A/N: It's my birthday tomorrow, and I just can't seem to bring that happiness into fanfiction. Somehow, I can't help but to write total angst, and it sucks, too. Sorry that this piece isn't very...hmm...it doesn't really make sense. I understand it, but I'm pretty sure no one else will. It's chaotic, let's just put it that way. Actually, half of this was written earlier this year, while the other half was written last night.
--When he tries to remember her face, he can't--
Her hair, sure, he can picture. Beautiful, splendid brunette tendrils spilling out onto her shoulders, cascading towards her breasts.
Her body, he remembers in brilliant detail. Petite frame, narrow waist, seemingly long legs, and elegant arms often enveloping in a deserving embrace.
But then there is a gape: her entire face is completely blank.
An empty slate.
A non-exsistent picture.
He sees nothing.
All he knows for sure is that he loved her.
He doesn't know love; what is emotion in the grand scheme of life anyway?
He does know, however, that he would have done anything for her: whether it be as dramatic throwing himself in front of a speeding bullet or as simple as running her countless errands.
--It's too late, now--
She's gone and he cannot, for the life of him, remember her face. He knows what he should be seeing--brunette hair, amber eyes--but the image isn't there.
It hasn't been long. A year, perhaps, two maximum.
Numerous blondes, redheads, asians, and blacks flock to and from his apartment.
But, never, never are they brunettes. That's too close to home, and he knows well enough not to try it.
When it gets late, late at night, he'll pick up the small pin buried in the drawer of his night stand.
He'll run his fingers over it, instantly soothed by the gold cooling his fiery fingertips.
Then his fingers will slip to the back of the pin, savoring the tiny words engraved in it.
And that's when he knows he's no longer sane.
Because he'll find himself wandering in the graveyard in the midst of the darkness, fumbling his way through the tombstones to hers.
It doesn't matter that there aren't lights--he knows his way there by heart.
He sits in front of her grave; occasionally a tear or two will slip out as he fingers the words etched on the pin, the grave, and his heart.
--He likes to pretend--
His promise to her was to be brave, and he intends on keeping it.
In the morning, he'll find himself sprawled in front of the tombstone, and he'll look around, laugh, then brush himself off, continuing home.
As if the nights events never occurred.
Which in a way, never did. After all, if he doesn't believe it, who is to say they really did?
And he'll return to his monotonous life: it's like an old movie, black-and-white, without sound.
It hurts most, probably, when society members bring her up.
He feels the urge, on most occasions, to stand up and tell them they never knew her, tell them their condolensces are as fake as their nose jobs.
But he never does.
She is a fiery mess. She screams until her lungs run dry. She throws books at him until every piece of furniture is shattered. She stomps her feet until the ground trembles on impact. She grabs his collar and pulls him up to meet her eyes, snarling viciously.
"What happened to making amends?" Chuck pants, shirt tightening around his neck.
"A little difficult when you find your boyfriend and a hooker together," Blair growls, attempting to push him down, with no avail.
"Boyfriend is such a…label," Chuck grimaces at her tiny fingernails digging massive holes into his arm.
"I don't remember you saying that…oh, last week, maybe?" Blair steps back, shouting at a higher decibel.
"Blair, calm down," Chuck tries tucking her hair behind her ears, but she jumps away at his touch as if she has just touched an iron-hot stove.
"You will not tell me to calm down. You have no right to tell me to do anything. Get the fuck away from me. I hate you," Blair says, voice wobbling.
He steps towards her again, but she takes one back, returning them to their original distance. Her mouth is set in a thin line and her eyes dance as they glare cruelly at him.
He steps in again, this time without waiting for her reaction, captures her lips with a tender, gentle kiss. On instinct, Blair reacts, pressing into him, letting her hands intertwine with his silken hair. She jumps back in sudden realization.
"Don't touch me," Blair repeats, eyes now wide with determination rather than anger.
"Come on, I'll make it up to you," Chuck rolls his eyes. He hates their fights because somehow they make him feel like they're an old married couple, arguing over a TV show or grocery list.
"You don't even mean that," Blair answers, turning to leave the house.
"Yes, I do. Please, can we just…talk…or something?" Chuck calls, trying to keep Blair from going.
"If I stay, we'll probably end up doing the 'or something' rather than the talking, so I'm going to go," Blair replies, stalking out the door.
He catches her arm, spinning her back into his warm embrace. He sees her eyes fill with panic and he decides to continue with his charade, "You're not leaving."
"Chuck," Blair moans a little as he presses a hot kiss on her shoulder, "I said…I'm--," she gasps as she feels his hands slip into her shirt, pressing his broad hands against her warm flesh.
"--leaving," she manages to choke out.
"Yet, you're not gone," Chuck smirks, proceeding to trace circles on her neck with his tongue.
"Fine. I'm out of here," Blair's eyes flash with fury, as she steps out of his arms.
A tremble. A shiver. A quaver. Within seconds, the whole world tumbles into utter blackness.
The earthquake begins to get worse; all sources of electricity have been cut off with no access to lights, radio, or television. Blair whimpers quietly from under Chuck's protective body, which he had immediately thrown over her when it had started.
The ground now shakes violently, throwing books, furniture, and glass all over the room. With each shatter, Blair buries her self deeper into the safety of Chuck's arms. Even in the dim light, Chuck can see the fear in Blair's amber eyes.
Crash! A lamp clatters to the ground noisily, making Blair jump ten feet in the air. Chuck pulls her closer, winding his arms around her a little tighter.
"Chuck, I lied," Blair whispers from the depths of his arms.
"What?" Chuck replies, smoothing her hair, calming her.
"I don't really hate you," Blair answers, tears sparkling in the dark.
"I know you don't," Chuck tells her, pressing his smooth lips to her temple.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Blair tries to distract herself, motioning towards the stars dancing in the night sky.
"Yeah, it is," Chuck agrees.
A sudden jolt throws Blair out of Chuck's arms.
"Blair!" Chuck hisses, eyes narrowing to search for her in the unlit room.
He hears a faint squealing and tries to follow the sound. A brilliant shatter interrupts his search--and then all is silent.
He throws himself over her motionless body, voice unable to escape his throat, until he hears her,"Promise me you'll be brave?" And her limp body collapses into a heap.
The stars glitter ever-so-brightly in the New York City night sky.
--He can't escape it--
The ground trembles as he walks on the cracked sidewalks of New York City, heading somewhere in the direction of his home, but wandering a little, reminiscing the glittering stars.
He can't get that feeling out of his head.
The thunderous rumbling.
The crashing of the book case.
The splintering screech of the glass shattering.
The pathetic cry for help.
The empty silence.
She wasn't the only one that perished that day; part of him died with her.
The part that knows laughter.
The part that knows love.
Often he wishes he was the one that died, but then the selfish part of him will take over, and he'll be glad he didn't.
And once he feels that, guilt overrides him, and he no longer knows what to think.
--He promises himself that he'll never think of her ever again--
A sudden flash comes to him--and he sees her.
Her beautiful face: her pouted lips, beautifully luciously red, a dollop of lip gloss in the center, parted slightly in the middle, showing just a sliver of pearly, white teeth.
Her eyes, cat-like, mysterious, curving at the corners, looking as if a secret lay inside. Black, ebony in the center; amber on the edges, flickering, dancing.
Her nose, her perfect ski-jump nose, always turned up in disdain.
Her rosy red cheeks, perpetually flushed; her perfect white skin, smooth and flawless to the touch.
And that's when he realizes:
He'll never be able to keep his promises.