Paradise.

My Kumi Kookoon champagne silk duvet is paradise.

I stretch out serenely, plucking the jeweled opal hair comb from my French twist and chucking it off my bed. If it lands on the curtains, so be it. If the gold scratches the finish on my mahogany bureau, I could hardly care anymore.

I hear a resounding pang, but that's the furthest thing from my mind as I kick my fawn-leather Milano kitten heels onto the carpet and lie back again. I'm listening to the sound of my own breathing and wondering what it would be like to stop.

If my room- my perfect, private recluse- is paradise, what does that make me? Purgatorio, I suppose, as I am in the ultimate purgatory, dangling between the lines of safety and amorality, never choosing… and Chuck is my inferno.

I'm pulling barrettes out one by one now, lost in the trance of my own self-reflection. Loose dark curls fall down around my face as they're released from their constraint. It feels like oxygen after choking, burning water after snow. Something that will hurt me, but that I need more than I know.

You look ravishing. If I were your man, I wouldn't need clues to find you

I have to take off my dress. I can't stand the sight of it. My waist is clenched so tightly I'm certain my lungs are compressed, and the deep rose embroidery at the hem irritates my skin. It's a sudden exasperation; the fitted bodice and long-sleeves cause anger to swell up inside me, anger over Marc Jacobs. Anger over a boy who never keeps his promises. Anger over a mother who pleads childlessness.

Anger at myself.

The dissatisfaction grows until my hands find the front ties and yank them. The ribbons, once a silky pink, fall in shreds in my lap. From my half-seated position on the mattress, I tug will all of my might, but the double-lined fabric is too thick to tear. Alien sounds, growls and whines with sobs erupt together from my lips as rage consumes me, a friend with a mind of her own. Nothing will ever turn out the way I want it- the way I really want it to. I have no control outside of the suffering I inflict on everyone around me.

Not like innocent little Serena van der Woodson. The nice one. The pretty one. The good one.

My finger slashes suddenly against the sharp side zipper. UUHHH! Perfect, just perfect. Raising it to my mouth, I fumble manically with the other hand. I pull at every square inch of the dress that I can grasp until I am released from its restriction. Good riddance. The ruined garment falls limply into a pile at my feet. Broken. Ended. Gone.

I step out and pace barefoot to the opposite end of my room. Toward the other door.

Nothing can stop me now. I know where I'm headed…

RINNNGGGG.

But I won't even spare a glance at my side table. It's my own fault… think of the devil and the devil will call.

The cordless phone continues shrilling as I push open the heavy wooden door of my destination. It's only too typical that I-

There's a rapid click as the ringing stops suddenly.

"Blair."

The desperation in his voice is unmistakable.

"You left before I even had a chance to show you what I meant…"

Voicemail. Panic washes over me and I rush toward the flashing monitor. His voice drops lower.

"...when I said that I lo-"

I pull the black cord straight out of the wall and the phone- and Chuck's voice- immediately goes black and fades. Escaped just in time. No time to sigh just yet, however.

Chuck wont be deterred so easily. He'll keep trying to reach me…

His guilt is consuming. Emotions can eat away at a person and leave holes that can't be filled. Not with safe, practical measures. If only he knew that he'll never be able to fix what he's damaged. That he'll only just fail in his pursuits… like his father does. Like Chuck always does.

What do you say we go up in flames together?

Melodramatic? Not hardly. This is a little something called consequen-

Dampness against my leg jostles me from my stare down with the empty space in front of me. A tiny gasp gets loose as I glance down quickly. Oh God… just great. Fresh blood drips from my finger onto my flimsy white slip and down onto the carpet. Permanently staining a reminder of the events unfolding tonight.

I would laugh if I wasn't so used to crying, but I suppose we don't always get to choose. Quickly, I hurry on toward the bathroom and skip right past the mirror. I know whose face will greet me, and I'd be fine if I never saw her again.

No, the marble is what I want. The feel of it beneath my knees, cold and hard and solid. As though there is something in this waterfall of emotions, in this ever-changing universe, that could stay constant. Something beneath me that could keep me from falling into the inferno. Support. Familiarity… Destruction.

You two used to be in love. And together you were invincible but now that you've turned against each other, it's just a matter of time before your mutual destruction.

Because that's what this is, don't you see? I don't even need to turn the faucet on. No. Not while the violinists serenade below, drowning out delicate clinks of crystal. Even the conversational laughter takes a back seat as my mother toasts all whom she is grateful for. Yes, grateful. As though she could even be capable of such a thing. As though she commends anyone apart from herself.

