Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

July 17th, 2020.

That's the day I turned seven.

July 19th, 2020.

That's the day my mother died.

It's not hard to imagine why I must be the only person on earth that hates my birthday. Fuck, was it really ten years ago? She'd be turning forty this year. She was only a few months shy of thirty when she died.

They said she was too young to die.

Too young for my father to be a widower.

Too young for a boy to be without a mother.

That year was a blur. I used to not be able to remember that entire year at all. My entire memory just gone. There were gaping holes where my mother should've been. The seven psychologists I saw in the months and years following her death all agreed that it was the result of repressed memories. Things too horrifying, too traumatic for my brain to remember. Instead, those memories were tucked away in my subconscious.

Most of my memories have come back since then, usually triggered by a related event. Others have come back suddenly and brought along a whole new rush of emotions, enough to make my head spin. Some memories have even come back in my dreams. I would wake up, sweating and breathing heavily, not knowing whether or not what I had just dreamed actually ever happened or if my mind had just made them up. But there are a few that refuse to resurface. My current shrink, the only one I've had in the past four years, Doctor Hughes, encourages me to remain optimistic. He advises me to be patient because one day, I'll remember. He says that the brain has mysterious ways of working and eventually, time will heal all wounds. At one point, it won't be to painful to think about the past. Maybe then, he says, I'll be at peace.

My earliest memory of my mother is from when I was four.

It was my Aunt Serena and Dan's wedding. Only close friends and family, and Georgina were invited. I was thrilled because I got to wear a suit with a purple bow tie. I think I picked it out myself that day and I was so goddamn proud of myself for doing so.

"Who's this handsome little boy?" my mother cooed, scooping me up in her arms. She spun me around saying, "You look so handsome, don't you, Henry?"

I shook my head. "I look just like Daddy," I corrected her. At that age, I still strived to be just like my father and that meant dressing well. If loved his bow ties, in particular ones that were purple so that's what I wanted too.

"You are even more handsome than he is," she smiled, smothering me with kisses. We collapsed onto the couch in a fit giggles and then my father came in, presumably to tell me it was time for bed.

I didn't go to bed though because Dorota let me stay up and eat as much ice cream as I wanted. There had been wedding cake earlier in the evening but nothing matched the sweet taste of chocolate ice cream. My parents didn't mind because they were off in their bedroom, having 'alone time.' Looking back, they were totally doing it. They were always doing it, now that I think about it, fucking like rabbits.

A couple years ago, when I was fourteen or so, there was a huge hurricane that swept through the entire tri-state area. Tons of places in Jersey flooded and twelve people or something died in New York City. I was home alone, for some reason. One of the seniors from St. Judes was throwing a party in honor of the hurricane. It was the first party I was invited to as a high schooler and I was going to go but I chickened out at the last minute. It's fine though because I heard the party was totally bogus once the power went out and people couldn't get home.

Coincidentally, my father was travelling as well. Dorota wasn't home either, leaving me to fend for myself against the elements. I tried to calm myself by drinking some vodka for the first time but ended up spitting and sputtering.

The power went out and I decided it was easier to go to bed than look for flashlights. There was something about lying in bed under my duvet with the wind howling and the rain hitting the window that made something go off in my mind. I started to recall a similar time from when I was five.

There wasn't a hurricane but a really bad thunder storm. The sky sounded like it was breaking and every few minutes, it lit up with enormous bolts of lightning. For a five year old experiencing his first thunderstorm, I'm surprised I didn't piss myself. Of course, it was impossible for me to sleep.

The entire sky lit up from the lightning and that's when I lost it. I started crying so loudly that my mother could hear me a floor up. She came running in soon after. I was a mess for a while but once I was calm, reduced to hiccups, she carried me up to her room. We bundled up in the enormous bed with its fluffy down comforter, waiting for the storm to pass.

She held me close, stroking my hair and whispered in my ear, "it's all right, my angel. You're fine. We're fine." I remember the soothing feel of her cool skin against mine. She sang lullabies to me in French until I fell asleep. The next morning, the sky was clear and the sun shone so brightly, it hurt my eyes.

