Summary: She was a loner with two friends to her name. Then Dean Forester bumped the number to three, then one, then none. When Rory's left for dead, a bullet stuck in her soul, who will save her?

*Read A/N at bottom please!*

Prologue: His Voice Was Like Glue

His voice was like glue. My-stones-have-not-dropped-yet glue. Fifteen-year-old glue. And I was like a piece of papier-mâché: thin and easily manipulated. I stuck to him, swaddled in the sticky substance that was his talk. He spoke so eloquently, filling my head with ringings of politics and music, and I couldn't stop. There was nothing I could do, I was merely fourteen, barely a girl, far away from womanhood. I had fooled myself into believing I was smarter than I was, that I knew too much. Naivety followed me around when I was with him, inching closer and closer to the surface, daring to dip its toes in my mind, to swindle me, fiddle my brain and help me lose sight of all those things I swore I knew.

It was summer camp, that's where I met him. Isn't it always summer camp? That place young girls go to escape their innocent ways and where boys, boys convinced they're men, go to steal, to corrupt. Where you laze by the lake in heated afternoons, swallowed whole by the sun, skin so pale that when you stare your eyes threaten to melt at the sight of your own flesh. Where friends you insisted you knew, insisted knew you, were lost forever, drowned by a sea of friendship bracelets and nail polish.

We were at an amusement park. All of us. The entire group was separated into several smaller groups, like wolves torn apart from their pack in search of food, so we would never get lost. And then I got lost. I broke a rule of the amusement park, I went where I was not supposed to go. I went to the land of "lost girls." They found me and fed me and clothed me, but they didn't speak to me. They left me do die in the outskirts of the herd where anything could come and swallow me up. The ground, the sky, him.

Fast. That's what it was. All of it was fastfastfast. We sped down the slides, splashed in the water, the dirt, the muddy concoction of rain and mulch. We did it again and again and again until our bodies were caked in dry sludge; old sludge new sludge future sludge.

He stole from me. Stole from me like young boys do at summer camp. My innocence, my girly fantasies, squashed by his clenched fist.

And I never got clean, not fully.

He wiped himself of me, of our history, our life, my life, quicker than he got dirty. Like I was a poison on his skin that needed scraping off. The stinger attached to a bee that left its prick sticking out of his arm, his brain, his eyes. That's what I was to him. I was poison. Deadly, corrosive, filth.

Warnings flashed around me, filling the edge of my vision with their neon signs, their off-putting words. People didn't know me. They couldn't lecture me. I would smile and nod my head politely, tell them that I was fine, we were fine, everything was finefinefine.

Then, as fast as it was fine, it wasn't. It wasn't finefinefine. I wasn't finefinefine. So, I hid. I hid away from everyone. From the flashing lights, the loud voices that were more like acid than glue, the eyes that watched and pretended to know when they did not know and would never know.

Then I became smart. About everything. I was no longer a fool. I was alone, and lonely people are not fools. They are not fools because no one is there to test them, to trick them. A liar can never lie if he does not open his mouth and a fool is not a fool if they never do anything. If they never see anyone. If they never talk to anyone about anything other than the weather and how lovely it is that you got engaged, and yes, I did go there this summer, and no, I have no idea where that person is.

Then they stopped asking. They stopped expecting me to talk. And I found myself as the black sheep. The outsider. The true outsider who stalked the window ledges, peering into the world that would never become my own, watching as the other "outsiders" talked amongst themselves while I stayed on the fringe of suburbia, not even feeling the wind as it whipped me like a willow switch or the rain as it hammered against my head, my skin, my pain.

I began to wonder if I would be like this forever. If there would never be anything to make me well. Because I was unwell. No matter how many times I denied it, I was sick. Something was wrong. But who could I tell? Who would care?

They say that good things come to those who wait, but I was not waiting. I was in a bookshop, alone, listening to the words bounce off the pages I was skimming, my eyes dancing like a hummingbird's wings. I was content then, convinced my life had been lived before I turned seventeen. Fooled into believing I was worse than Tom Buchanan.

He tapped my shoulder, clearing his throat. I turned my head and wanted to cry. The sudden overwhelming emotion leaked everywhere, sinking me into oblivion, and left me unable to speak. I stared at him: wondering, asking him a thousand questions in my head, but not speaking even one. He stared at me too, just watching me, waiting for me to do something.

So, I took a breath, a deep one that made stars blink on his skin, made soft down feathers cushion my brain, and smiled.

A/N: I am going to scare so many of you away with this, but please give it a chance! For me?

But Only For You is almost done and with its death comes the life of a new story. A real story. I'm going to tell you something, okay? This is based on some things that happened to me from ages 14-15 1/2. Some events will be exaggerated and others so underdone that you'll wonder if it was just a whisper blowing past your ear and not the words I wrote. You'll never know which are which.

So, something you might want to know if you decide to read this, Dean is a bad guy. I am telling you this now. Logan will come in later and he will be Rory's white knight, something I never got. But it's not a fairytale. It's real life. It's a sort of warning: never think you're smarter than you are, don't pretend to know things you don't, and don't ever, ever change yourself for a guy. It's not worth it. At all.

This is an AU story and the people are OOC. Are you willing to take a chance on me?

Some things to know:

1. Rory, Lane, and Paris are 14, Dean is 15, Logan is 16.
2. Lorelai and Luke will appear, as will Stars Hollow (Except Stars Hollow is now in Northern Virginia, just below DC. I went to London a lot with my pal, so they'll head to DC instead.)
3. There will be mature themes that come later on in the story and may be considered triggers.
4. There is no schedule. It will come when I am ready. This is bringing back memories that I've buried deep down, so it's going to take some push.
5. I am getting influence from Laurie Halse Anderson's writing, so it's going to be a bit weird and choppy, but that's how she writes. Also, future chapters will not be so over the place. They will have structure and plot. This is the prologue, where you get a glimpse as to what the story's about.
6. This is still Gilmore Girls FanFiction. Just because it's based on a tidbit from my life doesn't mean we'll be losing sight of the show.
7. Logan and Rory are endgame. Always.

Please give this tale a chance. If you want more, the only way to let me know is to tell me.

Yours until the end of time,

(insert name here)