Author's Note: This is my first published fanfic, so please feel free to give me constructive criticism! This story contains themes of abuse, suicide, and cutting, so if you are easily triggered, please don't read. :) It may take a while, but it will be Rory/Jess pairing.
I met his eyes across the diner. His gaze no longer seemed disinterested; in fact, his eyes now looked confused. Jess lowered his order pad, resting his wrists on the counter, looking deeply into my eyes. I looked down at my coffee, smiling and nodding at some joke mom had made. My mind wasn't on our conversation.
"Ror?" she said, sounding concerned. "You okay hon?" She removed her hand from cupping her mug, and rested it on my wrist.
I met her eyes. "Yeah, sorry Mom. I'm just tired and distracted."
"Is Paris bugging you again? Maybe you should be going on this trip to the spa with grandma!" A teasing grin spread across her face, and I chuckled.
"I think it'll be good for you and Grandma. When was the last time you two actually spent time together, outside of Friday night dinners?" I replied. "I've got to get to school, have a good weekend, Mom." I placed a light kiss on her cheek before putting on my backpack.
"Love you, kid. Remember to have fun this weekend, while Mommy is gone!"
I was so thankful Grandma had called mom with those certificates for a spa weekend. Because the spa was a few hours away, Grandma had proposed that they leave Friday afternoon, spend the night some fancy hotel in the area, and go to the spa first thing in the morning. Mom would be gone until Sunday evening. When I got home from Chilton, I would have the house to myself, and I was looking forward to a nice, quiet weekend.
School flew by with minimal hell from Paris. That is, until she discovered she had gotten an A-minus on a test.
"Gilmore, you need to help me study," she insisted. I promised her that I would help her on Sunday if she was still having trouble with the material.
When I got home, I went into my bedroom. I unloaded my books and hung my backpack on a hook on my door. I sighed and sat down at my desk. Opening a notebook, I put a pen to the blank page. "How do I even start to write this," I wondered aloud. I sighed, stood up, and started unbuttoning my uniform top. If I was going to do this, I may as well be comfortable. Slipping the shirt off, my reflection caught my attention. The mirror told me that some of the bruises were starting to heal. What the mirror didn't know, though, was they were very much still present. Maybe not physically, but I was still hurt.
I finished changing into a pair of sweat pants and a Harvard sweatshirt. Pushing the sleeves up to my elbows, I examined the knot that held the bracelet Dean gave me around my wrist. I doubted I would be able to get it off without the aid of a knife or scissors. Returning to my desk, I pulled my left knee up to my chest, pulling it close with my arm. My right hand returned to my pen, intending to start writing. After five minutes, and no words coming out, I threw the pen down. Tears burned the back of my eyes, but I refused to cry. My foot slipped off the edge of the chair, falling to the floor with a thud. Instead of staying in my room, I decided it would be better to get out of the house. Grabbing a small bag, I shoved my notebook and pen inside. I slipped my feet into a pair of flip flops and walked aimlessly into town. It wasn't until I found myself at the bridge that I noticed how tired I felt.
I sat down, my feet dangling inches above the water. Pointing my toes, I dipped part of my foot into the cold, algae-filled lake. The temperature made me suck in some air. It should've been uncomfortable; it was uncomfortable, but I repeated the process with my other foot. I continued the process until my toes had become accustomed to the ice-cold water. Sighing, I laid back across the bridge. Once again, I looked at my notebook. Instead of studying a blank page, though, I flipped to the first page. "Mom; Lane; Grandma and Grandpa; Dean; Paris?; Jess?" Well, I certainly was confused. How does one even begin a suicide letter? I mean, maybe it would be easier to write one global letter for everyone, and just leave it like that. Maybe specialized letters would be too difficult.
"Hey," a voice said, causing me to jump. I shot upright, looking over to my left. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."
"Jess," I said, quickly closing my notebook and returning it to my bag. I quickly got to my feet. "I have to go."
"Wait, I've been wanting to talk to you," he said, "I promise it won't be long." Sitting down, he handed me a copy of a book. "I thought you might find this useful."
Looking at it made me realize that it was a self-help book. "Why are you giving me this?" I was puzzled, but I squatted down next to him. It seemed to just be a generic self-help book; something that would be used as a textbook in a psychology class of sorts.
"Look, I don't know any details, but you've changed. I know I haven't been here long, but for a while, I thought that we were becoming friends. Then you started pulling away, and the shine went out of your eyes. Luke mentioned something about you going to some private school for smart kids, so I figured maybe the stress was getting to you or something." He shrugged. "If you're depressed or something, this might help."
At first, I was caught off guard by the fact that Jess had said so many words. "We were friends," I whispered, looking at the book in my hands. I bent the paperback back and forth.
"I just thought this could help." He repeated.
