Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to the Gilmore Girls, I'm just using the characters for my own enjoyment.
Rating: This story is rated R for mild swearing and allusions to suicide. Please don't read it if you aren't comfortable with the subject matter. Thanks!
A/N: This is the first story I've ever posted, so some feedback would be phenomenal. As always, thanks for taking the time to read my story. I hope you enjoy it!
Some Things Never Do Change
Stopping, she turned and studied herself for awhile, having not seen her real image in a very long time. Much to her dismay, she'd changed, and it wasn't for the better. Surveying her image she was almost shocked to discover the subtle differences in her body. A year ago she hadn't looked like this. The bags under her eyes, the sallow skin pulled taut against her face, the ribs poking through her stomach. This wasn't her, this wasn't Rory.
In shock she tentatively reached out a hand to the mirror and traced the bones that emerged in her shoulders and stomach. Tracing a line up to her face, she gently maneuvered her finger to her lips, then her cheeks, finally resting on her eyes. This small movement was a comfort to her, and she almost felt the caress of the finger upon the glass like it was really upon her face. But her eyes...
Her eyes troubled her. She could see the heartbreak, the pain, the denial in their depths, and she turned away in self-disgust, allowing her hand to drop away from the mirror and return to her side, breaking the seemingly life-sustaining contact that proved to her that she was indeed the image of failure she saw in the mirror. Had it only been a year?
It certainly felt longer, she decided, as she stopped into the water in the tub and slowly sank in. The burning sensation of the water against her skin was almost hot enough to scald, yet it was a healing device, and she felt the heat purifying her body. Only her body, never her soul. She took a breath and submerged under the water, allowing herself to get lost in the sea of quiet. Everything made sense under here. It was perfect.
She opened her eyes and gazed up at the ceiling, pondering how the water reflected against the outer surfaces, and rippled, distorting her view, yet making it seem perfectly clear. As her lungs began to burn, she wondered if this was somewhat like death. The detachment. The comfort. The silence. She thought that death must not be so bad if this is what it's like, because living is certainly never like this. In a way, her life was like living under the water. She was trapped, and everything seemed distorted. All because of him.
With this, she sat up quickly in the bath, gasping a breath of air, and wiping her face to rid herself of the droplets of water that still clung to her lashes. Grabbing a towel from the floor, she dried herself, almost rubbing her skin raw with the zealous effort to get dry faster. Catching her reflection out of the corner of her eye for the second time that night, she paused again, only this time with a feeling of disdain. She turned and looked at her face full on. This is who she had become. This was her. With a scream of outrage she pulled back her fist and slammed it into the glass, causing it to crack and shatter.
As she walked out of the bathroom, she could barely feel the pain of the glass in her knuckles, and refused to acknowledge the blood that was running down her hand. She threw open the bathroom door, forgetting to put on her pajamas, and ran into her room, throwing open her closet. At the sight of all the clothes, another stab went through her heart. She'd worn this on their first date, she'd worn this the first time they'd kissed, she'd worn this the first time they'd...
She stopped shuffling through her clothes and just stared at that outfit. That outfit. It was symbolic of the beginning of the end for them. She hesitantly reached out a hand to touch the fabric because it seemed so surreal at the moment. When her fingers connected with the shirt, she ripped it from it's hanger along with the skirt and sweater, throwing them on her desk. She ran over to her top drawer and pulled out a pair of sewing scissors, opening them to prepare to let the clothing to meet its untimely end. She spent a good twenty minutes slicing up the shirt and skirt, but when she got to the sweater, she hesitated, noticing the blood running down her hand for the first time. With a sigh she wrapped the sweater around her bleeding cut, and stood up, walking to the first aid kit in the kitchen.
She shivered. It was then that she realized she wasn't wearing anything. Turning around, she went back into her room and pulled out her oldest pair of jeans, and a shirt that she'd borrowed from her mother a long time ago. At a time when they were both still friends. It was either she'd forgotten to give it back, or her mother was afraid to ask for it, but the shirt was a comfort, reminding her that once she used to be innocent. Once she used to be loved and wanted. Once upon a time.
