She hits one hundred quicker than she hit the previous goals.

It's not something she enjoys.

She doesn't think she could ever even pretend to find some joy in it.

This was a responsibility.

This was a necessity.

This wasn't a hobby or an infatuation or a dance with the devil to take her mind off the crumbling semblance of what was once a perfect life around her. This was a state of mind and a way of life.

It was the game that killed if you weren't strong enough, and she was the most strong-willed freshman at Constance so she won't lose. She was already part of the Queen's court and one day she'll be Queen too.

The skinniest Queen in New York, New York.

There's blood, lots of it, too much of it, it drips from her mouth and she's not sure if she's scratched her throat open with her perfectly manicured nails or if she's ruptured something that would have been better off un-ruptured.

But it's mixed in with too-much food so she ignores it and continues because as long as the too-much food is still coming out and not going in she's not complaining what it's drenched in.

She hits ninety five and thinks next time she'll do it with more class.

Her way of life looks so pretty covered in Chanel but unimaginably ghastly when she's naked in front of a mirror, which she is, and quite often too.

Her skin is blotchy and bruise-stained and she thanks her mother every day for buying her so many pairs of Falke stockings, though that's the only thing she thanks her mother for because she realises in a very secluded part of her mind that this is probably her fault.

Though it's not like she's doing anything that one could claim was Eleanor's fault. Doing this didn't warrant being mad at her mother, because Eleanor was only trying to help.

Really.

And Blair thinks she can take it, if it makes her mother happy.

Because a happy Eleanor wasn't common since she and daddy started fighting and the only time she sees her mother smile anymore is when the numbers on the scale slide down so she smiles back and it's a thing they have, but it doesn't last long so Blair has to do it again and again and again and she's starting to not be able to form responding smiles.

He mother doesn't seem to notice.

And while the way some of her hair falls out in the shower and her hands shake so hard she can't hold her pen during class and her teeth chatter incessantly even in the heat might be nothing to worry about, it's still not exactly a pleasant side-effect of her accomplishments.

So no, she doesn't enjoy it.

It's not like she's some universal society-page filler that gets off on it. She just needs to be perfect.

Perfect for her mother and perfect for herself.

(An imperfect body is the consequence of an imperfect mind).

She hits eighty two, and it's not eighty so she's entirely unimpressed.

The control part, that she kind of enjoys.

That part she enjoys entirely too much.

Her mother and daddy don't stop fighting and she refuses to cover her ears to hide it away like it's not happening but she uses their own distractions as a distraction and doesn't even need to turn a tap on to hide the sounds of her activities.

A part of her wishes they'd stop long enough to find her but another part thinks maybe they wouldn't care either way.

It's become her secret, one she's all too willing to give up if only somebody would try and figure it out, but nobody does so she gets more and more daring and they seem all too unaware so she gives up trying to be found out and goes back to hiding it.

This way it's like she's hiding it on purpose and not that people just don't care.

She won't have sex. Her body isn't perfect just yet to be seen by anybody else and she really has no interest does she?

This is her coitus.

It's filled with more substance and substances than sex and the results more rewarding.

Besides, she's heard of the kind of foreplay guys like and doesn't really know what'll happen if something goes down her throat accidently.

This didn't start with a plan, unlike so much of the rest of her life, there were no charts or lists or expert opinions to contribute their expertise; the only plan she has is the plan to never, ever stop.

Stopping simply isn't an option.

Not now, not ever, and yet she can't for the life of her fathom the idea of her being eighty and still doing this.

She suspects she won't make it to eighty, suspects she won't even make it to seventeen some days.

She thinks about the front page news her death would end up being and frowns because the picture they'll end up using will undoubtedly be an unfortunately angled one and she needs to be remembered as the skinny one.

Skinny, skinnier, skinniest one.

She keeps going even though she doesn't enjoy it.

Keeps on keeping on.

Doesn't stop, won't ever, ever stop.

Thinks she would rather go to the grave playing this game than lose, thinks she probably will and why doesn't that scare her?

She wonders if losing would be gaining weight or dying. She's already forgotten the rules to her own game and she's too scared to ask for direction, though it's not like there's a rule book or she could Google it or anything.

She finally hits eighty and she's not nearly as happy as she thought she'd be.

It's not like she's enjoying that she has to slip out of class or a dinner party to make her way to the bathroom furthest away, but when her mother see's her untouched food and does that kind-of-smile she knows she's doing the right thing.

It's not the easy thing, but it is the right thing.

This is the kind of thing a perfect daughter does to help her no-longer perfect family.

A small sacrifice for the sake of their happiness (and she's the sacrifice and she'll be small even if it destroys her).

She doesn't really mind the after effects; in fact she kind of likes them.

She can't drink because carbs aren't worth it and most drugs make her hungry, even though she's not really ever hungry anymore so she enjoys the side-effects while they last because these ones are good.

She can't see her body that well when she blacks out, though the image it forever in her mind.

But she's smart and she knows the dizzy spells that cause her to run into walls and the dancing lights behind her eyes she can't get enough of aren't exactly good for her, and she faintly thinks that Serena probably doesn't feel like this unless she's drunk or something.

Then the thought of Serena doing anything as unbecoming as curling up on the bathroom floor with fingers down her throat because the toothbrush doesn't work like it does in the movies is so utterly ludicrous. Serena doesn't need to, does she?

Only Blair needed to do this.

She needs it.

She hits seventy nine and she faints in class.

Everyone watching kind of enjoys it; at least that's what she guesses.

The children of the Upper East Side are positively nourished on scandal from birth.

She awakes in the hospital and it's no Sleeping Beauty moment, because she's not a beauty, hasn't been in a very long time, might never have been or will be no matter how hard she tries (and she tries, so, so hard) and there's a tube in her mouth and a bunch of needles in her arms and her mother isn't even there.

Serena is though.

It's too quiet and dark and she thinks her best friend shouldn't be here because clearly visiting hours are over, but it's Serena and she's here and maybe she could tell Blair what her rules were because she couldn't for the life of her remember but it had seemed so important.

"Oh my god, B. I knew something was wrong."

And Serena's curled up beside her and there's plenty of room left in the bed anyway and she runs her fingers though her best friends hair and kind of enjoys the moment while it lasts.

She figures she deserves it after all this time.