I've spent a portion of almost every summer in southern France, in my grand-père's chateau. I'm only allowed to speak in French when I'm there, even though both he and his partner, Roman can speak English perfectly. No one's ever confirmed my theory, but I'm pretty sure it all started with my mother back when I was three. I'm almost certain she insisted on me practicing my French so that I could grow up 'cultured.' Also, I think it's because my father never mastered French as well as my mother and she enjoyed being able to say things to me he couldn't understand.

Grand-père's chateau has its own vineyard and every year, a couple barrels of wine are produced. Personally, I think the wine they make tastes terrible but just like with any alcohol, if you drink enough, the taste bothers you less and less. Last year was the first time he ever spoke to me about my mother. No one really likes talking about her. It hurts too much to think about her. Still, after a couple glasses of that incredibly shitty wine, I blurted out,

"What was she like?"

He stared down at his glass and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled. "You first visited us when you were three. The terrible twos had finally passed and your parents decided it was time for you to see Europe. You were a little demon back then, running around everywhere. The first time we went out into the vineyard, you managed to break free and run away. We chased after you but you disappeared so quickly. Blair threw a fit, she was so mad."

I loved hearing my mother's name being spoken.

"Your poor father, I thought he was going to have a heart attack. You emerged about half an hour later, your mouth stained with purple and fists full of grapes." Harold took a minute to laugh madly and he wheezed a few times before continuing, "we were shocked to see that you had eaten so many of the wine grapes- thick skin, seeds, and all. Blair made us take you to the hospital to make sure you were okay." My grandfather got really sad after that and he drank more wine, not saying anything, before getting up and heading inside.

I sat there, repeating every word he had just said to me in my head in French, then English. I didn't realize that he never answered my question.

When I was twelve, I went to my second ever funeral. I can't remember exactly whose it was but I'm guessing it was one of the older executives on the Board at Bass Industries. It was an open casket funeral and I remember staring down at a dead body for the first time. The man was old, his face creased and scattered with sunspots. He was fat, too, with multiple flabby chins and a big belly. Despite his sagging features, his face was waxy and stone-like, thanks to the mortician. There was a certain look of serenity to the man.

By that age, I had learned the true nature of death as an irreversible and inevitable part of life but this was the second person I knew that had died. I felt stupid thinking, "ah, yes, this person is dead. He will never come back." It was obvious, I know, but I never managed to attach that feeling of finality to my mother's death. There was always a part of me that wanted to believe that she was 'away on a trip,' like my family had described to me.

The funeral was held in one of those very large and traditional looking churches. After living a life of debauchery, this old dead man found his final resting place at a Catholic cemetery. I think I was the only one who thought this was all very ironic but I didn't say anything. No one had ever taught me how to behave at a funeral so I did what everyone else was doing, wear black and look solemn.

It's not to say I didn't feel any sadness that this guy was dead... it's... I never even knew him and it's hard to miss someone you can't even remember, right?

It was an absurd train of thought going through my mind and I got very sad. Not because of this guy's funeral but my mom's. My heart became heavy from not knowing. Why she died and how she died. Like I said, people didn't like talking to me about her. Everyone assumed I already knew and all my peers were brought up not to ask about dead parents because to do so would be a faux pas.

I began to cry in that stupid church. Big fat tears began to roll down my face. Other people were crying too, but they were mostly family who were sitting all the way in the front. The thought of my mother made me terribly sad and my mind began to flashback to that godforsaken day.

Her funeral.

I liked wearing suits, even from a young age. My father loved them and my mother loved my father in them, so naturally, all I ever wanted to wear was a suit. But not that day. The suit was black and way too thick and itchy for a sweltering hot July day. People whispered whenever they spoke and everyone was extra careful not to speak to me or even look at me.

As soon as the funeral started, the sky clapped with thunder and it began to pour. It was strange because even though August was just around the corner, it was still much too early for summer thunderstorms. Everyone pulled up their umbrellas, all black of course. I watched a cop show this year and there was a funeral outside and it was raining and everyone had black umbrellas. Her funeral was like something out a television show. There was something in me that just knew, innately, that of course my mother's funeral would be dramatic. Like she refused to leave without one last final show.

Anyways, it began to rain and my Aunt Serena pulled me closer, holding me under her umbrella. I raised my hand out though, feeling the cool drops against my fingertips and I looked up. Everyone around me was crying and I leaned over to whisper to Serena, "look, the clouds are crying, too."

