C H O I R OFANGELS
{and just to clear things up – because i'm sure you're all wondering – i don't own gossip girl ... god knows i would only screw it up, anyways}
...
It's dark out. Quiet, too, except for the purr of the engine as the car winds through the country roads. Not at all like the city, where honks, screams, and screeching tires would be heard in abundance, even at this time of the night. He brakes slightly as they enter a particularly sharp curve, his hands gripping the steering wheel only slightly tighter than usual.
"Where are we going?" The question comes scathingly from the back of the car. He resists the urge to glance in the rearview mirror, afraid of what he might see, of what he might not see. "We've been driving for over an hour now," the voice continues. "Seriously. I don't even think you know where we are." He shrugs and doesn't respond, glancing briefly in his mirror and then over his shoulder as he switches lane. "Nate!" the voice screeches, obviously frustrated. "Come on! This is getting ridiculous. Pull over. Now."
He sighs, taking a right onto a secluded, bumpy gravel road. They drive for about fifty feet down the road – the only sound being the gravel hitting the car and the sounds of annoyance from the backseat – until he pulls over to the side. The car rests unsteadily half on the road, half on a patch of grass.
He cuts the engine.
He doesn't speak, and not a sound comes from the backseat, either. He can feel eyes on the back of his head, a harsh glare boring deep into him. He resists the urge to turn around, to glance in the rearview mirror. Instead, he lets his fingers drum across the steering wheel quietly, tap-tap-tapping their way around it. "Nate," the voice whispers, quieter, more soothing now. "Come on. Talk. What's going on? Why are we here?" He can't say anything. He can hardly even think straight. Something warm builds up under his eyelids – tears? No. He's Nate; he doesn't cry. He can't even remember the last time that he did cry. "Nate," the voice whispers again. "Oh, Nate." He loves that voice. He loves that voice to pieces.
He bites his lip and stares out at the road. His hands stop drumming and they grip the steering wheel, tighter, tighter, tighter, until his knuckles are turning white and it's as if he's afraid to let go. "What have you done?" he chokes out, except he's not sure, exactly, whether he's referring to himself or to her or, maybe even to both of them. No noise comes from the backseat. He stares at his hands as they clutch the steering wheel, clears his throat. "I love you," he says, the words coming out of his mouth breathily as if he's afraid to even say them. His head falls forward, resting against the top of the wheel. "It's my fault, my fault. All my fault. I – I'm so sorry."
"Oh, Nate." The voice is soft, understanding, compassionate; everything he wants it to be, and everything he's afraid of it to be. "It's not your fault." He chokes out a laugh. It is. It's all his fault. It has to be … doesn't it?
Or maybe it's not. "Why'd you do it?" he asks, lifting his head off the steering wheel. He stares blankly out at the road, taking slow, shallow breathes. Trying desperately to compose himself on the outside, because on the inside, he's crumbling into a million little pieces. "Just … tell me that. Tell me why. Explain it. Because none of it makes any sense to me."
He hears a sigh from behind him. "I – I can't explain it. I'm sorry."
He slams his fist against the wheel. "Damn it! Why not? Why the hell not?" It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore. "I loved you," he says, his voice cracking on the word. "I still love you. I'll always love you. But I just – I don't understand. Why wasn't it enough?" Except what he really wants to ask is: why wasn't I enough? He swallows. Raindrops are starting to fall, slowly, splattering lightly on the windshield. "I gave you everything. I gave you all I had." And it hadn't been enough. "Why?"
He doesn't get an answer, except for the pounding sound of rain as it begins to fall harder. His vision clouds with tears; there's no preventing them now. One tear – two, three … and then they're streaming down his face as if they'll never stop.
"I always knew there was something," he whispers, turning the key in the ignition. The engine revs to life. "You never were happy, were you?" It's a rhetorical question, accompanied by a bitter laugh as he pulls back out onto the bumpy road without even bothering to check his blind spot. The car bobs up and down as they drive down the gravel road. "You were always pulling the dramatic act. You were always yearning for attention." The raindrops are falling harder now, mingling with his tears to obscure his vision. He flicks on the windshield wipers. "I wish you could've understood how much you meant to me. How much you meant to everyone."
"Oh, Nate." The voice is pained, breaking, just the way he feels. His foot presses the gas pedal – harder, harder, harder. The car shakes with the speed, but he can't stop. He needs to go faster. Faster. Because nothing makes sense anymore and his heart is twisting, twisting, twisting so much that he's not sure it'll ever be normal again.
"Nate!" So, so distant now. He can barely hear the voice. Her voice. "Don't make the same mistake I did." He thinks he hears a sob, but he's not sure if it's him or her or both or neither. "I made a mistake, Nate. A mistake. There's no explanation for what I did other than that. I shouldn't have done it, but I did."
A mistake.
His foot pauses, not pressing the gas pedal any harder, but not letting off of it, either. "That's not what your note said," he whispers, his voice rough. He doesn't get a response and, suddenly, the car feels cold. He can't see – because of the tears, because of the rain, he can't tell anymore. He can't tell anything anymore – except that he feels cold, cold and alone; so, so alone. Like death, maybe, except he can't be sure because he doesn't know what death feels like.
No. Not death. That's not what he feels like. Fear. That's what he feels like. He's scared – so scared. He wants to glance in the rearview mirror, wants to turn and look in the backseat, but he's afraid. Except he's not sure if he's afraid of what he'll see or what he won't see. "Serena?" he whispers.
But he gets no answer. He has to look. He has to know. His eyes flit up to the rearview mirror. He sees a flash – of her blonde hair, of her face. But then there's nothing except the dark leather of his backseats. He turns and stares, stares, stares at the empty backseat. He expects it, of course, but it doesn't stop the pain that seeps into his chest at the sight.
And that's when it finally hits him: she's gone.
He turns sharply forward again, to face the road, but it's too late. The road is curving, but his car is still going straight. And even though he knows it's wrong, he slams harder on the gas pedal, accelerating, as he sharply turns the wheel all the way to the right. And then he's spinning, spinning, spinning. He sees a flash of blonde in his peripheral vision.
"Oh, Nate." What a beautiful voice. It's like a choir of angels have opened their arms and he laughs and laughs and laughs until, suddenly, he can't laugh anymore and tears are streaming down his cheeks. He can't tell if the car's still spinning or if it's rolling over or if it's stopped. He's not even sure if he's still alive, but none of that matters, anyways.
"Serena," he whispers, as the swirl of colors around him starts to fade to black. "Why'd you kill yourself?" And as everything goes completely black and all he can hear is the soft, distant thudding of a heart, he still doesn't know.
He'll never know.
...
ummm … don't kill me?
i don't even know where it came from, honestly. it's just depressing, isn't it? ironically enough, i started this off thinking it was going to be this, like, cutesy nate-serena oneshot and then, well … that happened. i guess nate is really loco then, huh? anyways, review, and maybe that'll get through to my apparently severely screwed up mind and the next oneshot i write will actually turn out happy.