I've been to her wishy-washy parties more times than I can count. Each time I'm more painfully reminded of her resentment toward me… always more so than I was at the "celebration" before it.

My throat tightens warningly. I let out a breath and then still a sob with my fingers- two to be exact. One is still bleeding lightly, crimson seeping out from beneath the little flap of translucent skin on the fingerpad. The other is just as numb as my heart is, and all three of us know what to do.

Adrenaline is a powerful thing. Endorphins and dopamine are my saviors. The rush from doing something right for once, from knowing that I'm hurting myself and liking it… it's indescribable. There is no way to put into words the simultaneous falling and euphoria - a descent into self-destruction whose award is ultimate power.

So, I don't use words. None need to be said. I just use my hands. They have a way of always knowing exactly what to do…

Afterwards, when the light drains from my eyes and the back of my throat is raw and burned, I swallow painfully and wipe the tears blooming at the corner of my eyes. A smear of black mascara rubs off onto forearm. I breathe laboriously through the strain. God, it hurts! My insides feel ready to come undone. Maybe they will.

I crawl backward and wipe the mess from my hands onto my slip as though it's a rag… a six hundred dollar rag.

I don't care. I want to transfer my sickness onto something disposable. I can't carry it around inside of me any longer.

I'm leaning back against the wall below the sinks, but I don't wash my hands. This infection is a part of me, and I'm either too undeserving or too exhausted to do anything but languidly gaze into nothingness. The colors of my surroundings disappear inside my head. My thoughts fill with one thing and one thing only.

Blair Waldorf isn't pure anymore.

Before, Constance seemed so far away from here, as though the reality of the school exists only in another world. But now, I know that if anyone there knows, or suspects, or even has an inkling of doubt about my coping mechanism… I will be ruined. Chuck will be the one to do it, surely. He's probably furious right now and only waiting for the perfect opportunity to seek revenge.

Is being dead that much worse than being nothing?

I laugh bitterly, but it comes out sounding wrong, stifled somehow. A ravaged throat can do that to a girl, I suppose.

Lowering myself dazedly to the ground, I ignore the burning in my sliced finger. The acid has gotten inside of the wound and it stings painfully, but I relish in it.

I fully intend to stay here, alone in this soundproof room of pink marble. Away from the party raging downstairs and the thoughts spinning in my mind. Away from the dozens of undeleted voicemails accumulating on my iphone.

When I wake up, I start to bawl like a baby. It's silly, really. I'm acting weak. But I can't help it. I couldn't have been sleeping for longer than a few minutes, but it feels like I've been asleep all my life. Like I'm only just now opening my eyes to all that I've missed. To all that I've lost…

I'm a bulimic. God, I can't believe it. Admitting that makes me panic. That's an eating disorder. A sickness. Crazy, mental people have those issues.

Is that what I am? Because for the first time since kindergarten I have actually begun to entertain my suspicions that not everyone who calls me a psychotic selfish bitch is just floundering in jealousy. In fact, the validity of almost every insult I've ever been hurled (the irony of that statement is not lost on me) is finally coming to fruition. It's always at that point when I get the urge again. The urge to do something that I can control- to do something that will make it all okay again. And this urge is becoming so much more than that. It's becoming an addiction.

I don't know when it hit me. Maybe a few nights ago when I realized that I've been doing it every single day for the past two weeks. My teeth are going to rot if I keep going. I'm going to get ulcers and the acid will destroy my esophagus. No more breathing after that, no more moaning even… I'm so weak. In more ways than one. I can't even stop thinking about him for longer than a few minutes. His voice haunts my every memory.

I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to do him anymore. And I'm so resolved to stop.

Except, that's what I said yesterday. And the day before, too.

So now this is how it is. I have a wonderful life. I really, really do.

But I'm throwing it all away.

Three quick taps sound on my door, but I don't get up to answer it. I'm laying flat on my back, the cold of the marble a welcoming companion. Staring at the ceiling of the room, I notice for the first time that the crown molding above me is chipped. A missing right corner in a sea of ivory carvings.

That's sort of how life is, too…

"Miss Blair!" Dorota is hissing loudly, but she knows enough to keep her knocking under wraps. After all, there is a party going on downstairs. It would be a shame to sully the perfect image here…

Well, that was fun. It's my first GG fanfic, but I'm thinking about writing a full length one. Please remember to review!

~KaterinaPetrova