Serena began crying and then her husband, Dan, had to calm her down. I found my way to my grandmother, Lily, who was visibly upset, but less so than the others. Blair had been like a second daughter to her, she told me as she held my hand, but we had to be strong for her.

I didn't see my father during the entire funeral, it was strange. Well, I did see him but I was never with him. He stood at the edge of the crowd, almost separated from everyone else. He didn't look at me, though. He didn't look at anyone. I don't remember him speaking, either. People took turns saying wonderful things about her- or at least tried to, before their body was shaking from all the sobs that someone had to take them aside.

My other grandmother, my mom's mom, Eleanor, was in hysterics. Her cries were louder than the rest and the sound of agony in her wails made me feel sad too. I didn't understand much about that day and I spent most of it absorbing the emotions of others. There wasn't a viewing of the body at her funeral, like at the other one.

I wanted to tug at my father's suit and ask him why there was never a chance to see her dead face, looking all peaceful, but I never got the chance. I was crying too damn much. Others looked at me sympathetically, thinking I had lost some mentor or whatever. I missed my mother and that made me cry but I also didn't even know my mother that well and that made me cry as well. I expected my father to hiss in my ear that real men didn't cry because he believed in that macho masculine man stuff, like he does now. But he didn't. He placed his hand on my shoulder.

Later, he pulled me aside. He got down on one knee, both hands on my shoulders and staring me directly in the eye.

"Why were you crying?" he asked even though he probably knew. He wasn't angry or disappointed or anything so I told him.

"I miss her," I sniffled.

He gave me an odd smile. I thought he was smiling because the corners of his mouth went up but his face was twisted in pain. "We all do," he said curtly before pulling me into a hug. He hugged me for a long time and I got embarrassed, being twelve and all. I pushed him away, muttering something about not wanting to look like a baby. He chuckled and ruffled my hair.

Speaking of crying, I have only seen my father cry twice.

He's not particularly skilled at displaying his emotions.

The first time was at my mother's funeral. That memory came back later than the rest of her funeral for some reason.

I was fifteen and he was yelling at me for getting wasted for the first time. I had gone to a party and made the mistake of coming home. I was completely trashed and he was up, waiting for me. I got annoyed at him for being so concerned because none of the other kids seemed to have parents who cared so much as him. Yep, that was his biggest flaw as a father.

Chuck Bass seldom raised his voice. He had a way of keeping the tone and level of his voice completely normal but sounding furious nonetheless. He's pretty lethal in that sense. But he was yelling that day.

"How could you be so stupid, so irresponsible?" he berated me.

For someone who was piss-drunk that night, I can remember everything that happened with incredible lucidity. "Haven't you ever done anything stupid at my age?" I yelled back, my words slurring.

"What on earth possessed you to drink so much?" he continued, ignoring my question. "You're fifteen years old, goddammit."

"Why don't you look me in the fucking eye and tell me that," I shouted at him and for a second, I thought he was going to hit me. It became silent and still for a second so I repeated myself. "Just look me in the eye," I said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

More silence.

"See you can't even fucking do it," I muttered. He looked down at his feet. "Coward," I continued with a scowl. It probably seemed like I wanted to be hit. I don't think I've ever talked back to my father liked that.

He did look up eventually and he stared at me. His dark eyes bore into mine like lasers and I felt uncomfortable as he did. He must've been staring at me for a good ten minutes because in that time, I was able to remember the first time I had ever seen him cry.

It was the end of my mother's funeral and everybody had left already. Finally, after an entire day of not seeing me, he took me in his arms from Lily. We stood there together for a while, staring at my mother's tombstone and the mound of dirt in silence. I kept pulling at his arm, asking him what was wrong. I wanted to go home and do something fun.

The rain was just starting to stop and the sun began to peak out from behind the clouds. I wanted to go, I didn't like the cemetery that much. He fell to his knees though and he just stared at that tombstone.

Blair Waldorf

November 19th 1990 - July 19th 2020.

Her tombstone's pretty plain and there isn't any other inscription or quote under her name. I've always wondered why that was but have never asked.

