Title: but all is lost if it's never heard
Characters: Blair, Blair/Chuck.
Rating/Word Count: PG / 610.
Summary: Because she's forgotten how not to be destructive.
She slits her wrists on a Wednesday evening.
Chuck still isn't home and hasn't bothered to call.
So she figures now is the perfect time.
(No one to see the tears.)
She wakes up two mornings later.
Her body is sore, the hospital bed scratches, her skin is as white as the sheets beneath her.
Serena's asleep on a chair next to her bed.
He is nowhere to be seen.
(Her heart aches the most.)
She does not cry.
Serena is sobbing on her shoulder, asking her too many questions.
What happened, B? Are you okay? Why did you do this?
(I'm so tired. Of course I'm not okay. There was nothing better to do.)
Chuck appears later, all rumpled clothing and red, dark eyes.
She sees the shadows on his face.
He looks utterly and completely devastated.
(This almost makes it all worth it.)
People come in and out the next few days.
Her parents, her friends, doctors, nurses – but he always comes at night.
When he's not supposed to.
He's gone when she wakes in the morning.
(She does not care.)
"I've managed to keep this out of the press."
She scoffs.
"I'm glad you have your priorities in order."
(He doesn't really care, either.)
The hospital releases her by the end of the week.
She goes home on a Sunday, the day of rest; but all she wants is to run away.
Chuck doesn't say anything, just looks on with an emotion she can't place.
(She has nothing to say to him anyway.)
"Why'd you do it?"
His fingers trace across the scars, his caresses too soft.
She stares at the ceiling, her head against the fluffed pillows.
She pulls away before he can.
(You know why.)
He's there in the morning.
He's never home this late in the day.
She can't tell if she prefers it when he's gone or not anymore.
(Maybe both, maybe neither.)
Every time he looks at her his eyes are filled with too much pity.
She wants to scream at him and place the blame on his shoulders.
(That's where it rightfully belongs.)
"You're going to have to talk to me at some point," he tells her over dinner.
"I don't see you making an effort. Although, you never do."
His eyes flash with anger as he leaves the table.
She feels victorious, sips her drink.
(But she is empty inside.)
"I'm not going."
She is adamant, will not let him win.
"That's not your decision."
His words are harsh, furious.
(If only it was out of concern.)
His eyes shoot daggers (pleas) at her.
She doesn't respond, doesn't acknowledge.
How did they get like this?
(They've always been this way.)
She does not need a psychiatrist, but he doesn't believe her.
"You tried to kill yourself, Blair. Of course you do."
(He stopped understanding her so long ago.)
She goes to one session, but never goes back.
She doesn't need someone to tell her why she did what she did.
(She knows too well.)
"Jesus, Blair. I'm trying to help you."
"Is that what you're calling it?"
(It's easier to hate him than love him nowadays.)
It's his fault.
He's the reason she does this (did that).
But he asks her again, asks her every night without an answer:
Why'd you do it?
(You know why, so stop asking.)
He catches her purging once.
He grips her wrists and pulls her up from the floor, shakes her without menace.
His eyes are black and raw and sad.
(She almost feels bad.)
"Why are you doing this? Why can't you stop?"
(Because I've forgotten how not to be destructive.)
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