A/N: OH MY GOD!!!!!! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REVIEWS!!! 102! WOW, I CAN FEEL THE INSPIRATION FLOWING RIGHT BACK INTO ME! LOL! I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH and as a reward for reviewing so much, here's the 10th (wow!) chapter!

Wow! I need to calm down! Lol! Okay for my disclaimer: I (still) don't own anything related to Gilmore Girls nor do I own "Breathe" by Greenwheel (it's a good song, listen to it if you can – it'll help you get the mood) and I borrowed some info on ESP from . I'm telling you now that I didn't ask for permission to use it and none of it's mine - I give complete credit to C.S. Shah – the writer.

Enjoy!

Chapter 10:

Hindsight

The morning was bleak and dreary; haunting gray clouds invaded the skies and a light mist hung low in the damp air. People could almost sense the feeling of hopelessness that saturated every minute, every second. Their steps were a little more slower; their frowns a bit heavier.

Tristan didn't mind, in fact, he was certain that that feeling was leaking out from him, pouring off him in waves that overpowered every shred of hope and destroyed every dream of happiness.

He lay unmoving in the middle of his bed; the shade was drawn, darkness ruled. He had finally found the inspiration to get up off the curb, to take his drained, filthy body back into the safety of his little world.

Hours had passed, the seconds dropped away with the rain and his tears; he had never cried so much in his life. But now everything was gone, his tears, his hope, his reason for living.

He felt dry. Desiccate, withered. Like something that had been left out in the Sun for too long. He was almost afraid that if someone touched him he'd crumble into dust, disintegrate into nothingness. But in all honesty, he didn't have to worry about that; no one would touch him, he wouldn't let them.

So he stayed in the darkness, waiting for hours for a second to tick by. At first, the overwhelming silence surrounded him, protecting his weary mind and body. And he was thankful for it. It made him feel like he was in a glass display case, people could look at him, they could criticize and wonder, but they would never be able to reach him. They would never touch him, they would never know his secrets or be able to destroy that fictional world of serenity that he withdrew to.

In the dark room, he could barely make out shapes, the only movement was the slight rise and fall of his chest, the only sound was that of his own ragged breathing. He was safe here, he could pretend that everything was calm, peaceful, and still.

But then that numbing cold invaded, slowly creeping up on every side of him, soaking through his clothes, beneath his skin, leaking into his mind and finally paralyzing his heart.

The silence grew and grew until it appeared to have substance, almost like he could reach out and touch it. It seemed to fill up the room, to settle on his skin, bearing down on him with enough pressure to make him break.

And suddenly, all at once, it wasn't a friend, it wasn't protecting him. Nothing was, he had no defenses, no dignity, no hope. It was choking him, just like the water had that day at the villa when he was six, the day he saw a spirit for the first time.

He remembered the terrible black, murky waters, as cold as ice, soaking through his clothes, brushing against his skin, rushing down his throat. He remembered a terrible burning in his lungs and those eyes; those eyes that had haunted his dreams for weeks afterwards. It was because of that day, that first experience with the other side, that Tristan couldn't stomach the idea of putting his body in anything deeper than a bath tub. The dark depths of water held far too many secrets.

The ghost's hands had gripped his thin arms tightly, shaking him and keeping him locked in the harrowing depths, and his voice spoke his name. He remembered trying to scream and gagging as the water poured down his throat, he remembered feeling suffocated, strangled. He felt the ghostly hands let go of him as he passed out, and the next thing he knew a man was carrying him, rushing him back into the villa.

Many pairs of hands reached out to change his clothes and take his temperature. A doctor was called and, though he could give no explanation for the bruises on Tristan's arms, his prognosis was positive: with a little rest, Tristan would be as good as new. But he never got a good night's rest again. A maid had rocked him for hours while he sobbed as memories of the man brought fresh tears to his face; he refused to go to sleep because he was terrified he would see that man again. He had begged for his mother but his parents had left for a two-night stay in the city, and didn't find the matter important enough to cut their visit short. So he spent the night curled up in the maid's lap, watching every shadow, listening to every noise.

Just like today.

He couldn't take the silence anymore, could no longer stand the memories. Moving for the first time since settling into his bed at six this morning, Tristan wearily leaned over and switched on the radio. He had to fill the silence with something, had to force back the walls of quiet.

