AN- I realize things are a little twisted right now. I have no idea where this story is headed, so just hang on. It's not done, there should be at least 3 more chapters after this. Also, sorry for the long wait between chapters 6 and 7. I've started school, and it's complete hell. I have 7 hours of homework every night, so I'm going to work on getting as much written over the weekend as I can. Thanks.
Chapter 7 – Pieces
The days seemed longer, the sky darker. Rory rarely turned off the TV, finding comfort in its low hum. Static filled her mind, nudging her farther into her withdrawal. People had eventually stopped coming to the house, finding the emptiness more than they could handle.
She spent her days sitting on the front porch in her pajamas, not even bothering to put anything on her bare feet. The temperature had dropped considerably, but it went unnoticed. It hadn't snowed since that day in the cemetery, despite several serious snowstorms affecting the areas around Hartford and Stars Hollow.
Every few days Luke would bring by provisions. He was the only thing keeping Rory alive, the single thread holding her on to the edge. And then there was Tristan. He was standing at the top of the cliff, struggling to pull her back up and into the world of the living. Every moment he wasn't at Chilton was spent holding Rory. And today was the first day of winter break.
Rory sat on the old porch swing, watching the bars of the railing pass in and out of her vision as she swung. The few hours before Tristan arrived were always the hardest. She'd find her mind wandering back into happier times, back when her mother was alive and she didn't spend each day mourning.
Things got harder when she received the letter from Chilton. She had actually gone out to get the mail that day, trying to take things one step at a time. Standing by the kitchen table, she ripped open the cream colored envelope, cutting her finger in the process. Sticking it into her mouth, she read the carefully typed letter on the headmaster's official stationary.
Dear Miss Rory Gilmore. We are saddened to hear of your recent misfortunes. But, as things often are out of our hands, we must discontinue your enrollment at Chilton Preparatory Academy. Your attendance lately has been less than acceptable, and as we understand your recovery is slow, it is our unfortunate decision to send you this letter. Please feel free to resubmit your name to our waiting list once your recovery is complete. All the best, The Chilton Board of Directors.
The letter fell to the kitchen floor limply, staying there until Luke happened upon it, sticking it into the toaster.
So now Rory sat, waiting for her night in shining armor, finger still in her mouth. The old chains creaked with age and cold. Rory shivered, finally noticing the goosebumps covering her exposed skin.
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Rory stepped carefully into the street, boots sloshing in the late winter snow. The bus creaked, pulling away from the curb. The sidewalks were nearly empty, most people staying in the warmth of their homes. But there was no warmth to be had in the Gilmore household.
Rory wasn't sure how long it had been since she had last eaten. Her stomach growled constantly, it was hard to keep track. There was still a gallon of milk in the fridge from the last time Luke had dropped by. A box of doughnuts lay half-eaten and open on the stove. Rory had come across the letter stuck in the toaster last week. She angrily pushed the lever down, watching the thick paper catch fire, its edges curling, crumbling into ashes. The orange flames licked their way up the paper and over the edge of the toaster, spreading across the counter. Rory sat, mesmerized, wishing for the hungry fire to work over her skin, engulf her hair, and take her away from this miserable place. Tristan had come in, watching Rory's blue eyes stare emptily at the fire quickly taking over her kitchen. He grabbed the phone, calling the fire department and dousing the counter with water.
They had sat outside later on, watching the firemen pack up their hoses and leave. The two hadn't even spoken to each other since Tristan discovered the fire. He knew too well what she had been thinking, wishing for the blaze to take her. As hard as it was for Tristan to understand this, speaking it aloud would make it all too real. Luckily the kitchen had been salvaged; not much damage was done. The toaster, however, was a melted, mangled lump on the charred counter. Rory walked back inside, running her fingers over the ash. Her fingertips blackened, she ran them lightly across the remnants, watching the swirling patterns she made as her fingers moved. They worked their way down the tile, her hand sliding off of the edge. Lorelai, it spelled.
She had held on to the hope that with the next snow, her mother would show up at the door, laughing at her magnificent trick, holding Rory and apologizing for hurting her so badly. But the whole day had gone, Rory sitting in the doorframe. No laughter, no happiness. No Lorelai. Just pain, as usual.
Rory shivered, watching her feet move numbly, sliding on black ice every once and awhile. She made her way to the courthouse in silence, her red scarf flitting wildly behind her in the wind. She grasped the edge, pulling it over her mouth and nose, inhaling the purely Lorelai scent. It still lingered on the knitted fabric, even after all this time. Rory would sit on the floor, crying into it. She worried that after time the smell would leave, and that at some point she wouldn't feel anything at all anymore.
Walking up the steps to the courthouse, her heart beat rapidly, pounding against her chest. Her foot slipped slightly, and she grabbed the metal railing next to her, the cold biting into her skin. Steadying herself, she held her scarf once more and took another step. Her trembling foot met more ice on the next step, and before she knew it, she was flying through the air and down the concrete steps.
The last thing Rory saw were the snowflakes swirling forbiddingly down, resting on her eyelids, closing them slowly. The cold soaked through her coat, but for some reason, a warmth spread from around her head down towards her toes, sticky and thick.
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She heard voices. Concern spelled out clearly, even through her clouded mind. Unidentifiable pieces of nothing swirled, tumbling down over her face. Something cold and wet kept splashing onto her palm.
Rory wanted to scream, to cry, to call out, but couldn't find the energy to open her mouth, or even to open her eyes. Her face twisted, maybe in her mind alone. She held her breath, willing for it to leave her completely. She was too cold to care, to feel, to think.
She felt, rather than saw, a bright light descending on her. And that was when her mind took over her body. Horrible images flashed through her mind, ones she couldn't begin to stop. Fear and anxiety flooded through her, gnawing on the inside of her stomach. She saw an older version of herself sitting quietly in an empty room, her face expressionless. She saw her future, one without Lorelai, one without love or happiness or anything resembling the dream she had once held for herself.
As though it were actually happening, she felt Tristan slipping away. She forced him back out of her life as quickly as he had been swept up in it. No happy ending, no solemn goodbyes, no coming back. She was standing outside of her life, a spectator as helpless as the Rory living it. Image after image coursed through her veins, alighting upon every emotion in her frigid body. Every one except for serenity, it seemed. In a flash it ended, and she was gone. Gone forever. Gone like her dream and her life and her mother.
