Prologue of Dear Life, I Hate Chuck Bass

Author: Isabelle

Rating: PG-13

Summary: After 2.05. When Blair wakes, the last thing she can remember is falling asleep the night Serena came back to New York. But apparently it's 18 months later. She's no longer Nate's girlfriend, Serena is remorseful, and Chuck Bass… is in love with her.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gossip Girl.

A/N: Another crazy idea. Care to read?


"We do not remember days; we remember moments."

Cesare Pavese

Memory is like the soul. It's what you've seen, what you are, what you will become. It weaves its patterns over our lives, tasting experiences, creating reactions, forming bonds, and invigorating the senses. The more memories we carry; the more we grow up.

The last memory she had of her best friend, she had belittled her and easily forgotten the many times she had been there for her. Some memories were so easily forgotten behind mists of alcohol-induced good times. So easily forgotten. So easily concealed.

The guilt choked her when she realized she was missing. Guilt, guilt from her conscience whispered its raspy voice over her ear. Telling her. Telling stories, telling her dreams and moments she wished weren't real. They overwhelmed her, and she felt like dying.

She was never the dramatic one, never one to exaggerate, but in the moments like these that she couldn't control—she sensed a shaking that emanated from her body all the way to her hands.

Her feet, noisily under her, told the inhabitants that she was there. Warned them.

When she made it to the door, she didn't bother to knock, like in the times past were knocking would've been a priority – well, those were memories. Because they were, indeed, in the past.

The figures in the room were like ghostly hallows in the night – like shapeless souls.

The one by the door turned to her and let out a breath of relief, but her eyes were trained on the one by the bed. On the bed. Bent over until his forehead touched linen-clad knees.

The sorrow was so great that it had bent the body into a shapeless figure of the night. Buried there amongst its guilt.

"They found her."

No sooner had the words left her mouth that the bent figure unfolded itself and stared at her.

In the dark she could see the reddish tint of his eyes and the guilt – the powerful emotions – that took over his eyes.

"Is she…?" He whispered to her – his night angel bearing news.

"She's been in an accident. She's alive." Her own voice was acid and gum. Burning, burning, in the night – soft and tender, light and bright.

The other figure let out a second breath of relief.

"Lets go," she said to them, and they nodded – not needing another prompt, not needing another word.

The three guardians left then, their once abandoned sacred mission—the protection of one other—now remembered. Now revived.


They say that the loss of memory is like loss of the soul. The body lingers, the eyes blink, the mouth smiles – but the soul is gone. The person has floated away.

But she had floated nowhere. She knew who she was, she knew she was tired. She knew many things.

No. To lose one's memory is simply to experience loneliness for the very first time.

Burning, freezing, loneliness that consumes and destroys. Makes you shiver, makes you sick with the desire to, if for just one minute, remember.

The first memory she had of her time awake was of a face.

"Blair," he said to her.

She nodded. She nodded in her haze. That was her name.

But she was so tired. So… alone.

But saw his eyes. She knew those eyes.

"Blair," he said again.

She wanted to reply. She wanted to do much more than blink and stare, but her lips felt heavy and she decided to sleep. Before her mind drifted she thought she heard an angel crying. A soft, painful cry – almost inaudible to human ears. A precious grief. Private, hidden, and just for her.

And then… And then he was gone.

And she was alone once more.

All alone. The loneliness consumed her and she wished once more that she could remember, because if she could remember then she would understand why he was the one crying by her bed.

She told herself that it was a bad memory. The type formed in dreams.


Part 1