A song filtered through the speakers, the soft guitar chords banishing the absolute quiet to the darkest corners of the room.

I played the fool today

And I can see us vanishing into the crowd.

Longing for home again,

But home is a feeling I've buried in you.

The words floated to his deaf ears and broke the barrier, penetrating to his very core. They reminded him of someone, someone who he was desperately trying to forget and, at the same time, was holding on to memories of like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.

The thought of her, of her beautiful eyes, her brilliant smile, her stunning soul was all that it took to break his numb shield. That coating of passiveness, that frigid glass, that cold overlay that sheltered every inch of him broke. It shattered and fell all around him and, as fresh tears that he didn't know he had poured down his cheeks, he felt exposed, vulnerable, naked.

I'm all right,

I'm all right,

It only hurts when I breathe…

He could see her face in his mind and he had to close his eyes at the onslaught of pain that bombarded him along with that angelic image. Bittersweet memories of their time together flashed through his mind, reminding him of the precious gift that he had let slip through his fingers, but he allowed his mind to wander to a better place.

She was smiling at him in his daydream, like she used to, and he could feel his knees go weak and his palms become sweaty. But he also felt that fear, that pain, that loneliness lift until he was so light that he was sure he could have floated.

But then that smile contorted into a fearful grimace and her once bright, beautiful eyes darkened until they were almost black with disgust. And once again, all his troubles came crashing back down on him with a force so strong that it left him fighting for breath.

I can't ask for things to be still again,

No, I can't ask for you to offer the world through your eyes.

Longing for home again,

But home is a feeling I've buried in you.

His lungs begged for air but he didn't have the strength to inhale, to raise his lungs and just breathe.

He felt like some poor, pathetic creature lost in a sea of despair, bashed against the rough rocks at the bottom of a domineering cliff. Each time he got the courage, each time he found his hope, the sea came crashing down on him, reminding him of who he was, pushing him back below the surface and into this dark, tumultuous world.

And between each harsh, crushing wave he glanced up and caught a glimpse of what life was like on the top of that cliff. They had some tough times, but those people were living, smiling and embracing each other happily, never noticing the lone figure, bruised and broken at the bottom, who's only dream was to be part of it all.

I'm all right,

I'm all right,

It only hurts when I breathe.

I'm all right,

I'm all right,

It only hurts when I breathe…

Except for her. She stood at the edge, never having been to his world but no longer belonging among the ignorant, existing somewhere in between. She stood watching with cautious, attentive eyes as he struggled to survive. She never reached out a hand to help but neither did she mock or run from him, she just stood there, taunting him, showing him what he could have if he was worthy enough to complete the journey.

But that cliff face, that passage to normalcy, was too smooth, too steep. There was no way that we would make it to the top.

Or could he? She had made him wonder and he had given it a shot, had really tried. He never gave up, just kept climbing, against the odds. And he had made it half way; he was the highest he had ever been. But then she looked at him, with that fear in her eyes, and he faltered, he slipped, and suddenly he was free falling, spiraling back down into that dark frigid world with nothing to break his fall.

My window through which nothing hides and everything sings,

I'm counting the signs and cursing the miles in between home...

The impact was like nothing he could ever imagine. The pain of losing everything that he had fought so hard for, of getting so close to that world that he forgot who he really was and being reminded again was simply devastating.

But home is a feeling I've buried in you,

That I've buried in you…

Now he was floundering helplessly in the what-ifs and could-have-beens. He was drowning in the pain that had surrounded him his entire life. For as long as he could remember he had struggled to keep memories of being neglected as a child, memories of experiencing the pain of death from every ghost that had every touched him at bay. Time had been chipping away at his carefully built stone wall but this morning had been the final blow.

I'm all right,

I'm all right,

It only hurts when I breathe.

Everything was released in a rushing torrent of agony and no matter how hard he tried to keep his head above the water, he was sinking fast.

Tristan felt a hand on his shoulder. Against his wishes, hope swelled in his heart as he rolled over, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Ro-"

He cut himself off there when he saw who was standing in front of him. He couldn't speak her name just yet.

He could feel this incredible pain shot through his heart as Mary gave him a sad, reassuring smile. Her little hand slipped into his and she gave it a tight squeeze. Tristan opened his mouth to speak to her, to tell her that he was okay even though he felt like he was dying. But nothing came out, or no words, at least.