Remembering her cut, she dragged herself into the kitchen, pulling down the first aid kit from its resting place in a once used cabinet, and opened the antiseptic, bracing herself for the first sting which was inevitable in cleaning her wound. It never came. Had she become so callous that she couldn't even feel physical pain anymore? She supposed that the pain in her heart more than outweighed any amount of bodily pain she could ever endure, so she decided to test her limits. One by one she ripped each shard of glass from her knuckles. One by one she realized that this was it. She couldn't feel. She couldn't feel...
Shoving the chair back she walked calmly into her bedroom and sat down at her desk. She could remember her days from Chilton spent doing homework at this desk. Those days seemed a distant memory to the life she was leading now. Homework was so simple, so tangible. She should've reveled in that fact then, should've realized that life would only get harder and things would never be as simple as a math problem again. She opened the top drawer, and pulled out an old notebook, tracing the doodles that were hastily strewn all over the front of a blue notebook in black pen. They were fading. She was fading.
She opened the cover and saw a picture of Harvard taped to the inside cover. Just opposite the cover was a picture of Yale, along with twice the amount of memorabilia that the Harvard side contained. With a sad smile, she traced the engraved stickers and pamphlets that littered the page. This was her life. She could've had this, but she chose to throw it all away. All over some stupid boy. Some stupid punk boy who was breaking her heart.
Taking a fresh sheet of paper out of the notebook, she began a healing technique that she'd been taught when she went to Stars Hollow High. Write yourself a letter, you'll be amazed at the answers you find. With a sigh she uncapped a pen and began.
Dear Rory,
So you're sitting here writing a loser letter to yourself, the loser. Ironic, huh? We could never break out of this cycle. You wanted it too badly. You wanted the change too badly. You know it now, why didn't you know it then? What were you thinking, throwing your life away, and for what? A boy who doesn't love you. Someone who wants you to change who you are, be something you're not? You know that you've become the same image you once despised. You're alone, you truly are. Who can you turn to? Be honest. You don't talk to your mother anymore, claiming that since you've grown up, you've grown apart. You know what the real reason is. You've lost your best friend, the one who you could tell all your secrets to and who used to listen to music with you until the early hours in the morning. Do you even listen to music anymore? Do you even hear anything anymore? Anyone? You've lost school, the one thing that you excelled at. No college, no nothing. You could've had it all. Family, friends, a wealth of knowledge. You didn't want it badly enough. Some things never do change.
Some cleansing exercise this is. She opened her desk drawer again, reaching for an envelope, and folding the paper carefully into three parts, just like she learned in grade school. She licked the envelope and addressed it to herself, finishing only when she had placed a stamp on the upper right hand corner. Looking back in the drawer, a shining glint in the far back corner caught her eye. She reached a hand back, and grasped the reflection, coming up with a letter opener. She didn't even know she had this. It looked ancient, the almost knife-like structure of the blade. Holding it up closer to her face and to eye level, she looked at her distorted reflection in the blade. She thought of death.
With a scream she dropped the letter opener to the ground and backed away from it, like it was some sort of animal. She ran into the kitchen, gasping heaving breaths of air, and trying to calm herself. She looked at the letter, which was still, unknowingly, clutched in her fingers. She sat down at the table and placed the letter neatly in front of her. A single tear escaped her eye, and fell to the envelope, splotching the black ink. Sniffing, she pulled down her sleeve and wiped the errant tear from her cheek, allowing herself no more tears.
Slowly, she stood up again, and made her way back to her bedroom. She refused to look at her desk, and went directly to her closet and pulled on her shoes. Standing up, the glint of the letter opener caught her eye again, and with a sigh she bent over and picked it up. Walking back to her door, she reached over and put the opener on her dresser, vowing to put it away later. Grabbing the letter from the kitchen table, she walked out the front door, and into the cool October evening.