He didn't cry then, not yet.

He finally got up and we went home. He held my hand so tightly it hurt and it wasn't until after he tucked me into bed that he went to his room that he started crying.

If there's one thing you should about the way the great and mighty Chuck Bass cries is that he doesn't do it a lot. So when he does, it's pretty scary. I remember sneaking out of bed to follow him. I stared through the slightly open door as he collapsed onto his bed. At first, he looked like he was having a heart attack or a seizure. His body kinda just writhed around in the bed and he started breathing heavily. Finally, he started crying small tears that dripped down the sides of his face.

It was so strange seeing him cry that I ran back to my room and dove under the covers.

My father must've realized that I had started staring back at him with a look of pity in my eyes, after remembering that day. For a moment, I felt his pain and I wondered what it must've been like losing the love of your life. The person you loved most in the world gone in an instant.

"What?" he asked, his voice sounding tired and worn out.

I shook my head, not saying anything. I patted him on the arm in a drunk and condescending way before puking all over his shoes.

The other time I ever saw my father cry was on what should have been my mother's 30th birthday.

It was only a few months after her death and it hadn't registered with my brain that she was gone forever.

I wanted to buy her a special gift but I was only seven so my funds were quite limited. The night before her birthday, I asked my father for money at dinner.

"What do you need money for?" he wanted to know naturally. I had asked my parents to buy things loads of times but it was the first time I ever asked for money.

"I want to buy a birthday present for Mommy," I replied and he started choking on his beef bourguignon. The fork dropped from his hand and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Dorota scurried in to pick it up and she gave me a quick glance of disapproval.

"I thought we talked about this Henry," he said, reaching for his glass of water. "Remember Henry? Mommy isn't coming back." His voice cracked and he gulped down more water.

"When's she coming back?" I asked, pushing my food around with my fork. "Can't I send it to her? Uncle Nate said that mommy went to heaven. I can send her something right? Just like grandma sends us stuff from Paris."

"Mister Henry, it's very bad to play with your food," Dorota said, shushing me. "Finish your dinner Mister Henry." I looked up at my father. He had a strange look on his face and his eyes were closed.

I didn't know what to do so I just finished my dinner like Dorota told me to.

The next day, the day of my mother's birthday, I was looking for my dad. He wasn't in his study like he usually was on Sunday afternoons or the living room. Or the kitchen. Or his bedroom. I searched the entire house, from top to bottom, but I couldn't find him. I went back to the master bedroom and that's when I heard him. I followed the sound all the way to my mother's closet, a giant walk in wardrobe.

Nothing had been touched or cleared out since her death and everything was the way she had left it. You couldn't tell that no one had used it in months, unless you noticed that all the couture, shoes, and handbags were all last season. I found him on the floor, using one of her Chanel scarves as a tissue. The dark blue silk was scrunched up in his hands and he had buried his face into the material as his body shook with sobs.

Now back then, I still had no recollection of him crying after the funeral so I thought this was the first time seeing him cry. It scared me and watching him made me cry too. Unlike him though, I broke down much quicker and it wasn't long before I was half-screaming, half-crying. He looked up, his eyes going wide in horror.

"Henry!"

His tears quickly subsided and he was alarmed.

"Henry, what's wrong?"

It took me a long time to calm down after that. "You were crying," I said, rubbing my eyes. They were beginning to sting. My father almost began to start crying again.

I could see his eyes water up but he refused to let the tears fall. He swallowed and pulled me into an embrace. "I'm really sorry, Henry. I'm really sorry." He didn't say anything else after that.

By far the most horrifying repressed memory I ever recalled was when I was nine. I refused to think about it ever again, until I was well into my teens.

I was nine and my Aunt Serena's first child was a few months old. Lily, my father, and I all went over to say hello to the new baby. We had all seen her before but this was the first time I got to hold her. She was too fragile, they told me, and I could only ever touch her tiny little fingers and toes.

It amazed me how small that little baby was.

"Was I ever that small?" I asked no one in particular as I dangled a sock monkey in front of her face. Her small little hands kept reaching for the sock monkey and she almost fell forward a couple times.

"You were even smaller," Lily smiled.

"Where do babies come from?" I then asked and everyone looked at each other a little nervously.

