A/N: Most disturbing fic I've ever written. It ends somewhat happily, if you could say that. I...well, there's some kind of analogy in here. But it's extremely dark, be forewarned. It may induce tears, so I've heard.

Thank you Abby for the feedback (: Check out her story Brightness in the Shades of Gray.

Clocks Reset

The soft touch of Chuck Bass' coarse hands makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. Her eyes roll back into her head; his touch is so addictive, so tantalizing. His tongue snakes its way into her ear, and she hears his husky voice mutter delicious nothings. It's orgasmic, it's beyond a level of a sexiness she can handle, it's…

Just a dream.

It's been haunting her for months now. Every way she turns, his face seems to be there, looming over her like someone kind of guardian angel. Or, in his case, a guardian devil. It's been exactly five months, sixteen days, three hours and as of right this minute, twenty-five minutes. She doesn't even deny the fact that she has been counting the minutes he's been gone; she glances at the clock so often it becomes involuntarily, just like breathing. Maybe she's going crazy, psychotic, even. Her friends and parents certainly think so. Even her psychiatrist thinks so; he's even told her, not so much in words, that there's no cure for her. Normally she would fight back. However, when she wakes up every morning, coughing, panting, gasping for breath, she knows that he's probably right. There is only one cure, and he's been dead for five months, sixteen days, three hours, and twenty-seven minutes.

…

His smoldering, smoky eyes are boring a hole into her soul. His thick eyelashes blink rapidly, pulling her frail body towards him, enveloping her in a bone-crushing hug. His lips find hers and press against them; once, twice, three times. He kisses her harder, slipping his tongue in, guiding hers with his. She can't think; it's as if all thoughts have escaped her mind.

"I love you."

As the harshly bright sunlight hits her, she's keeled over into fetal position. It's these "I love you" dreams that are ripping her apart, piece by piece, disemboweling her heart into several shattered pieces. When he was alive, he never once told her that he loved her. Sometimes, she wishes she could live in her dreams. Her dreams, her fantasy-filled world, her silent escape from the painful reality that lay outside her sleep. Sometimes she becomes full of guilt, thinking of what could've been. No matter how guilty, how culpable she feels for dismissing the outside world, nothing hits her hard enough to remove her from the security of her own bed. The sound of ticking floods her brain, urging her to look at the clock; each tick sounds like a bullet. Tick. Tick. Tick. Five months, seventeen days, four hours, and thirty minutes.

…

"Fuck me," she hears herself moan hysterically, wrapping her legs around his waist.

And he does. He fucks her hard, he makes her scream and plead his name like no one else can. He makes her arch up to him, thrashing at the feeling of him inside of her. There's no tenderness, no softness, and that's just the way she likes it.

Rode hard and put away wet.

God, maybe she should stop drinking alcohol. Scotch, to be specific. She hopes that drinking scotch, glass after glass, will drown her horrifying dreams into a pool of alcohol. She has the opposite reaction as the scotch seems to up the quality of her fantasies. Every kiss, every touch seems so real, so genuine. Then she wakes up knowing that she's a wreck. A screwed, fucked, ruined mess of a person, and she would never wish this state on anyone, not even her worst enemy. She sighs a little, settling back into the depths of sleep, but not before she allows her eyes to flicker to the clock on the wall. Five months, twenty days, six hours, and eleven minutes.

…

"I'm Chuck Bass," the cloaked man hisses from underneath a hat.

"I know who you are," she cries at him as he escapes into the elevator.

Her mind swirls a little. There was something off about him… his hands. That was it. His hands were made of nothing but bouquets of pink peonies. She watches in delighted horror as he attempts to press the elevator buttons; his eyes are crazed, his mouth is set in a grim line as he continuously stabs the numbers. The bouquet of peonies falls out of his sleeve, onto the floor, with a glorious crash.

The crashing doesn't stop anymore. It never stops. The pounding of the flowers hitting the elevator floor, petals splaying into a defeated puddle, ring in her ears. She stands up from the thick comforter that she has been dormant in for what seems like eternity. Analyzing herself in the mirror, she is oddly satisfied. Her hair is a disaster, her cheeks and body are nothing but an emaciated wreck, her skin seems sallow, but the one thing that draws her attention is her eyes. They're a little crazed, psychotic, dangerous, even. The clock in the mirror forces her concentration away from herself. It has stopped. The clock's ticking hands have ceased. She pulls the clock from the hook on the wall and stares at it, willing it to start up again, willing it to give her a clue that he's still out there waiting for her. When it doesn't start, she throws it across the room. Seven months, she'll have to estimate.

…

"Come with me, Blair," he's kneading the skin on her neck.

Her eyes shoot open. He's still here. She's awake, she can swear on it. But, there is he is, a little faint, but nevertheless, standing in front of the doorway with outstretched hands, urging her to grab hold.

"Wait, just let me take my medicine," she hears herself saying to him.

It's a little container, orange, with a white label. Take one pill each day. She turns around to make sure he's still there. He seems to be fading, so she speeds it up. Popping the gray tablet into her mouth and washing it down with a swig of alcohol, she turns around ready to leave. His image seems to have brightened a little. The pills. The pills make him stronger. She eats another. Another. Then, another. Her heart seems to be on fire, erupting from her chest. The world seems to turn into a sea of darkness, but he's still there. Chuck Bass is still standing in front of her, begging her to join him. With one last gasp of breath, she's there. She's in Chuck's arms. The clock starts working again, resetting itself.

Zero months, zero days, zero hours, zero minutes.

fin.