Author's note: Well, I guess I couldn't shake the fan-fiction bug, cause here I am again. This is extremely different from my last fic, but more my style. The title comes from a Throwing Muses song called "Delicate Cutters" and the titles of the chapters will all be lines from the song. So I suggest you all go out and download the song. It fits the story very well. Be sure to read the author's note at the end of the story, it clarifies some things. Okay, I'm done rambling now, so go! Read! And if you feel inclined, review.

    Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of That 70's Show; they belong to whoever they belong to.

                                                                      Delicate Cutters

                                                                "One of Them are Closed"

   There wasn't a lot of activity in the Burkhardt residence. In fact, there hadn't been for some time. The maids had long ago been fired, and with the masters of the house gone, there weren't many people milling around the spacious halls as in the past. The sole inhabitant had decided to seek refuge from the large, empty house elsewhere, spending most of her days, and nights, in the basement of a friend.

  The large, Victorian home sat atop a small, grassy hill, far set from the street. Cars would often slow down as they passed its large, iron gates and their passengers would gaze in slight awe at the majestic picture it created, lit up against the backdrop of the night. It was Point Place's own castle, and the Burkhardts were their royalty.

   Now when cars pass, their occupants would only shake their head in sympathy. Everybody knew the story of the Burkhardt's downfall. The once proudly lit mansion was now bleak and desolate, a cold home to the young princess who was left to pick up the pieces of her family.

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     The door stretched out before her, its six feet of height morphing into a foreboding twelve, the simple handle and lock twisted into something much more menacing. There wasn't any noise in the hallway, because there was no one there, save her, to make it, and at the moment, she was having trouble even breathing.

     She shifted nervously on her feet, her eyes darting left and right, looking for people who weren't there. In her hand, a key rested heavy and cold. Her fingers felt numb as she absently rubbed her thumb along the metal. The weight of the key couldn't compare to the weight of the decision she was about to make.

     Jackie Burkhardt, for all her stubbornness, was not a strong person. She was girly in every sense of the word. She liked pretty things, collected unicorns, worshiped Danny Osmond, obsessed about her hair, and cried very easily. Donna would be upset if she heard her thinking like that, but Jackie never paid attention to her feminist babble. She was a girl, a cute, rich-well, not so rich anymore, girl. She wasn't supposed to be strong.

     But everything supporting her had been ripped away, and now she had to teach herself how to be independent. Thank God that she had Steven, she didn't know if she would've been able to get this far with out him. But Steven wasn't here now, so it was up to her to hold her own.

     The door she stood before hadn't been opened in almost four years. She didn't think it was even looked at. When she, or anyone else that was apart of the household, walked down the hall, it was ignored. It had been that since the day she locked it.  The key had been put in a drawer and was immediately forgotten.

     This changed today. Jackie had been walking down the hall, heading for the stairs. It was a completely normal occurrence. Except this time, when she neared the door, she had slowed to a stop. And looked at it. She stood there for probably five minutes, just staring at the door. Then she turned around, walked into the drawing room, opened the drawer and took out the key. In a daze she had returned to the door, and that was where she was now.

    All she had to was walk the three steps forward, place the key in the lock, and turn. That's all. Easy, right? Right. All she had to do was move.

    The silence stretched through the hallway, encompassing her, muffling the sound of her breath. And slowly, ever so slowly, she put her right foot forward, then with just as much caution, her left. Only one more step to go. Her fingers tightened around the key. She could do this.

    She clenched her jaw and moved her right foot, and before she could chicken out, she swung her hand up and shoved the key into the lock and turned. There. She did it.

    Jackie stood for a moment in a daze, just looking at the door. She unlocked. It was open. She took a shaky breath and lifted her hand. She was surprised to see that it was just as shaky. She shook her head. No, she could do this. She could be strong. With that, she steeled herself, turned the handle and pushed.

    The door swung open smoothly, as if it had never been closed, and Jackie saw the inside of the room she had spent more than half her life in.  It was dark, fitting, she thought, for a room that hasn't seen the light of day in years. She could change that. Now that she had opened the door, it seemed easier to disturb the state of limbo that seemed to exist beyond the doorway.

    She stepped across the threshold, and felt along the wall, easily finding the light switch, and flicked it. The lights blinked to life, illuminating the interior. It was just as she left it. The boxes were still stacked haphazardly in the corner; the clothes she had thrown in the room before she locked it were still strewn across the floor. She walked absently along the back wall, running her hand along the barre. She sneezed as her wandering fingers unsettled dust. She quickly retracted her hand and wiped it on her pants. She really needed to clean this place up.

    Jackie took a step back, taking in the sight of the studio. She walked slowly backwards into the center of the room. A feeling of awe descended upon her. She was standing in the middle of a life she had left behind in a moment of blind anger.

    Her musings were cut off when something was crushed under her heel. She quickly moved and looked at where her foot had been. Glass was littered across the floor. The feeling of awe she had disappeared and was replaced with something she couldn't describe. She lifted her head to gaze at the mirror the stretched across the wall before her. Staring back was a disjointed reflection of herself, a momento of that instant of rage where she had thrown something against the glass, shattering it. It was a single marring in an otherwise perfect expanse of silver. She turned her gaze to the floor once more, scanning for the object that had made crack-ah, there it was.

    She stepped over the splinters of glass and picked up the trophy. She turned it over in her hands a few times, running her fingers over the inscription-Wisconsin Annual Dance Jamboree, First Place. That had been her final competition, her last day dancing. That had been the day when she shut the door to her studio.

    Jackie looked up from the trophy and swept her gaze around the room, taking in the boxes of old dance trophies and awards, the piles of old dance costumes, the closet where her shoes and music were stored, and the broken glass that riddled the floor. It would take some time, but she could clean it up. She could reopen a chapter in her life; pick up where she left off. All it had taken to start was opening the door.

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    Author's note: As I was watching my collection of That 70's Show episodes, I began to notice a trend with Jackie. She likes to dance. And she has a trophy for being the Prettiest Ballerina. Maybe I'm looking to into things, but I got the impression that Jackie used be a dancer. After that thought entered my head, it took on a life of its own, and this is what came of it. This is just the first chapter, and I promise the plot picks up in the following ones. Don't be fooled by the dance sub plot, this isn't going to be a happy story. It's going to be dark, angst filled, and possibly a bit disturbing. I just hope you guy's stick with me that long to see it take shape.