interest in her best friend. Of all people.
And she doesn't know how to move on when she finds herself suddenly replaced with Blair Waldorf, the person that had always seemed content in living in the tall shadow she cast with her six inch Saint Laurent heels. In an attempt to mend her broken and bruised heart, Serena tries to remind herself that she's just a consolation prize, a cheap imitation of gold. Something you settle with when you can't get the real thing.
And she'll never shine as bright as Serena.
It was useless.
No matter what she told herself, every step she took afterwards, every move she made and every minute that passed by, was completely and utterly useless.
Useless if he didn't notice. If he didn't care.
Because without him, all she has left is her resentment, her hatred, and she's consumed by those ugly feelings, by her jealousy, by her uncontrollable longing to exact revenge on Blair. She spends week with only that on her mind. And then comes the moment when she finally give into the corruptive dimension of her personality that has destroyed her pure angelic beauty. To the vindictive, deceptive, petty side of her that she's always tried to bury. She had expected it to disappear, but instead, she holds sway over it. It become a reflection of her anger, her hatred, and her body becomes serpentine, filled with venom.
She had to make him hers again. She just had to.
Though it seems like none of her plans ever work out the way she wants them to.
She doesn't love you, you know, Serena tries telling him, as a last resort when her seemingly brilliant idea fails. She's not good enough for you—
And what, you are? Is that what you're telling me?
Yes, that's exactly what she's trying to tell him actually. And she can see that he's tired, and a little angry, but not that much, and what worries her more, the anger or the lessening of it, is the way he turns his head from her, as if he can't stand to look at her, as if he's disgusted by something that's supposed to be so lovely but does such ugly things, and stops fighting.
She smiles at him, hoping this will be enough, that he'll remember she's still the same girl he's wanted since he was fourteen. "I love you, Dan," She manages to get out, "and I don't think that you would have done what you did if you didn't have feelings for me too. And there's nothing in the way of us now."
He looks at her as if she's a delusional stranger. "Serena, there is no us. It's only you. "
Her voice is pleading, desperate almost, and she's never been this vulnerable before in her life. She's never needed someone as much as she's needed him. "Dan"—
Get out. He repeats himself again and when she closes the door to his apartment behind her, shes know with certainty it's over.
Everything's a mess and when her boyfriend tells her that he's not in love with her anymore, it dawns upon her there's nothing left for her in Manhattan now. So she decides to fix things the only way she knows how when she packs up her bags and leaves in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.
With her luggage and passport in hand, she discreetly hails a cab from Lexington and 73rd street and rides it all the way to LaGuardia, where she waits in a crowded airport lounge for the first available one way-ticket out of this place. She doesn't care where she ends up really; she's just ready to start over and put everything that's happened these past few months behind her. Fortunately, it turns out that a spot in first-class has just opened up on a direct flight to Bangkok and she pays for it right then and there, charging it to her sleek little black credit card.
She feels exited - she's never been there before, but she's heard that Thailand is absolutely lovely this time of the year and its filled with hundreds of strangers she's never met. People who've never heard of her last name.
And so she boards the plane and flees the city like she did six years ago, except this time, she puts the Indian Ocean and thousands of miles between them.
Now that she's free, she cuts of all ties she has left with her home, that anchor her to the past she wants to erase.
She ignores the countless voice mails waiting for her on her answering machine when her plane lands and changes her phone number. She almost always pays for everything with cash, because she knows credit cards leave traces and she's not ready to be found. And whenever her funds start to become depleted, even a little, she just pawns off another one of her Cartier diamond earrings or her platinum Patek Philippe watches, and it's enough to last her another six months. And she deletes the emails they send to her every now and then, asking where in the world did she goes, because who's Serena?
She doesn't go by that name anymore. It's Sabrina van Skoneke now.
Though her fresh start isn't so fresh, and it shouldn't come to a surprise how quickly it takes before she goes back into her old ways, back to who she used to be.
Because Asia is incredible. But it's also so fucking lonely.
She know it's wrong, she knows that they would think what she was doing here was wrong too, but the truth is, they're not here and she's so sick and god damn tired of being constantly weighed down by their judgement and worrying looks and she isn't even sure for herself that she cares about being the perfect, smiling golden girl anymore. Because there is nothing golden about her anymore;not since she had her love thrown back at her face and her heart turned black and definitely not since she's dyed her trademark blonde locks red. She's become tarnished and learned what they say about all that glitters is true after all.
No; all she wants to do now is to have fun and feel alive again and be wild and crazy and free and ignore the consequences and think only about the right now. So she drinks too much and she laughs too loud and she spends her night jumping from club to club, stranger to stranger, as she dances with dozens of men and women whose names she can't remember or didn't even bother ask underneath the flashing strobe lights. She'll always feels a pair of new hands on her and she'll just close her eyes, allowing her body and her hips to sway with the hypnotic beat of the track that's blasting on the speakers. Sweat drips off her body and she feels hot and when her eyes flicker open, she can see that everyone in the room is captivated by her.