"The stork," Dan offered, probably knowing it was the most commonly told lie to small children. "He's a bird that drops off the baby to a mommy and daddy."

I nodded, satisfied with this answer.

"Do you want to hold her?" Serena asked me. She took baby Cassie in her arms and held her arms out. I looked up at Lily, silently asking for approval. "Go on," Serena coaxed. "It's okay."

I carefully took Cassie in my arms and held her. Serena sat next to me on the floor, making sure I was supporting her head and everything. Cassie has clear blue eyes like Serena and I remember peering at her cute little face and wanting a baby sister just like her. "She's so pretty," I whispered in awe. I looked up, searching for my dad. "Daddy, I want a baby sister."

Everyone went silent.

I said some pretty terrible things back then. I could make an entire room silent with just a few words.

"Michael at school has a baby sister and Jimmy has a big brother so why can't I have one?"

"Sweetie, it isn't that easy," Serena said softly.

"But Uncle Dan just said the stork comes and gives you a baby. Why can't the stork just give us a baby?"

"Henry, that's enough," my father said, his voice stern. I quickly went quiet. I went back to holding baby Cassie, watching her chest rise and fall as started to fall asleep.

My father went outside after that to get some fresh air and Dan knew it was about time for him to go fix some drinks.

"Mommy says I'm her miracle baby," I said nonchalantly as Serena and Lily watched me hold Cassie.

Miracle baby.

I don't know why I suddenly remembered that phrase but a whirl of memories flooded my mind.

I was six and my parents took me out to get ice cream.

"You won't be the only baby around the house anymore," they told me as I licked a chocolate mint cone.

"I'm not a baby," I replied, not picking up on their hint.

"Mommy's going to have another baby!" my mother broke into an enormous grin and she kissed the top of my head. Then she kissed my dad which I thought was totally gross and almost dropped my ice cream. We were a happy family then.

My mother was four months pregnant when she was rushed to the hospital.

Everything happened so fast that they took me to the hospital with them. It was Dorota's night off and they couldn't reach anyone else at four am.

I fell asleep at the hospital, leaning against my father with his coat draped over me. I woke up and Eleanor was there. I asked to see my mother but she told me that Mommy was sick so she had to stay at the hospital a little longer. She took me home and I stayed with her for a few days.

Neither my father nor mother came home for almost a week. I overheard Grandma talking on the phone and the words "refuses to leave her side" were the only ones I managed to hear before Dorota whisked me away. Grandma stayed with me the whole time and gave me periodic updates about my parents. All positive, of course. All lies, of course.

When my parents finally came home, I was ecstatic. My mother went straight to the master bedroom without even saying hi and slammed the door. My father took me out for dinner and when we returned, I could hear things smashing and sobbing.

My father quickly ran up to his room and Dorota took me into the living room to watch a television. Over the sound of cartoons, I could still hear yelling.

There were a few kids a school whose parents were divorced and even at a young age, I felt really lucky to have parents to love each other so much. They made fun of me sometimes, for having parents who made googly-eyes at each other even in public.

"Are Mommy and Daddy getting a divorce?" I asked Dorota.

"Of course not! Where did you get such an idea Mister Henry?"

That night, Dorota came into my room after she tucked me into bed to tell me that my parents wanted to see me. I was still a little scared and hesitant to enter their room.

My mother was in her bed, her hair unruly and her face a mess. There were purple bags under her eyes and she looked far from happy. My father sat in an armchair in the corner, his eyes red and puffy, and not saying anything. My mother jumped down from her bed when she saw me and grabbed me in her arms.

"My beautiful Henry, how I've missed you," she murmured, squeezing me. "I love you so much."

My mother didn't come out of her room for a long time and one day before school, my father came into my room to tell me that we weren't going to have a baby after all. He didn't explain much but he instructed me not to say anything about it to my mother.

The next few weeks were tense, I could feel it and I spent most of my time with my grandmothers. They took turns watching over me and keeping me out of the house. I only saw my mother occasionally and that was usually when I went into her room to tell her goodnight.

One night, she came in to my room and lay with me in my bed. She told me funny stories about her and Daddy when they were younger that I didn't really get or think were very funny at all. But I laughed when she laughed and listened to her every word. The last thing she would say to me right before I closed my eyes was always the same.

