Burned Bridges Prologue

A/N: In this story, the Taylors are still living in Detroit. The way I'm going to write it, the entire eighth season will pretty much never have happened except for a detail here and a detail there.

Also, be sure to watch out for some adult themes in most chapters. This is going to serve as the warning for the entire story.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor

The name on the door reads "Jill Taylor M.D.". After working for several years (since the mid nineteen nineties), she finally earned her degree in psychiatry and opened up a practice in this building with three other doctors. This occurred in 2004.

Near closing time (almost 5:00) on the evening of September 9th, 2006, a man comes stumbling into the building.

The man appears young, around 25 maybe. He is dressed in a black sleeveless t-shirt and black jeans. Both of which are full of holes. His hair is dyed bright pink, although there is a noticeable amount of light brown seeping through at the bottom, towards the roots of his hair. His fingernails are longer than most men's are, and they are painted a metallic purple color. All in all, your typical gothic punk that hangs around the allies where the whores and slum work and live. Not the type of character seen in an upscale Detroit psychiatrist's office.

When the receptionist in the lobby on the main floor sees him enter, she opens her mouth as if to ask what the man is doing here, and then closes it when the man tosses her an evil look.

He stumbles/storms his way up the stairs, rather than have to risk socializing with anyone that might consider him to be in their terms "a fag" or "a goth punk" or "an embarrassment/menace to society". Not that any one of them would have the balls to actually call him these names to his face, but still, like the saying goes, it's the thought that counts.

He finally arrives to his destination, which takes a considerable amount of time in his stoned and drunken haze of confusion.

The man opens up the door, and walks into the lobby. No one else is around, which is a good sign for the man. That means there will be no one to gawk and stare at him, as if he's some sideshow freak shaped from the same type of mold as Charles Manson.

He approaches the secretary, a middle aged woman in her fifties, who nearly suffers a coronary when she looks up at the man.

'I'm here to see Dr. Taylor' the man says, speaking for the first time.

'Did you have an appointment?' inquires the secretary.

'No, I just need to see her right now' replies the man, raising his voice now and making threatening gestures at the secretary.

'A-al-alright then, let me let her know that you're here' the secretary says, the fear obvious in her shaky voice.

Jill Taylor's POV

Done with the last patient of the day. Thank God for that. I still have to be here for another 10 minutes, until everyone is officially closed, but oh well. I could use the time to rest, and to try to regain what little bit of sanity I have left. I never thought it would be like this after Brad and Mark moved out. I don't have anyone to talk to except Wilson anymore. It seems like all Tim ever does is mess with his damn hotrod. If he isn't working on it, then he's working on our other cars, or doing something, anything to avoid being around me.

Then I hear Jeanne's voice on the little intercom system all of the psychiatrists here have.

'Dr. Taylor, there is someone here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but says he absolutely must see you at once' Jeanne informs me.

I let out a long sigh. Oh well, I have nothing better to do in my ten spare minutes anyway.

'Send him in' I finally say, with another long sigh trailing at the end of my sentence.

And in walks a young man of no more than 25. I am admittedly shocked at his appearance, even though I have seen many people who could be categorized as "weird" over the past few years.

'Come in' I invite, after a few seconds. He obliges my request, and sits on the chair across from me.

'So, why exactly are you here?' I ask after a couple of minutes of glaring silence.

'I want your help. I was wrong 6 years ago' the man says. When I hear the voice, I get shivers up and down my spine to the point where I actually begin trembling. The voice is a scintilla deeper than it was, and sounds more hoarse, as if he doesn't talk very much, but there's no mistaking it. This is Randy. My Randy. Our Randy.

'Oh my God…Randy! What has happened to you?' I ask, still in total shock.

'I'd rather not say. Like I said, 6 years ago I made some very serious mistakes, and I know I burned some bridges then. If you don't want to help me, then I understand' Randy says.

'I'm not happy with what you did back then Randy, but there is no possible way I could live with my self if I told you that we won't help you. You can come home with me, I'm off work in a few minutes' I reply.

'That's not all I need help with. I want to go straight. I want to get into some kind of detox program, I want to get off alcohol, and I just want everything to go back to how it was before the…incident happened' says Randy.

'Whatever we can do Randy, whatever we can do to help, we will do. God, I've just missed you so much! I just want you to come back home. You don't know how many nights I've spent wondering and worrying about you, just wishing you'd come back' I say, realizing for the first time that I'm crying.

I notice Randy is crying as well.

'Come on, we can go home now' I say after a minute or so.

'Yes, let's go home' Randy nods in agreement.

I walk out of that office feeling the best I have felt in 6 years. 6 damn years.

A/N: I know the plot may seem a little weird, but it will all make sense eventually.

Just for anyone who is wondering, the title of this story is the title of a song by Eric Stuart Band.

Anyways, I hope this is good. My one biggest fear is that I'll lose my ability to write a quality fan fiction (or run out of good ideas).

Please read and review, I'm anxious to find out what everyone thinks about this.

Thank you for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor