Author's Note: Written in a hurricane of great angst, turmoil, and other such extremely dark feelings. I know it was a hurricane because hurricanes involve water, and there were many tears. But if you like angst and encourage me to do things like jumping headfirst into a whirlwind of depression, review. Otherwise, throw me a shred of Hope. [last four words were a shameless pun based off a phrase in my own story... I'm terribly pathetic, I know...] If you're perceptive, you don't need to read this: There is a smidge of... let's call it "Jair", even though it's not really something that can be named.
Disclaimer: Writing this adds to the aforementioned hurricane. :/
Enjoy (?).
She likes it when they do it in candlelight. She painstakingly lights tall, tapering candles with glowing flames, and places them tastefully around the room. She likes it because there are things in the dark- her fear, her uncertainty, his face- and things in the light- her blush, his hands, flickers of the room captured in the wavering light. The room is partly dark, partly light, little places illuminated here and there.
It reminds her of her heart.
Their forms tangle together intricately, partly lit up, mostly in the darkness: a twisting shadow, set apart from the tranquility of the room. They writhe together and whisper things that shouldn't be said under the golden light of the sun. And when it's all said and done, he blows out the candles and leaves her to sleep in the dark.
And she thinks, while tears that her love will never see flow down her cheeks, that she's glad he leaves her in the darkness, because that's when her guilt and her insecurity rush to the surface of her black and white heart. That's when every little fault that makes her less than the perfect person her love used to claim she was rushes to the surface a thousand-fold and oozes like slime slipping through cracks in a porcelain vase. That's when she wants to run to that godforsaken toilet that's witnessed too many secrets in the dark pour out of her, out of her mouth into its stainless basin, out of her eyes flowing endlessly down her cheeks.
That's when her smile fades and her curls crumple, and her fears morph into a writhing, furious demon, leering at her vulnerable form, red glowing eyes dancing with evil mirth at her own red eyes. She closes her eyes and violently tugs at her hair and wills the demon with all her might to disappear, to vanish, to leave her all alone like Charles Bass-
And then she stops, like always. The demon crows in triumph, and she hangs her head in defeat and lets the slime and the muck, the secrets, the fears, the insecurities- everything! She lets everything devour her whole.
If her demon- or should she say demons?- is the only thing that wants to stay, then she won't be left alone again.
Her deepest, darkest fears- of being alone, of being a failure, of being unnecessary and unwanted and insufficient- they all swallow her whole. She always throws them out again to the stainless- yet somehow more stained than anything else besides her- witness in the bathroom.
She always thinks, right before slipping into a bittersweet oblivion, that she's glad he leaves her in darkness. She knows she'll be perfect in the morning again. She has to be; she has to cling on to one last shred of Hope- that fleeting angel who offers comfort to her only by day- that at least under the sun, she can beat her demon.
She knows it's a lie. She knows she'll never be perfect, not even by day. She knows it the second she wakes up to find her white pillow spotted with black tear stains.
Black stains of fears, and insecurities, and secrets, and guilt, and mascara, and fights with a demon that never end, and a mask that's more painful to put on than it is to take off.
She can't help but ooze darkness everywhere she goes. Even her tears are black. And when Dorota comes in and silently takes away the sheets with a concerned look on her face, Blair concentrates on applying perfect mascara and positioning her headband perfectly. And when she spots the picture of her father, she pushes down her feelings of rejection and abandonment and manages to cover up the dark circles under her eyes.
And when she sees Chuck Bass beside his smirking uncle, she pushes down guilt and secrets- and fears and insecurities and slime and I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryIdidn'tmeantoI'msorry.
But of course, some things are best kept in the dark.