She seductively smiles at one of her fellow partygoers in particular. He's tall, dark, and handsome, and the buzz from all those apple martinis kicks in and the next thing she knows, both of them are drunkenly stumbling through an empty corridor and fumbling for her card key, lost in heated kisses and wandering touches. When he finally gets the door open, they stumbled inside and onto her bed.
Sometimes she wakes up in her hotel room by herself, but far more often, she finds that she wakes up with her latest mistake sleeping next to her.
She only stays in Thailand for a few weeks.
Of course, she loves Bangkok, but it doesn't change the fact that she's spent her whole life running and she's unable to stop now, even if she wanted to. So she flies to Singapore, and then to Amsterdam, then Berlin and dozens of other exotic cities and beautiful faraway lands. She flies from place to place to place; never staying long enough to get attached to anyone or anything.
The only record of her existence these days are the flight ticket stubs she collects and the stamps in her passport.
She eventually ends up in Ibiza, and she repeats the same routine.
She wakes up half past noon and the day is wasted getting wasted on the champagne she orders from room service and smoking a pack of Belmont cigarettes as she lazily lounges in the balcony of her suite, trying to get a tan as she soaks up the Mediterranean sun. Its only at night that she goes out, that she heads out to the closest club so she can dance until its morning and experience flesh and fun and freedom.
The speakers thump out a steady techno beat and she has her arms in the air as she moves and flicks her long hair back and forth in time. Pretty soon every inch of her is crushed against another man and she doesn't fight against his advances because her slight frame feels sinfully good against his sinewy one. Urged on by carnal desires,she turns herself around, starts to do a slow grind against him, as his arms circle her waist.
They eventually end up in the bathroom, where she kisses him, nothing more. When they finally pull apart, he grins dangerously, on so many different substances he's clearly delirious and out of his mind. Do you wanna try really have some fun, beautiful? The man asks her, his eyes shinning and a smile too crazy even for her under normal circumstances. She's been down this road before; logically, she should say no, stay far away from the drugs that ruined her life last time, but she grows older and never any wiser and says yes instead and openly welcomes the danger. And he wastes no time taking off his belt and passes it to her; then he takes out his rigs, spoon, cotton ball, lighter, and grabs her arm clumsily, tying the belt around it like a tourniquet. She makes a fist and he finds a vein to put the needle on the first try, and she watches the blood dance with the heroin before slamming it into her.
Now enjoy it, baby, he whispers into her ear in a heavy accent, his breath tickling her neck, and its the most amazing feeling of relief and euphoria. It's by far the best fucking rush she's ever had and she pushes herself out of of the bathroom, pushes her way through the sea of people on the dance floor, until shes outside of the night club and stumbling through the streets of Spain. She can barely walk, though she doesn't let that stop her and she staggers to a nearby park; it's late at night and empty and probably unsafe but the stars are out and the sky is beautiful so she kicks off her painful heels and decides to lay down in the grass so she can watch them.
A smile stretches across her face and for a moment she swears it was life that was injected into her body, not heroin, and she reaches out both of her tanned, slender arms and tries to touch the sky. Soon enough, it feels like she's being brought up from Earth and she's flying through space, past comets and asteroids and planets still not touched by the hands of humans and she's so far up she can't even hear the sounds of sirens baring in the near distance. Then out of nowhere, she starts gasping and her body goes still and she thinks of her life so far - these past twenty two years - during those endless moments traveling through the darkness, as she glides past million of stars that shine like diamonds in the night. She thinks of her family, and of her little brother, Erik, who she hasn't seen in years. Even if no else at the funeral cries, she knows he will. And then she thinks of her old friends, of Nate, of Chuck, of Blair and Dan. She wonders if they will always deny her of their forgiveness, even when she's gone and dead and buried six feet under the ground, and finds that she no longer cares.
Because there's only two things in life she's ever known – how to break the things that she loves, and that all stars fade out eventually, burn up with passion and explode, supernova. But the biggest stars, they pull in the world around them, collapsing in on themselves, imploding catastrophically. Although they tried to heal her, the dying star, it was too late. She was gone too far before she even met them, and it was only a matter of time after they left her before she would meet her fiery death.
Someone tries slapping her, telling her to wake up and that they're gonna take her to the hospital and the ambulance is here and she'll be okay, but then, obliterating all her thoughts, there's this pain, so much pain, that she glows white-hot, blazing, all her nerves and veins and skin aflame as she screams silently and realizes she can't breathe anymore.
She's burning up. Ahead, not too far away in the darkness, she can see that there are the most brilliant of stars, stars like her stars that are welcoming her home, where there will be more pain and sadness and loneliness. Without hesitation, she flies to them, to their core, to the all consuming blinding light. Satisfied, she closes her eyes to the universe and sleeps.
Sleep, until she glows no more.