"I'm not depressed," my soft voice insisted… My throat was closing up and stinging. My eyes burned.
"Okay." Jess replied. He picked up a stick and dragged it through the water.
I stood up abruptly, feeling the tears about to spill out. "I should go."
"See you."
A sad smile crept across my face as I walked away. He wouldn't see me ever again. Nobody would.
When I finally reached the house, I went inside, making sure the front and back doors were locked. Stars Hollow was a safe town, but I needed to insure I wouldn't have any unwanted visitors. "If you're depressed or something, this might help," Jess's voice repeated in her mind.
Placing my bag on the kitchen table, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. The phone rang, pulling me out of my thoughts. I listened to it ring, until it clicked over to voicemail. "Hey, we're not here, we have lives, get over it," Mom's voice said before the beep.
"Rory, its Dean. Its five fifteen, and you haven't answered any of my calls or beeps," the machine said, prompting me to look over at the counter at my pager. "Call me back." He sounded frustrated. Great.
I rolled my eyes and walked into my bedroom. Looking in my dresser, I dug out my bathing suit and a small repurposed make-up bag. "Maybe I shouldn't leave a note at all," I momentarily thought, but I knew I would leave a note. My mom deserved that much, especially if she had to be the one to find me. I had figured it all out, though; I would do it in the bathtub so the hot water would keep my blood flowing and she wouldn't have a mess to deal with. I would be wearing a bathing suit to prevent any embarrassment that may happen if my mom found me naked.
Slowly, I put the items on my bed before going back to my notebook. I scribbled out, "I'm sorry. I thought this through, though, and this is what's best. It isn't your fault. I just can't anymore. I love you." I decided I would tape it to the bathroom door, so that she would see it before she found me. The note wasn't as eloquent as I had hoped, but it served its purpose, I supposed. I tore the page out of my notebook, before putting the notebook and my bag back in my room.
Swimsuit, make-up bag, note, and tape in hand I started my trek to the upstairs bathroom. My trial run, so to speak, had to be tonight. I hadn't cut myself deeply before. Only enough to take the pain away. I had to have other chances in case I screw up the first time. If I woke up the next day, I could re-strategize and try again.
I felt tired, but all I had to do was remind myself that I was almost done. My items had been placed on the bathroom vanity, the note was taped to the door. I unzipped the make-up bag, emptying my blades onto the counter. Some were rusting blades from pencil sharpeners or shaving razors. There was one pack, though, that was unopened. A small, unmarked box, still taped shut. Those were the scalpels I had ordered off of Amazon. It was amazing to me how you could buy just about anything online.
Just as I was preparing to change out of my clothes, I heard a frantic knock at the door. Paris's voice was calling for me. "Rory! I know you're home!" I momentarily debated between answering the door and ignoring her. Guilt overtook me, though, knowing that I wouldn't be around to help her on Sunday like I had promised. Grudgingly, I went downstairs, opening the door a crack.
"Hey," I said, making my voice sound rough. Paris was scared of sick people; if I could fake it well enough, she would go away. "I think I'm coming down with something… I know you don't like germs."
Paris pushed her way inside anyways. Her arms were loaded down with books. "Please, you were fine earlier in school. You need to help me." She went on to inform me that she kept getting certain stages of cell reproduction confused.
I sighed. My plan would have to be put off for a bit. "Fine," I replied, "you get an hour." I looked at my watch, and noted that it was five-thirty.
Paris and I sat on the couch, her books spread on the coffee table. After fifteen minutes, the phone rang again. "If you answer that, that doesn't count towards my hour!" Paris insisted.
"I'm not answering it," I replied. "Let's focus."
Dean's voice came across again, "Damnit, Rory! Pick up your goddamn phone or, so help me God, I'll-" I jumped up and hit the silence button on the answering machine before he could finish his threat. I hit a button to make the machine remain silent should anyone else try to leave a message, to prevent another potential awkward situation.
"Is everything okay in fairytale land?" Paris asked, almost sounding concerned.
"Yeah," I replied. It was best to avoid making excuses or giving explanations that could lead to further questioning. "Now, where were we?" I returned to the couch.
Around a half-hour later, Paris leaned back against the sofa. "Does this town have any good food? I'm hungry. Can we order in or something?"
Unsure of how else to respond, I agreed. "Chinese, Indian, or pizza?"
"Chinese," Paris said. "What's good?"
Laughing, I went to the take-out drawer and handed Paris a menu with stickers next to certain items. "The ones with smiley faces are good, gold stars are amazing." We quickly formulated a menu and placed the order. Five minutes passed before someone knocked on the door.
"Is food delivered that fast here?" Paris questioned.
"No. Stay here," I instructed, walking towards the door. I peeked out through the peep hole. Jess was there with a box in his arms. "Jess," I said, opening the door, "What are you doing here?"