More sobs, weaker this time, wrenched through him and he turned away in shame, trying to muffle them with his pillow.

I'm all right,

I'm all right,

It only hurts when I breathe.

It was the worst move he could have possibly made. The pillow he buried his face in had been the pillow she had slept on the night before. He could tell by the faint scent of peaches that clung to it.

He had to get out of here; he couldn't stay where everything reminded him of her.

He crawled off the bed and stumbled into his bathroom, but before he could inspect his red, puffy eyes and broken expression his eyes landed on her clothes. Her outfit from the night before was hanging over the shower rung, her hair tie was on the counter, and her shoes were on the floor.

He couldn't bring himself to touch any of them, he could only stare as his crying intensified and just breathing became laborious. She was everywhere, haunting him, tormenting him. He couldn't take this anymore; he had to leave, had to find a place that could calm him down, where he could rest.

He changed directions and headed for the closet but he was so exhausted that picking up his feet seemed to take a Herculean effort. He grabbed a heavy jacket, it had always been too big for him, and threw it on. Flipping the collar up, he grabbed a ball cap and shoved it on his head. He buried his hands in his pocket and hunched over a little, hiding his face. He wouldn't speak to anyone, wouldn't wave, and he certainly wasn't going to touch anyone.

When I breathe,

Yeah, it only hurts when I breathe,

As he rushed out of the apartment, he realized that his motive for hiding had change. He didn't want to hide anymore because he wanted to be safe, wanted to avoid being hurt. Now, he hid because he didn't want other people to get too close, to be put in danger, and to experience the constant fear that came with being with him.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he was a monster, maybe he was a freak. But no matter what he was, he wouldn't touch anyone. He didn't want anyone to get hurt.

When I breathe,

It only hurts when I breathe…

~~~~~~~~~~

Rory's eyes burned. It may have been from the lack of sleep, it may have been the result of endless hours of reading and researching in the library. Or it may have been because of the tears that were raining down her face at the moment.

She wasn't really sure.

She began to dig through the pockets of her jacket, searching for a tissue to wipe away the traces of her guilt.

Today she had researched and learned everything about Extra Sensory Perception, she had read up on clairvoyance, telepathy, and psychokinesis. She learned more than she could ever imagine on those topics but along the way, something else happened. Today she realized what a horrible person she was.

It had taken her an hour to read one page as her tears blurred the words when the realization hit her.

But it was all too much to take at once.

Rory, although she had chosen the exciting world of journalism, was a scientist at heart. For her, there had to be a logical explanation for everything, anything could be proved or disproved with solid data. In the world of science, there were procedures that were easily laid out and completed, rules that had to be followed, and laws that couldn't be broken.

Everything had a purpose; if there was something you didn't understand, it could be carefully dissected and examined. Everything could be based upon cold, hard facts.

Rory had loved the thrill of science class back in high school. The smells, the equipment, and, most importantly, the regulations. Those rules kept everything together, kept everything flowing smoothly, kept everything safe.

She had always been afraid of the unknowns. For some people, those unknowns were the wild, free side of a strict world; they thrived on completing experiment after experiment to understand why and how the specimen functioned. But they always came out empty-handed in the end.

Rory hated not knowing something; she hated it when she couldn't understand, when no one could understand. Those hidden, unrevealed cases were inconstant, unascertained, and frightening.

She loved it when everything worked out perfectly, when everything fit just right, when everything made sense. But this whole day hadn't made sense.

She thought back to how perfectly the night had started out; the movie, the coffee, Tristan clowning around, and their easy banter. Then the evening had mellowed out and they were just a devoted couple wandering through a park, laying down to relax in each other's arms. Even the storm hadn't tarnished their time together.

She smiled as she remembered the two of them running through the rain, hand in hand, to arrive safely in his apartment where Tristan had pulled her freezing body to him and lovingly called her a goof. Her smile grew when she recalled him giving her a change of clothes and shyly offering his bed, insisting that he'd spend the night on the floor if it would make her comfortable.

But what she remembered most was the way he had wrapped his arms around her as she curled up next to him and lay her head on his shoulder. His strong arms held her gently but tightly; he didn't treat her like an extremely fragile china doll, but neither did he suffocate her with possessiveness. He just held her safely, like he couldn't believe that she was with him, like he was trying to treat her with the utmost respect and devotion. Like he was trying to be the best person he could be, for her.

And she had shot him down. Just like that.

Rory had never really been open to the idea of ghosts but she had always wished that she could see an angle. She wanted to know if they really had to earn those soft, feathery wings, and if they really wore halos, crowns of beautiful shimmering light, above their heads.

She'd never met anyone who had personally seen a ghost but she had seen it once in a while on television. Why had she found it so hard to accept the fact that Tristan saw them?

Then she remembered, with haunting clarity, the way Tristan had said it.

"I see…the dead."

It wasn't spoken as if he had seen a ghost once. It didn't seem to phase him at all, it was almost like it was…normal for him.

Her most vivid memory of this morning was their incredible first kiss and the terrible images that it unleashed. His memories, Tristan had said and Rory couldn't bear to think about him suffering through those horrible things she had seen.

She remembered the first of the three flashes, of Tristan when he was about six. She could still picture that magnificent house clearly; it was like his memories had become her own, locked in her mind only to be replay every time she closed her eyes. She remembered all of the little boy's feeling, his excitement, his eagerness, his hope. It was Christmas, the domineering mansion seemed a little brighter than usual with all of the decorations the servants had set up. The eggnog was ready, the snow was falling, and the presents were wrapped, waiting to be opened.

There was only one thing the young Tristan had needed to make it all perfect. His parents. She remembered feeling disappointment, his disappointment, because they had been away for the whole week and he was left alone. She remembered feeling sure that they would come this year, they had promised.

For Rory it was something like watching herself act in a movie. She was on the outside, looking in, watching the lonely little boy sit quietly for hours, determined to make his parents proud. But she was also there, inside him, the shy little kid who wanted nothing more for Christmas than to hear his parents say "I love you" like all the other parents did in the fairy tales.

Finally, she felt his hope dying as his eyes finally felt shut, against his wishes, at nine o'clock. But there was something else, too, and as Rory lay in her bed that morning it had taken her hours to figure out what it was. Failure. Tristan, on Christmas day when he was six years old, had finally realized why his parents had always made promises they never kept or had the maid send him to his room when he was simply trying to talk to them.

They didn't love him, not one bit. The little boy was shut out from the people who had created him, he was pushed away, rejected, slighted, and was left completely alone. And, most terrible of all, he was sure it was his fault, it was heartbreaking to know that he was certain that if he wasn't such a failure his parents would be proud of him, would love him.

It was a feeling that was completely foreign to Rory and she was beyond thankful.

She found herself curled up in a dark corner of the library, sobbing, as she thought about that little unloved boy and the cautious, reserved man that he had grown to become, the man that she had crushed that morning.

Terrible guilt rushed through her. How could she have done that to him? How could she have been so heartless? So cruel? Tristan was the sweetest, most caring person she had ever met. She understood why he was so bashful now, why he was so afraid to open up. His whole life he had been abandoned, ridiculed, and belittled; he had never received the love that he longed so much for.

And she could see it now, the severe brutality of her actions. He had finally thought that he could trust someone, someone that he could love and could love him back. But she had criticized him, she had scorned and degraded him, called him horrible things and then left. She abandoned him just like everyone else he tried to love had.

But she had been so shocked, so afraid. Her rational mind retreated deep inside and her instincts took over.

Rory had heard about some drive that all people have, some switch that flicks on when it's needed. The flight or flight response. It gave you a burst of adrenaline and you acted on autopilot. That adrenaline, that rush of power, would give you strength if you decided to stay and fight or would empower you if you decided to run.

And that's what she had done. She had seen those terrible images and her first thought was to get away, to survive. She had moved as fast as she could, said whatever she had had to say to get out of there alive. She didn't stop to think about consequences or regrets, she just flew. It was her automatic defense system: she didn't want to get hurt, so she pushed people away.

Rory stared down gloomily at the forgotten reference book in her lap; the bright yellow pages of the glossary stared back at her, mocking her.

She had skimmed through each section of the book, searching desperately for any kind of data that would completely disprove or confirm the existence of ghosts. But to her dismay, there wasn't any. Ideas and their significance were left half explained; a hypothesis was never given a complete, valid, satisfactory conclusion. But Rory desperately needed concrete clarification.

After hours of pouring through volume after volume, Rory had finally found something that gave her a bit of reassurance. Clairvoyance. It was what she wanted, what she needed; a term that could be applied to the situation. Something steady, something certain.

Giving up on books for a while, she had turned desperately to the computers, hoping against hope that she could find something. Amazingly, she did.

Parapsychology:
Parapsychology is the study of the ability of the mind to perform psychic acts without any known physical energy acting as the carrier of the information or force. Psychic phenomena, as the term is applied to the human mind, generally fall into two broad categories:
1) Psychokinesis is defined as the ability to move or alter animate or inanimate matter by thought alone.

2) Extrasensory perception (ESP) is defined as the ability to acquire information without the benefit of the senses.
Extrasensory perception is further divided into two sub-categories:
a) Telepathy:
It means the perception of someone else's thoughts by intercommunication between one brain and another by means other than that of the ordinary sense channel. It has bearing on all psychic phenomena. Many cases are on record where vivid impressions have been transmitted from a distance. It is believed that telepathic communication goes direct from one mind to another irrespective of the distance. The mechanism of telepathy is generally supposed, so far, to be in the form of yet unknown ethereal vibrations or "brain waves".
b) Clairvoyance:
Clairvoyance or 'remote perception' is 'sensing of an object or event out of range of the senses'. The term denotes the supposed supernormal faculty of seeing persons and/or events which are distant in time and place, and of which no knowledge can reach to the seer or perceiver through the normal sense channel.
It was the only thing she could find that even came close to describing Tristan, but it helped her relax, helped her breathing to calm and her hands to stop shaking.

That's all clairvoyance is: a higher level of perception. A part of the brain that lay dormant in most people became active within clairvoyant people. It was a known fact that humans only use about ten percent of their brain, but who knew what the other ninety percent was capable of? Anything was possible.

Rory's scientific side took over. In theory, certain areas of Tristan's brain were more alert than most people's. Just like some regions in a mentally handicapped person didn't function as well as the average human's did, Tristan's operate better.

Her theory was carefully thought out, rational, concrete, and Rory felt that last bit of doubt and disbelief drain away.

But the fear was still there, a little bleep of horror that grew stronger every time she closed her eyes and those images returned. It wasn't a fear of Tristan, she understood that now. It was a fear of those terrible creatures she had seen and the horrifying pain that they inflicted on her in that brief moment, that she knew they had inflicted on Tristan for his whole life.

She had seen the frightened little boy who had almost died in the second image. She had seen the harsh, dark bruises on his skinny arms and had felt his hoarse sobs tear through her. She had watched him flounder in the water until the lack of oxygen made him pass out and she finally understood why he was so deathly afraid of water. She had watched as he stayed awake in the slumbering maid's lap, alert and watching, until the first weak rays of sunlight leaked into the room.

The worst of all the images was the third. Rory cringed when she thought about the ghost at the bottom of the lake, the first ghost Tristan had ever seen. But the spirit of the woman in the last flash had made Rory feel sick to her stomach. The light sundress she had been wearing the night she died was now torn, dirty, and covered in blood. Every visible inch of skin was bruised, swollen, and caked with dry blood.

The image had hit close to home for Rory; her biggest fear about moving to New Haven was being alone and lost in a new city and risking the chance of being attacked while walking the unfamiliar streets alone at night. She always walked with someone she could trust and she always carried pepper spray in her purse. She had never, ever wanted to experience the true horror of being raped.

But this morning, she had. She could feel the rough hands on her, pulling and hitting and hurting. She had felt the cold night air all around her and the hard ground beneath her. She had barely been able to see the attacker through the woman's tears, her tears, but she could feel. God, she could feel, and that was the most terrible part of it all.

People run from their attackers, they do whatever they had to do to get away from the person who was trying to hurt them. Even though Rory knew Tristan would never intentionally hurt her, in a way, he had been her attacker. His hands had never touched her in anything other than the most devoted way, but he was the gateway, the link to those awful images, those sickening feelings.

The whole ordeal, the aching bruises that weren't there, those brutal, violating hands, the incredible pain, and the overwhelming fear were all packed into one millisecond, but Rory couldn't stand it.

And somehow she knew that For Tristan it had been much longer, much worse. She wondered how many similar experiences Tristan had survived through. She knew that if it were to happen to her again she would break, just fall apart.

More tears slowly made their way down her cheeks as her thoughts remained with that morning's events.

Through all of the terrible things she had witnessed today, one image could not leave her head. The one image that had left her sobbing for hours as she lay exhausted in her bed, the image that made her heart break over and over again: The look on his face when she called him a freak.

His exquisite blue eyes had widened slowly in shock and disbelief, his jaw dropped as he stared at her despondently. But then his wide fearful eyes sank down in acceptance and shame, as if he were acknowledging those false, malicious words coming out of her mouth as being true. She was quickly backing away, but she didn't miss his expression. His beautiful face was crestfallen, dispirited, and heartbroken. He looked utterly and completely destroyed.

And it was her fault. Rory was about to run out of the library so she could break down in the privacy of her room, when the screen caught her eye. She had scrolled down to the bottom and slowly began to read one of the last paragraphs.

Last, but not the least, there is a possibility of developing such a capacity in the course of evolutionary psychology by which the basic human nature is likely to acquire such intuitive powers capable of transcending the limitations of mind and body. Many great saints have shown in their lives that creativity and spirituality happens when the five senses are left behind and something else takes over. That 'something else' is the "factor X"-- the sixth sense.
Rory gasped. Not because of the frighteningly unusual information she had just read, but because of something else.

She had just realized that she couldn't think badly of Tristan, not one bit; that she didn't care if he had that sixth sense. She realized how unbelievably sorry she was and how deep her guilt went. She realized how much she wanted to be with him, wrapped up in his arms, in this instant and how much she never wanted to see that pained expression on his face again.

She realized how much she loved him.

She, Rory Gilmore, was in love with Tristan DuGrey, and she wanted to tell him, right now.

It came over her like a gentle wave laps against your skin, like a light breeze brushes against your face. She just knew, and she had never felt more sure of anything in her life.

It was a calm, peaceful feeling but at the same time it was a mad exhilarating rush that gave her boundless strength and courage.

Suddenly she was running, tearing out of the library and pounding down the street. She had to tell him now, she had hear him speak the words that she couldn't wait to speak to him, she had to see that light back in his eyes.

She ran without thinking, her feet moving her to her destination as quickly as they could. She didn't care about anything that had happened this morning, she didn't care about how frightening those terrible beings that haunted him were. She cared about one thing and one thing only. Loving him.

The evening sun had already begun setting, but Rory didn't notice that the sky was as red as blood. She was the highest she had ever been. She loved someone, completely and truly loved someone and for the first time in her life she wasn't afraid to say it.

She raced down the street to his apartment building and pounded down the hall to his door. She stopped there, resisting the urge to barge through it, and caught her breath. She realized that she was in a pair of old jeans and a faded t-shirt, that her hair was an absolute disaster and that her face was probably still puffy from all the crying that had ceased only moments ago.

But she didn't care. She'd live in a potatoe sack for the rest of her life as long as she could be with him. A bright smile pulled at her lips and she didn't try to hide it. She took a deep breath, the excitement of love colouring her cheeks, and knocked on the door.

Rory, as she waited apprehensively for the man she loved to open the door, thought about all the things she had to say to him. She would apologize and beg for forgiveness, she would confess her love and hope to hear the same from him, but she knew that first she would kiss him. To show both of them that the magic was there, that it was real.

She paused in the middle of her deliriously happy thoughts and saw that the door had yet to open. Her heart sank as she realized that she hadn't heard any noise from within the apartment.

Tristan was angry with her, she thought. He had every right to be after hearing all those unjust things she had said to him. But she had to make him understand that she was beyond regretful, she had to show him that none of the things she had said were true, that she never had and never would believe them to be true. She had to show him how much she wanted to be with him, to be his.

"Tristan, it's Rory. I can understand if you don't want to speak to me but you have to –" Rory stopped herself mid-sentence. While she had been speaking, her hand had drifted down to the doorknob. She couldn't stop fidgeting and her hand started playing with and twisting the knob, but then the strangest thing happened. The door opened.

Rory froze as that feeling of fear invaded her once again. There was a peculiar feeling in the air that made the tiny hairs on her bare arms stand on end. She cautiously stepped in and observed the small, vacant apartment. She thought back to last night and how Tristan had had to unbolt the door and then locked it behind them. Tristan never left the door unlocked.

Something was terribly wrong.

Rory stumbled back, out of the apartment and down the hall. She had to get to him, had to warn him.

She could feel it again.

Something bad was about to happen.

~~~~~~~

Tristan could almost feel the ghost. He wasn't here, but Tristan could tell now by the dark feeling that permeated the spot, their spot, that this spirit frequented it regularly.

He had walked quickly all the way here, never exchanging any words with anyone, and always keeping every piece of his skin covered that he could. Even now he couldn't bring himself to pull his hands out of his pockets.

He stood on the grass, examining the seemingly peaceful water. This was the last place he had wanted to come, it held the most memories, brought him the most pain. But when his tired feet finally slowed to a stop and he realized where he had ended up, he couldn't bring himself to leave.

Even though they had only been there twice, the happiest moments of his life had happened here. Laughing together, walking hand in hand, lying down on the soft grass wrapped in each other's arms. He could almost hear her laughter float to his ears, soft and sweet and only a memory.

He felt his eyes burn and water but he refused to let the tears fall. He had to be strong; he had to get used to this. This is how it always had been and how it always would be for him. Alone.

She would forget about and move on. She would find another man, someone who would be far more deserving of her, and she would be happy. He would become only a mistake, a memory that she would refuse to acknowledge, a disgusting secret that she would never tell anyone. She would forget about him and find a man that she could love, another Dean.

Tristan quickly shut his eyes at the memories that name brought. He was there the first time they had met at the coffee shop, the ghost had attempted to hurt him, and forced him to leave. He was there the night of there first date, here in the park. He had interrupted what would have been their first kiss and had used his resentful power to make Tristan physically hurt.

But he wasn't there last night or this morning. The vengeful ghost wasn't present during their incredible date or the horrible events that followed afterwards and Tristan realized why.

Dean had known what would happen. He must have known that his memories would have flown between them, that they would have passed from the darkest recesses of his mind to hers. Tristan hated thinking about Dean's spirit and he dreaded seeing him again.

Because he knew, in the pit of his stomach, that Dean wanted to kill him. He wanted to get even, wanted to see Tristan take his last breath and wanted to be the cause of it.

Tristan knew now, he had made the connection here in the park, right after that overwhelming stab of pain flashed through his mind. It all made sense: Dean's possessiveness when it came to Rory being around Tristan, his extreme animosity, his sudden and brutal attacks.

Tristan sighed painfully as his mind traveled back, unbidden, to that night…

He had to get away, he had to run as fast as he could. It was after him, Tristan could hear it's demonic laughter as he raced through the forest, jumping over tree roots and ducking under low-hanging branches.

Tristan had only been trying to help, he had been prepared to fulfill whatever task this troubled soul gave him in order to aid him in passing over, but he had missed something. This ghost was evil to the core, it wanted nothing more than to hurt people, than to hurt him. But Tristan had realized that too late.

The phantom could easily have caught up to Tristan, even though he was scrambling as fast as he could. But it was enjoying the chase.

Tristan continued, legs pumping furiously, lungs burning. He could feel his muscles ached and, although he tried and tried, he just couldn't seem to suck enough oxygen into his lungs.

He fell several times, his knees, hands, and elbows were bruised and scraped and his cheek bled. But he couldn't linger on the ground, couldn't curl up and rest like he wanted to, he had to get up, had to pull himself to his feet as quickly as he could. He had to keep moving to survive.

His breath squeezed out of him in a chilled white cloud, he was red and shaking from the cold, and was having trouble fleeing as the heavy snow fell around him.

He could see it now, up ahead. The sounds of traffic reached his ears and he was so thankful that the highway was up ahead. If he could just get there and cross that road, he would be safe.

This particular ghost was the spirit of a malicious landlord from the eighteenth century. He would either be incredibly frightened or more amused by the bright lights and moving vehicles and hopefully he would forget about Tristan.

As he tore up the bank that led down to the asphalt, Tristan glanced over his shoulder. The evil spirit's feet didn't even touch the ground but he was just behind Tristan, a evil grin on his dead, cold face.

