Raining.
Pouring, actually.
These were the nights Violet looked forward to. Though she never new when they would come. She had no way to find out being dead and all. The bills weren't being payed, so the cable was soon cut off. No more weather channel. It didn't bug her all that much. She was never a television person in life or death. But lately she sort of missed normal things like that. She longed for a normal life. A free life. Now more than ever. She didn't understand why she could't have it.
It had been four long, uneventful years since she had died. It felt like 30. She had nothing to do most of the time. When she was alive she had Tate, her parents, and even Leah to go to. But now her parents were so focused on each other or on their dead ghost baby that they never even payed attention to violet. She didn't mind as much as she thought she would given that they made her want to blow her own brains out half the time. Leah was now out of the picture considering the fact she couldn't leave the damn house. She always wondered what people thought about her now. Maybe they thought she ran away. Maybe they thought she was so crazy that her parents put her in a mental hospital. She wouldn't be shocked if that was in fact what they thought. She always came off kind of crazy, she thought. Especially when she spit in Leah's face and burned her hand with a just lit cigarette butt in the cafeteria. She didn't know why she thought about these things. After all she didn't give two fucks what they thought. And it didn't matter now that she was dead.
There was always the other ghosts to keep her company, but who was she kidding. Hayden was the last person she wanted to talk to given it was her fault she moved into this shit hole in the first place. She had yet to talk to her because she knew she wouldn't be able to control the violent yelling that would fall from her lips at the first sight of the crazy bitch. In life she wanted Hayden dead. In death she considered this. She would just heal and be good as new in minutes, she knew this. It would still give her a reprieve from the anger she had towards her, though. She decided Hayden wasn't worth her time.
Chad wasn't bad company, but he usually just sat and rambled on about Pat and how fucked up their marriage was. Is. She sort of felt bad for him sometimes. After all, he never did anything wrong and still got stuck here like the rest of us. All he ever wanted was for Pat to love him. Isn't that all anyone wants? For someone to love them? She knew how he felt. She didn't fuck up like the rest of the ghosts yet she was damned in this house for the rest of eternity, and for what? Love? That was complete bullshit to her now. Or so she wanted it to be.
She was never really close with Larry's family. She felt bad for them, but in all honesty she just couldn't bare to look at how sad they looked all the time. Burnt, mangled skin and fresh tears threatening to fall from their cataract covered eyes. Larry had a matching one that Tate had given him, but it didn't scare her as much as they did. It all felt real when she saw them.
Sometimes she talked to Travis out of curiosity. She wanted to know what his life was like. If he really deserved to be here like the rest of them. So far, he didn't. Which was screwed up. She always thought you died and went somewhere better. If she had known she would be stuck In the same house at the same age for forever, she may have thought twice before swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. Damn was she stupid. What a pathetic way to die.
Then there was Tate. Tate Langdon. The boy she had fallen deeply in love with faster than she thought humanly possible, especially for her. She remembered the feelings that bubbled up inside her stomach the first time she saw him. How incredibly attractive yet surprisingly frightening he looked right there in front of her. He wore jeans and a green and brown striped shirt. The kind of outfit you wear when your just outright begging to be bullied these days. It was perfect to her though. Fuck society's image of an acceptable outfit. His tousled, blonde hair suited his appearance perfectly along with his eyes. So brown that she would swear they were black. They tore into her insides and she thought that if she looked down, she would see cuts and bruises and tear stains and blood all over herself as if he had stripped away her shell and brought her true inner feelings and emotions to the surface. She had never stared into such beauty before in her life. She was never one to date or get involved with guys, especially ones from her school. But in that moment, looking at him, she forgot everything she had ever once told herself about boys and relationships. He was different than all the horny douche bags that inhabited her school, she could tell.
She didn't even know his name yet and had only seen him for less than a minute before deciding that she had to know him. Had to figure out what is was about him that attracted her so much. So much that despite his odd advice about how she should and shouldn't try to kill herself, she invited him up to her room the following week. She knew that wasn't a good idea. Being in her house meant he was one of her dad's patients which also meant that he was screwed up. But she already knew that from the first moment she laid eyes on him. If that mattered to her she wouldn't be walking up the stairs with him headed to her bedroom. She contemplated that for a minute. The fact that a complete stranger who needed therapy and raddled off tips to her on how she should off herself was about to enter her room. Her sanctuary. She rarely let anyone enter her room. He was lucky then, she thought. Didn't know why yet, but she was more than determined to find out.
