Beneath It All

Paradise.

My Kumi Kookoon champagne silk duvet is paradise.

I stretch out serenely, plucking the jeweled opal hair comb from my French twist and chucking it off my bed. If it lands on the curtains, so be it. If the gold scratches the finish on my mahogany bureau, I could hardly care anymore.

I hear a resounding pang, but that's the furthest thing from my mind as I kick my fawn-leather Milano kitten heels onto the carpet and lie back again. I'm listening to the sound of my own breathing and wondering what it would be like to stop.

If my room- my perfect, private recluse- is paradise, what does that make me? Purgatorio, I suppose, as I am in the ultimate purgatory, dangling between the lines of safety and amorality, never choosing… and Chuck is my inferno.

I'm pulling barrettes out one by one now, lost in the trance of my own self-reflection. Loose dark curls fall down around my face as they're released from their constraint. It feels like oxygen after choking, burning water after snow. Something that will hurt me, but that I need more than I know.

You look ravishing. If I were your man, I wouldn't need clues to find you

I have to take off my dress. I can't stand the sight of it. My waist is clenched so tightly I'm certain my lungs are compressed, and the deep rose embroidery at the hem irritates my skin. It's a sudden exasperation; the fitted bodice and long-sleeves cause anger to swell up inside me, anger over Marc Jacobs. Anger over a boy who never keeps his promises. Anger over a mother who pleads childlessness.

Anger at myself.

The dissatisfaction grows until my hands find the front ties and yank them. The ribbons, once a silky pink, fall in shreds in my lap. From my half-seated position on the mattress, I tug will all of my might, but the double-lined fabric is too thick to tear. Alien sounds, growls and whines with sobs erupt together from my lips as rage consumes me, a friend with a mind of her own. Nothing will ever turn out the way I want it- the way I really want it to. I have no control outside of the suffering I inflict on everyone around me.

Not like innocent little Serena van der Woodson. The nice one. The pretty one. The good one.

My finger slashes suddenly against the sharp side zipper. UUHHH! Perfect, just perfect. Raising it to my mouth, I fumble manically with the other hand. I pull at every square inch of the dress that I can grasp until I am released from its restriction. Good riddance. The ruined garment falls limply into a pile at my feet. Broken. Ended. Gone.

I step out and pace barefoot to the opposite end of my room. Toward the other door.

Nothing can stop me now. I know where I'm headed…

RINNNGGGG.

But I won't even spare a glance at my side table. It's my own fault… think of the devil and the devil will call.

The cordless phone continues shrilling as I push open the heavy wooden door of my destination. It's only too typical that I-

There's a rapid click as the ringing stops suddenly.

"Blair."

The desperation in his voice is unmistakable.

"You left before I even had a chance to show you what I meant…"

Voicemail. Panic washes over me and I rush toward the flashing monitor. His voice drops lower.

"...when I said that I lo-"