ADDICTION
Disclaimer – Gilmore Girls don't belong to me. They belong to the people of CW and so forth. If I did own Gilmore Girls, Lorelai never would've slept with Chris, let alone married the guy and Rory and Logan wouldn't have broken up for good at the end of the season. Sorry, I'm still a little bitter by the whole ending.
Summary - Addiction and the road it leads you down. Trory. Told from Louise's POV.
WARNING: Extremely AU!!! A story about drug addiction. Contains Rory/Tristan, Louise/Logan.
Author's Note - First piece of fanfiction so be nice please. Constructive criticism is welcome.
Necessary Background Information - Chris and Lorelai got married when they had Rory, so Rory grew up in Hartford, next door to Louise, and thus they became best friends. Tristan & Steph are step-brother and sister. Paris & Logan are brother and sister. (Honor was not used as she did not fit appropriately for this story)
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ADDICTION
Prologue - Analysis
She stared straight ahead, her dull brown eyes distant, taking a long drag on a cigarette.
He cleared his throat and checked his files once again. Ah yes, Louise Grant. 19 years old. Drug addict turned runaway prostitute. Parents were paying him an insane amount of money per hour to get her head fixed.
Christopher Harrison cleared his throat, gently set the file down and fixed his glasses. "Miss Grant, I presume?" He said.
She snickered and took another drag, her eyes cold. "Great start, Doctor," she said bitterly as she stabbed her cancer stick into the ashtray.
"Tell me about yourself," he then said, leaning back into his chair awaiting her response. It was a proven fact, People loved to talk about themselves. Once you get them started, they couldn't stop.
Instead she ignored his request, and reached into her pockets to pull out another cigarette. Grabbing out her favorite lighter, she flicked it on, watching the yellow and blue flame dance briefly before lighting up the cigarette. She pocketed the lighter and brought the cigarette up to her lips, taking a long sweet puff, savoring the intoxicating smoke. Not as intoxicating as she might like, but since she was on drug watch … it would have to do.
She looked up to see the psychologist staring at her disapprovingly. "You know," he began, "Those things will kill you." She laughed slightly, and turned to stare the doctor straight in the face, her eyes practically dead.
"Yeah," She said finally. "That's the plan,"
The doctor studied the girl in front of him carefully through the glass of his spectacles. She was dressed in ratty torn black jeans and a red shirt that exposed her sickly stomach—thin with the months of drug use. He could make out vague slash marks on her wrists and could recognize a ton of track marks.
She was a head case.
In other words, she was a goldmine.
But, he needed to get her to talk.
Time to bring out the big guns.
He reached forward to the table and dug into the file. He pulled out a photograph her parents had given him when he had originally met with them to discuss her case. It was of a younger Louise Grant, and a small delightful brunette girl with a smile that could melt an entire city. The caption was written in small, shaky letters on the back of the photograph: "Rory and Louise, first day of school."
He put the picture in front of Louise, and leaned forwards, eagerly anticipating a reaction. Would she scream? Would she cry? Would she get angry?
Louise's sickly face visibly contorted for a split second, and she quickly turned towards the window, her cig shaking visciously. She took a long, deep, painful inhale and then turned towards the doctor once again, her grim brown eyes spitting hate and fire.
"So you want me to talk?" she said slowly, coldly. "Is that why you showed me that picture? Because you want me to fucking talk?"
She leaned forward, her eyes glittering dangerously. "Let me tell you something, asshole," she hissed at him, her abuse of black eyeliner suddenly painfully obvious. "The next time you show me a picture of my dead best friend, I'll put out a cig in your eye, you got that?"
'Dr. Chris,' as he'd insisted on being called gulped and sank back into his chair. She really was crazy.
"I suppose you want me to tell you about my life?" Louise said, sitting back in her seat and propping her legs up. "I had a wonderful childhood, if that's what you're asking. Hartford, Connecticut. Hell … how can anyone live their entire life within a socialite rich crazed world and not go crazy?" She picked the photograph up from its place on the desk and stared at it.
"Rory was my best friend," she said finally, a little quieter this time, more vulnerable, softly stroking the captured image of the two young girls looking so happy. A very long time ago. How things had changed. "We were closer than close— She was the sister I never had. Ironically enough, I was the one that got her ..." her voice trailed off, unable to handle all the emotion.
She closed eyes trying to get a grip on things and turned back to stare at the 'Head Doctor' as her boyfriend, Logan had once called him. "So you want to know about me?" She asked again, not expecting an answer. "Fantastic. I'll tell you my story. But here's the deal— I talk, and you don't. When I'm done, only then can you start with your 'how does that make you feel?' shit. I'm only going to tell you that once," She narrowed her eyes at the idiot sitting before her. She didn't trust him. She didn't trust anybody.
She couldn't.
"There's only one thing you need to know," She said slowly, finishing her cigarette, stabbing it out, and then quickly lighting another one. "My name is Louise Grant, and everybody I've ever loved is dead."
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