"I love you so much Henry, my miracle baby."

I almost dropped baby Cassie. I did drop her. She fell into my lap and woke up from her nap, screaming. Lily let out a shriek as well. Serena quickly picked her up and Lily opened her mouth to yell at me. I got up and ran and hid in the shoe closet for an hour.

Daisy Haverford is the only girl I've ever called a bitch.

Daisy Haverford is also the girl I almost lost my virginity to.

My father taught me to treat women well with respect and love, especially ones I pursued romantically. Daisy was a year older than me, popular and beautiful. She always seemed so kind with her big green eyes and curly light brown hair. When she asked me to go to a party with her, all my friends told me I would surely get laid. She was seventeen, a junior, and I was sixteen, a mere sophomore.

As soon as we got to the party, she ditched me and I spent the rest of the night looking for her. When I found her, she was extremely drunk and horny. We went into someone's bedroom and she pounced on me, wanting to sleep with me. I was nervous and intimidated and I told her very kindly that I didn't think it was such a good idea for us to do it in some stranger's bed.

Daisy Haverford got very mad when I told her this.

"Is it because you think I'm ugly?" she screamed at me. "Because you think you're too good for me just because your a Bass?"

I tried explaining to her that none of those things had anything to do with it but she refused to listen.

"I know you think you're better than the rest of us. We can all tell when you walk through the school with your stupid little friends and smug attitude. Everyone thinks you're a douche, did you know that? You think you're so great and that no one can touch you but really, we all just pity you. You're the pathetic boy who never got over the fact that his mother killed herself."

I winced when she said those words. I wasn't an idiot. I knew my mother had been way to young to die of natural causes so I always thought it was either a long term illness or suicide. I knew it wasn't cancer or anything so that just left suicide. I wanted to talk to my father about it but at the last second, I never could. I had searched online a couple times too but never did any of the sites explicitly say the word suicide. They called her death a tragedy, a terrible accident, a great misfortune but never a suicide. It was an ugly word and taboo.

"Shut up," I told her. "Stop."

"Why should I?" she cackled. "All the teachers know you've had a dozen shrinks since you were little. That's why they don't say anything to you when you act out at school. Sure your dad's made enough donations to keep you from getting expelled but really, the school is afraid you'll go psycho. They would hate for you to be a crazy, just like your mom. Listen up Henry Bass, your mom died nine fucking years ago, get over yourself."

"Shut the fuck up," I yelled. "You're the psycho, you bitch."

I ran out of there, pushing her aside in the process.

She took a picture of me smoking pot in school uniform and handed it into the school administration. There was no way to prove it was a blunt and not a cigarette but they'd been wanting to punish me for a while. They suspended me for a week.

My father didn't ask me very many questions about why I got suspended or why I hated Daisy Haverford so much but I finally mustered the courage to ask him about my mother.

"She said some things about my mother," I said, looking out the limo window. "Terrible things..."

"Like?"

"How she killed herself and stuff."

He didn't reply but he came into my room later and gave me a file.

"It's your mother's certificate of death and autopsy report," he explained.

I shoved it back at him. "I don't need to be reminded she's dead. Thanks, though."

"Henry, I should say that I'm sorry. I haven't been very open about your mother because it's still difficult to think about."

"It's been difficult for you? How do you think it's been for me? Growing up with a mother? Having to hear from some drunk girl that she killed herself? Yeah, I figured out she killed herself but not knowing why? Never being told why? She died two days after my goddamn birthday. Don't you think I've ever wondered why she died when she did? Do you know much time I spent thinking it was my fault? Thanks a lot because it's been really fucking swell. A party, in fact."

"Henry, just read this, please."

He got up and left, leaving me with the file. As soon as he left, I read everything inside several times.

A lot of it I already knew, like the date of her death and so on. The autopsy confirmed my mother's death had been a suicide. No alcohol her drugs in her system at the time of death. There were new details like the cause of death- blunt force head trauma. The certificate of death had a very short description explaining the real cause.

Died upon impact after jumping into ocean, death ruled a suicide.