Tristan couldn't stop, he would have to take his chances with the road or become subject to this spirit's barbaric beating. The ghost also realized Tristan predicament, and, amused by how it could turn out, lunged forward, hand out, ready to dig his fierce nails into his back.

Tristan didn't know what to do. He definitely couldn't stay with the phantom but a highway seemed far too dangerous. Although thick snow surrounded him in a white, heavy blanket, Tristan couldn't see any headlights. And above the sound of his harsh breathing and his pounding heart, he couldn't hear any engines rumbling.

He had no choice.

He flung himself out onto the slick road, tearing across the first two lanes and pausing one the median. He couldn't see the demon any longer but a car passed behind him through the lane he had just cross. This was his chance, two more lanes and he was home free.

Taking a breath, Tristan flew. But he had miscalculated, he hadn't watched hard enough. Over the engine of the car that had passed behind him, he hadn't noticed that another one was approaching.

Bright headlights fell on him and Tristan froze. His whole, miserable life flashed before his eyes as he accepted the fact that this is how he would leave this world, two months before his eighteenth birthday, the day before his grandfather's funeral. He decided, in that split second, that it was a fitting way to go; he would follow his grandfather, the only person he loved and the only person that would ever love him, out of this world.

His eyes began to close in fear and a loud screeching noise filled his ears. He couldn't feel any pain, but he wondered if that was the sound of the car body rushing over him and coming to a halt. Maybe the pain would come after.

But it didn't, there wasn't any. He understood that the sound was that of the tires protesting as the driver swerved suddenly to avoid hitting him. He turned his head just in time to see the car slip on black ice and crash, head on, into a tree. There was a loud noise; metal crunching, tires shrieking, and glass breaking.

Tristan watched, horrified and guilt-ridden. Oh my god, was his only thought as frozen tears rushed down his icy cheeks. He ran as fast as he could to the car and nearly fainted when he saw how it had wrapped itself around the tree.

He saw, through the snow-covered windshield, the driver, a young guy with dark hair hunched over and bleeding. Tristan pulled his sleeve over his frigid fingers and yanked the door open.

He saw the blood, could smell it, it made him feel sick. He heard words streaming senselessly from his mouth as he searched desperately for a cell phone. He had to call for help, had to save the guy who risked his own life to save his. But he came up empty handed. He closed the door, it must have been slightly warmer in the car and the wounded man would need as much warmth as he could get to survive until he got to the hospital. If he got to the hospital. Tristan's hands shook and he cried apologies and reassuring nonsense as he waited for help, someone must have seen.

He heard a car screech to a halt and thanked God that someone had stopped to help. He had to get out of here; he had to run. He couldn't follow this man to the hospital and risk seeing him die. If that happened, he couldn't bear to face his family, to see their faces when they realized that he was responsible.

He heard car doors open and, looking back to catch one last glimpse of the guy who had saved his life, Tristan rushed stealthily to the darkness of the forest. He hide behind a large tree about ten feet away from the accident, watching silently as one of the rescuers, a woman, pulled out her cell phone and called for an ambulance. Her voice was high and full of fear as her husband opened the door and tried to speak to the man, who remained unconscious.

Tristan watched, huddled in a light jacket in the dead of winter, for forty-five minutes as the paramedics came and retrieved the guy from the car. He refused to move and cried softly as he waited for the ambulance to drive away.

He had heard the conversation between the paramedics. The guy wasn't going to make it. Tristan cried into his arms, muffling his sobs as the discussion continued. They kept calling him "kid" and Tristan realized that the person who had swerved to save him, the person who was dying this moment, was no older than he was.

The ambulance drove away, the whining siren fading off into the night. Tristan remained behind the tree, thinking of the young life that he had just taken. He sat there for what seemed like hours as more tears came and went.

Finally, he picked himself up and blindly tried to find the way back to his car. His weary feat pressed on, carrying his exhausted, shivering body deeper and deeper into the night.

~~~~~~~~

There it is! I know there was no dialogue but I had to clear up the whole Tristan/Dean thing.

Now do you understand why Dean hates Tristan so much? Why he's always been out to get him and keep him away from Rory? laughs evilly

Okay, so now we know (actually, I decided) that Tristan is clairvoyant, but think about that definition of telepathy. Read it again and see if it has any relation to Rory………

Review plz!

Love, Madz