A/N So, this is the first part of what I plan to make into a three-shot story about Blair's bulimia. This is more of an introduction to the story, nothing actually happens, and you get no character interaction, but there sure will be Chair scenes in the second and thirds parts. For now, enjoy the Blair-centered thing!
Warning: rated M for dealing with mature subjects like eating disorders and suicide
Disclaimer: all the rights go to CW and GG's producers.
PART ONE
DARK
How have I managed to come this far? is the thought pulsing in her head, in her feverish mind and she can't tell if she's sad or happy with the fact.
Blair Waldorf is a professional, that she's sure of, if she's managed to come this far, and nobody could tell. Not her dearest parents. Not Nate, not Dorota, not Serena. Not even Chuck. The last actually upsets her, because as much as she wanted to keep her misery a secret, she longed for somebody to care enough to see. She can't blame them though, she hid too well. (Or vice versa: she hid to make herself believe they didn't notice because they physically couldn't, not because nobody gave a damn).
She knows all the tricks, perhaps she has even invented some. She has known them for too long, she has let them turn into habits.
The first one is the most obvious, no running water in the bathroom. People notice when the tap is turned on, they get worried when she stays in the bathroom for hours, it actually makes them notice and think, because it's a cliché. That, she learns at the age of twelve.
Water is for amateurs. Professionals don't drown the sound, they make something absorb it. That's why she locks herself up in her wardrobe and uses a plastic bag instead of the porcelain bowl: it's way safer. No one would ever wonder why Blair spends ages with her dresses.
The second one is more complicated. Never ever use the two fingers. Saliva and bile spoil your manicure, and that's something the master sees. Plus, you can scratch the back of your throat, and you don't want to see blood coming out of your mouth, it's just too scary. That, she finds out when she's fourteen.
So, the two fingers are for amateurs. Professionals use ipecac. It's safe and simple and nearly guilt-free: you can't really blame yourself for what those chemicals do to your insides.
The third one is even trickier, and she doesn't really like it, but it's true. Don't trust pharmacies. People who work there are nearly doctors, they think before selling you those little blue bottles. At some point, they start suspecting. They try to talk to you, the give you awareness prospects and finally, they refuse to give you what you crave her. But you don't need their concern; you just need your saving grace.
That's why only amateurs go to pharmacies, while professionals call drug dealers. Those are more than happy to oblige and they never ask questions. That, she realizes after her fifteenth birthday.
The last but not least one is to combine methods. Ipecac works, but it sure as hell has side-effects, and you don't want a heart attack in the middle of your guilty pleasure. Because they would find you, and they would see what was wrong for all that time and they would force you to recover, and you don't want to. You just want to keep going. That she has learnt the hard way at fifteen, when they first found out.
Only one medicine is for amateurs, professionals, like Blair at the age of twenty, go from ipecac to laxatives and back. The second option is not as good as the first one, it doesn't bring you nearly as much control as you need and the pills make your tummy hurt, but it still makes food leave your system, and that's what a professional is looking for, after all.
The list in her head could go on and on and on, but it's interrupted by another cramp, this gut-wrecking sharp pain in her stomach that makes Blair writhe and moan and forget all the thoughts except for I'm dying, help me, please. It feels like her insides are burning, like she's swallowed a mouthful of sulphuric acid, like she's been stabbed with a knife in her abdomen at least 99 times.
The horrible pain doesn't go away as she counts in her head and tears finally spill from her eyes, and she's sobbing and shaking and salty water fall on the floor, mixes with blood and bile and vomit that's all around her. Blair knows it's disgusting, lying in a pool of semi-digested food she's thrown up, partly intentionally, partly as a result of this complete breakdown of all her systems.
It seems that years of restricting, binging, taking laxatives and purging have finally paid off, that her insides have finally had enough, because right now, 5 hours after taking a whole pack (20 pills) of Dulcolax that didn't immediately set in and twice the regular dose of ipecac she's so sick she can't even move.
A wave of nausea hits her, but her insides are absolutely empty, and as she dry heaves on the marble floor of her bathroom only several drops of bile and a mouthful of blood come up.
She closes her eyes and tries to breathe normally but she can't, she's come too far. And when the room goes spinning around her she realizes she's not ready to die, she doesn't want to die, not anymore. That's not how Blair Waldorf's life was supposed to end. But it's too late. Her world has already gone dark.
That's the end of part one. Hope you liked it! Leave a review)