Goes AU post-2.18; there is no Carter.
Drabble-esque
After months upon months of writer's block (a bad bout of no inspiration, I suppose), I managed to write this.
I honestly don't know where this came from, and, most likely, it's terrible, but please do review.
Complication (n.)
difficulty, problem; in literature, a phase of a work of art that follows the exposition (rising action), and eventually leads to a confrontation between protagonist and antagonist.
If there's complications, pull the plug out, pull the plug out..
"The Dark Side of Indoor Track Meets"
Falling Up
Prologue
Blair Cornelia Waldorf was done. She was absolutely finished. Everything had escaped her forceful, controlling fingers. Her life's work, as it turned out, had been for absolutely nothing.
Letter in hand, Blair carefully walked into the residential kitchen, mustering as much pride as she could in such a dejected state, and grabbed a fork and a large pecan pie-- her secret poison and savior; she'd decided to actually do something useful and productive with aforementioned fingers.
She had dismissed Dorota and the housekeeping staff the week before, for she felt that she didn't even deserve to be cared for, not as the failure that she was. It was entirely better that way, though, for Blair could, ideally, do anything in their absence and, more importantly, she wouldn't be judged.
In contradiction to the horrendous nature of her life as of recent, the pie was absolute joy-- she wolfed it down in a matter of three minutes.
Soon following, in a rush of brown and green terry cloth, Blair ran to her own gleaming bathroom. In a rush, she placed the letter atop of her vanity, careful not to allow the disgusting, albeit sacred, piece of paper come in contact with her bile.
She heaved the entirety of her stomach into the cool, white porcelain. Tears welled in her eyes and her vision blurred, but she continued to wretch into that sacred carrier of her burdens. It was incredible to think that, unlike usually orthodox friends, this bowl had been there for her through thick and thin.
It was humorous for her to think that she had herself just given such a promise, of support and presence, a few months back.
Easier said than done, eh?
Thus the bowl had a certain meaning. It was solid, crafted of hefty porcelain and buffed to the finest white. It was absolutely real and tangible. Unlike Blair's many aspirations, friends, or even goals, the toilet was, and would always remain, there.
She had thought that this phase of reliability on the porcelain character had ceased quite a while ago, but she was pleasantly surprised that the bowl hadn't lost its magic touch. She continued to empty the remnants of the pumpkin pie, perhaps even more, she thought to herself bitterly, until dry coughs replaced wet heaves.
Once finished, she washed her hands of her deeds, not bothering to wipe her stained eyes, and settled on the cold, white tile.
Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her sweat pants, as she hadn't cared to change after she'd woken up, and another, this time involuntary, wave of nausea rolled through her and she crawled to the toilet, though her dry gags indicated the emptiness of her stomach.
The emptiness of her soul, now that everything that had ever been of value to her had just slipped from her fingers.
She didn't even think to look at the new message-- she was too numb. She simply pressed the side button for 'delete' and was placated with the fact that she was absolutely secluded from the rest of the world; her world.
No one needed to, nor would ever, see Blair Waldorf, for 'Blair Cornelia Waldorf', extreme perfectionist, dreamer, and idealist, was dead.
'A lost cause,' she heard him snare.
She had nothing, no one, left.
The broken young woman finally collected herself enough to leave the recluse of her bathroom, now putrid in smell. She quickly grabbed the letter and walked in a daze into the waiting room, her mind willing to reread the thing, to see hope in its iconic 'Yale' crest.
To her eyes, however, the letter remained unchanged.
Miss Waldorf-- We regretfully inform you of your deferral from..
The thick cream paper escaped from her fingers, nails painted black in lieu of her downfall, and hit the cold marble stone.
The effort put into the letter that alerted "Miss Waldorf", a practical stranger now, of her deferral was nearly insulting. The.. proud look of Yale's promising script on such stationary, a normally rejoiced thing, sent shivers down the back of her spine. And, pretty soon, said text completely blurred from her vision as her eyes again rimmed with tears.
It didn't help one bit that the sickness had started a week prior. It also didn't at all save her mood to know that he was out with some prostitute.
Again.
The girl took a seat on one of the chairs in the Waldorf lobby. Her hands steadied her as she finally, quite literally, drooped onto the cherry wood décor.
She was exhausted. She simply wanted to delete this part of the film, to start over again with a fresh 'action!'.
The thought was more easily said than done.
She hadn't had any alcohol, though she suddenly felt faint and had to steady herself against the back of her chair.
Again she contemplated her ruined life: her mother had left her very own daughter, in the midst of one of her darkest moments, to be with her husband, whom she had known for merely 4 months; her friend?, once-lover?, acquaintance? was nowhere to be seen, most likely fucking some blonde whore, although he clearly knew of her state and shame; her supposed best friend was obviously too busy to even check in, perhaps she was even 'on again' with Dan Humphrey, who honestly knew? She was too exhausted to even give a fuck; and she was carrying the baby of a man too hideous and despicable to even describe in words.
The question, however, remained-- how was her life's movie to even continue?
Little did Blair know, however, that the earlier "buzzing" would have revealed itself to be a text message which would have, unbeknownst to her, provided her with the answer she so craved.
-fin?
Rather depressing, no?
haha.
I initially thought that I'd write something fluffy and CB-centric, in celebration of the magnificent season finale, but, as you can see, it didn't exactly turn out that way..
I left it quite ambiguous because there is a (small) chance that I may continue this.
Reviews would help tremendously in me making this decision! (hint, hint)
So, please, please REVIEW!!
I've been freakishly super-critical of my writing, so any review, criticism or no, would seriously make my life.