She didn't bother locking up, knowing it was only a short walk back to her house from the post office. As she walked she began to look around at her crisp autumn surroundings. Walking down Main Street, her mind was flooded with memories of all the fun she'd had here. She'd met him here. This town. Pushing him from her mind, she picked up the pace, and finally rounded the corner to the post office. Pulling back the pick up slot, she stuck her letter on the lid of the chute, and gave it one last look. Who knew if she'd ever see that letter again anyway? The way mail was sometimes...
Turning away she took the long way back to her house, purposely going by Luke's to see some familiar faces. Pausing across the square to look in the light-lined window, she felt like she was looking in on something secret and special. She wasn't a part of it anymore. It was a fantasy. She could see her mom and Luke talking across the counter, outrageously flirting. Some things never do change... She could see Kirk sitting by himself in a corner, almost having a one sided conversation with his meal. Some things never do change... She could see him, pouring the coffee and looking the way he always did. Some things never do change...
At this, Rory turned on her heel and ran back to her house, not allowing the tears that threatened to fall escape her eyelids. She jogged up the front walkway and turned the knob to her house. Her sanctuary. Looking around as she shut the door, she realized how little she'd seen outside of her room the past year. The family room was unchanged, and the pictures of her and her mother still stood idly on the mantle, but they held little meaning anymore. Walking over, she picked one up. It had been taken two years ago at the dance marathon. She sadly smiled. That was a night to remember. Such heartbreak, and him. She threw the picture across the room in a fit of anger. Looking at the all the pictures hurt too much. She took both her hands and swiped them across the mantle, causing all the pictures in their frames to go crashing to the ground, cracking and shattering as they fell.
Breathing heavily, she surveyed the damage she'd done. Looking at her feet, defeated that her rampage had not solved any of her heartbreak, she saw a picture of her when she was little. She was so innocent and trusting. Bending, she picked up the frame with the cracked glass, and gently placed it back on the mantle. That one could stay.
With a weary sigh, she trudged back to her room and finally put on her pajamas. Looking at her bookshelf, she wondered when the last time was that she had read a book. She brushed her fingertips across the well-worn spines, and smiled, remembering clearly every character, every plot, every imaginable situation, until she reached the Salinger section. Salinger. The name disgusted her now. The man who once held the most wonderful place in her literary heart was now cast to the depths of her hate. He ruined it for her. He ruined her literary dreams. He could live the literary dreams, but no, she wasn't allowed to.
While her anger refueled itself, the phone rang. She froze. Her heart froze. She didn't dare pick it up. She knew it was him. It was him. She held her breath as the machine picked it up down the hallway. She inched over to her door, halfway shutting it and grasping the knob like a lifeline, like it could somehow protect her from his voice. She heard his angry voice anyway. "Rory? I know you're there. Pick up the damn phone. You know I need to talk with you about what happened today. Why are you always doing this? Why are you always causing problems with us? You have to call me back tonight, or it's over." With a click, she could hear him hang up the phone.
She was terrified. She was terrified to lose him, but she was terrified of herself. What time was it? What's the damn time? Why is there no clock when you need one... Frantically her eyes sought out the red digits glaring at her from across her bedroom. 8:41. Oh god, her mom would be home soon. What to do, what to do, what to do! She could feel her chest tightening as she thought about calling him, and her hesitation scared her. Come on, come on. 8:42. Oh god, her mom was coming soon. Oh my god. Make a decision! Make a decision!
Her breaths began to shorten, and she could hear the sound of her mom's shoes crunching up the pathway to their house. She froze. Oh my god. The key turned the lock in the door, and the door opened. Rory looked at the digits of her clock again. 8:43. She watched the digits melt into the floor, like blood pooling to the ground. She could feel the blood beginning to drip back down her knuckles because she'd been clutching her door handle so tightly for too long.
With utter fear she whirled around and slammed her bedroom door. "Rory?" Gasping for breath, her eyes frantically searched her room. Her reflection. Always her damn reflection. With hate in her eyes she looked at the image that glared back at her in the mirror on her dresser. This was it.
She grabbed the letter opener. Saw her gaunt reflection in its blade...
...and she turned off the light...
Some things never do change.