My mouth became very dry after reading that. So she died after she jumped into the ocean. At that moment, I knew exactly where she jumped from. Keller's Peak in the Hamptons. It's a cliff and below are tons of jagged rocks. That part of the beach is notorious for sucking up surf boards in rip tides and smashing them against the rocks, breaking them into pieces. The swell is great but even surfers know to steer clear of the area. Keller's Peak is right near our home in East Hampton.

So, she jumped from Keller's Peak and died instantaneously as her head hit the rocks.

I had nightmares for weeks after that of her body lying in the ocean, blood gushing from her head.

The nightmares finally stopped when I discovered sex, after losing my virginity to a girl in my grade and eventual girlfriend of two months, Sofia.

My seventeenth birthday is not turning out as well as I planned.

I've just returned now from the Ostroff center where I had a three hour session with Doctor Hughes. We had a very long discussion and unnecessary discussion about the past, talking about things we really didn't need to.

"We have to talk about these things, Henry. They're obviously still causing you a lot of pain and they'll always be like this unless you talk about them," he insisted.

I finally got sick of him psychoanalyzing me and he reluctantly let me go. He believes I'm stable for the most part but my reckless habits keep him on edge.

There's an obligatory family dinner tonight. I'm not a big believer in birthday parties or celebrating my birthday in general. It feels strange celebrating and having fun when I know a few days later, it will be time to go to the cemetery and remember my mother's death.

I think my dad's finally going to cave in and get me a car, like I've been asking for the past six months. He doesn't see the point in driving, not when I can be chauffeured around everywhere.

I didn't get a car like I thought I would.

My father didn't get me anything at all. We went to dinner, ate cake, drank wine but I don't think he likes celebrating my birthday very much either. I don't blame him. It's just another reminder of his dead wife. I'm just another reminder of his dead wife. He's improved over the years, I'll admit that.

He can look me in the eyes now. He still sees her, since I've been told I have the same shape and color as her, but I think he sees a bit of him in them now. I have her delicate features- high cheekbones and perfectly aristocratic nose- but his jawline. It's a funny combination in my opinion. My father will sometimes tell me offhand that I look so much like her. If he's had a drink or two, he might even call me beautiful, just like her.

Not many guys enjoy being called beautiful, much less by their father but I let it slide. It makes me feel connected to her in a way, y'know?

We trek to her tombstone and I realize it's the first time going in a few years. For a guy who claims to have only ever loved one woman in his life, Chuck is sure good at pretending she never existed. We never have a big formal gathering and I think people just come and visit her on their own, throughout the day or whenever.

There are lots of flowers there already, including an enormous bouquet of peonies.

"Peonies. They're her favorite, aren't they?" I ask.

"That and hydrangeas," he replies. "There's always flowers here, I make sure of it. New flowers, everyday. Don't think I've forgotten about her."

I let out a low whistle. "That's three thousand three hundred and sixty five bouquets." I want to shout at him that he's fucking insane. There must be an easier way to show his devotion to her. I don't know, maybe erect a statue of her? Get a portrait commissioned? I thought the decade of chastity would be good enough.

"Don't give me that look," he shoots back, seeing the look on my face as I calculate how much he's spent. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.

It may be a small sum for a billionaire but still.

I don't know why he's so talkative today. I sniff the air quickly to check if maybe he's high. He might've been snooping around my room and found my stash of weed.

"She loved you so much," he says. "She loved all of us."

"You too?" I joke. I wonder if it's in bad taste to joke at a cemetery.

"Even when I didn't deserve it." He smiles. I'm envious of him. He had years with her and probably countless memories both good and bad. He knew her and I didn't. "She never gave up on me. She told me once she hoped not giving up on people wouldn't lead to her downfall."

"So what happened? It seems to me she gave up," I gesture at the tombstone in front of us. There's a bitter taste in my mouth and I stand there, waiting for an answer. My hands ball up into fists and my knuckles go white. The feeling isn't new but it's never been like this when we remember the day she died. "She gave up on us and when we needed her the most, she bailed."

"She never gave up on us. She gave up on herself."

The rest of the evening is quiet and I begin to pack for France. Usually Harold comes to America to visit the grave and we all go to France together- my father, my grandparents, and I- in one of the jets. This year's different though. Harold hasn't visited and I'm flying on my own to France because neither my grandmother nor dad have any business in Europe this time.

"Henry, I have something for you."

I follow my father down the stairs, getting excited. It's a car, I can feel it in my gut, it's a car. Instead of taking me out front though, he takes me to the living room.

There's a huge wooden trunk in there and it's way too small to be holding a car. Unless, all that's inside is a small key.

"Go on," he says, "open it."

I feel like a little kid at Christmas. I open it and all I see is blue. Lots and lots of Tiffany blue. The trunk is neatly filled with journals, all the same one from Tiffany's. A part of me deflates inside.

"What's this?"

He tosses me a key.

I catch it in my hand. It's small and silver.

"Those are your mother's diaries. All forty of them. She's been writing in them since grade school, probably fourth or fifth grade."

"Have you ever read them?"

"No," he pauses. "Well, parts of them, yes but not by choice." He sees the confused look on my face. "You should probably ask Serena about that," he smirks. It's been a while since I've seen him smirk. "She wrote in them until the day she died. Even when she refused to talk to me or Serena, she wrote in them."

"Wait, you've had these for all these years and it never dawned upon you once to see what the hell she was writing? Aren't you curious why she jumped off a fucking cliff?" My mind is making too many generalizations. "What if you could've prevented it all? What if all it took was opening it and seeing, 'I'm going to kill myself' written on the pages?"

My voice is harsh and dad hangs his head low.

"I wanted to respect her privacy. It killed me when she'd rather write in a book than talk to me. I felt like she couldn't trust me and it made me go insane. I could read them now but what good will it do?"

"I don't know, bring some closure maybe? Don't you want to know what happened?" Then it hits me. My father knows why my mother jumped, doesn't he? He's just refusing to disclose that knowledge with me. He's found closure and peace of mind while I've been having night terrors for the past ten years.

He shrugs. "That's why I'm giving them to you now. Read them, don't read them. It's up to you." He hands me more papers. "It won't explain everything but like you said, maybe it will bring some closure. She left these for us, right before she jumped."

I take the papers from him and study his face. "You don't know why she did it, do you?"

He shakes his head.

"But you have a pretty good idea why she did, right?"

He nods. "She was very complex, Henry. If I could've done anything to prevent her death, I would have done it in a heartbeat. One can't help but wonder if they could've done something to save her, see the warning signs. But ultimately, she rejected our help. She didn't want to be saved." I can tell Chuck is choosing his words carefully. He doesn't have anything else to say and he starts to walk out of the room. He peeps his head back in a few seconds after he's gone. "If you want to know about your mother, you should speak to Dan."

"Dan? Don't you hate him?"

I was expecting him to say anyone's name but him. They were cordial but it didn't take an idiot to tell they didn't like each other. Wouldn't it just be easier for my father to tell me about my mother himself?

I shove the key in my pocket and open the letters with shaky hands. The writing is in perfect cursive and I trace the words with my fingers.

Chuck,

He's our son. He's your son. Don't forget Bart.

I love you with all my heart,

Blair

Some of the words are smudged. I'm able to pinpoint the exact locations where my father's tears fell reading this letter. Or perhaps they're my mother's, from when she wrote it.

The second letter is in an envelope with my name scrawled across the front. It's never been opened, I can tell. I tear it open.

Henry,

I'm so sorry. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me. You are my miracle and I love you.

You're just as much a Waldorf as you are a Bass, never forget that.

Mommy

I don't feel very well holding my mother's suicide notes. I place them on top of the journals. I could read them. I think of what Doctor Hughes would tell me to do. Probably something about me having to decide for myself. They might bring me closure. But then again, they might not.

-end-

A/N: Well, this turned out to be a *little longer than I expected. I probably should be grateful for the happy ending we got on the show and I feel like there'll be people who hate me for butchering it. It was quite fun writing in the mindset of Henry Bass, although I feel I didn't quite develop his character as much as I could have. Sorry for leaving Blair's suicide rather vague. It probably seems really unrealistic but in my mind, I have a little backstory to what happened. Apologies also if the distinction between memories weren't clear. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

x

bakemeacake

PS. I stole the title from Fall Out Boy (yes, it's Fall Out Boy and a total cliché but then again, so am I.)