She fell deeper and deeper in love with him with every kiss and kind gesture he made. The first one being his rough calloused hands against her soft, gashed wrists. They had talked about their cut scars before this. She didn't mind sharing the stories that belonged to each one. The miscarriage, moving, her first day at her new school. They weren't exactly a secret. But nobody had ever touched them before. To her that was a violation of privacy and personal space but for some reason she didn't object. She didn't move. Didn't say anything. She just sat there wide eyed and paralyzed while he stroked them as if trying to remove the bad memories that each one held. She was in shock. She found it strangely comforting though when he started to speak.
He only said two words. "I'm sorry." Although short, his statement made her cringe. No one had ever seen these things before let alone apologized to her for the things that made her so accepted his words but didn't let him know that. She didn't think he had earned that much from her yet. Instead she got up quicker than she had planned and made her way across the room to turn on her iPod hoping to diffuse the awkward tension that came after she left his statement in the air without a response. She knew that would probably be considered rude, but he didn't look bothered by it. Actually he didn't look like anything at all. She couldn't read him. Sense his current feelings. She was normally really good at reading people for the most part, but not him. She got absolutely nothing. His poker face was starting to agitate her so she decided to change the subject to music which quickly led to a full blown conversation about how obsessed he was with nirvana and all things Kurt Cobain. Each little detail he revealed about himself reeled her in closer and closer to him. Good taste in music: Check. Big heart: Check. Dimples: Check.
The sounds of rain pattering against the roof shook violet from her daze. She held her hand lightly to her forehead as she stood up; dizzy and tired. Lately she looked to booze and cigarettes to drown her sorrows, but the hangovers lasted longer in death and she was getting sick of the constant headaches and nausea she felt the day after. She hadn't touched a cigarette or a bottle of alcohol in days, though. So, she concluded that her dizziness and headaches were signs of withdraws. She laughed out loud for a second at the thought of how she could be possibly having death withdraws. She always found it fascinating all the feelings you still had after you died. How real everything still felt. She felt a craving for a smoke coming on and decided she would go down stairs and take some cigarettes rom her dad's office. Usually she kept her own pack in her room, but her last one was gone in a day and a half so she decided she would steal some. It wasn't like her dad really smoked anyway. He wouldn't notice they were gone and even if he did she doubted that he would care at this point. It wasn't like she could die from lung cancer or anything.
She tugged open the top drawer of her Dad's cabinet where he kept his untouched stash. She was only going to take a few but decided on the whole pack so she wouldn't have to make a second trip down tomorrow. The less chances of running into Tate the better.
She was about to close the drawer and head back upstairs when something caught her attention. A manilla colored file folder with a Label on the top that read "Tate Langdon". Tate's patient file. She was more than tempted to read it right there out in the open, but thought it best to bring it back to the privacy of her room. She quickly hurried back up the stairs tiptoeing so no one would notice her. She wasn't in the mood for a mid hallway chat at the moment, especially with Tate's file in hand. That would sure stir up an interesting conversation.
After what felt like hours she finally picked up the folder off her desk. She wanted to know what he talked about. What he thought about during his sessions. It intrigued her, though she didn't know why. She slowly opened it and pulled the first paper out and began reading. It was stuff she already knew about, except Tate had said they were all dreams. She wished they were dreams. But no, they were reality. She half grinned when she read the part about her. How he thought about her to make his bad visions go away. How sweet and utterly disgusting that was all at the same time. Her grin faded into a fresh snarl. How dare he use her to get himself through his toughest times. The times he relived the moments he murdered innocent children. She started to feel sick. Really sick. She shoved the paper back inside the folder and threw it as hard as she could against the wall. The papers scattered everywhere all over the floor. She sat on her bed with her knees pressed tightly against her chest; her head down between them. She started to cry. Harder and harder every time a new memory of him popped triumphantly into her brain. Her sick and twisted mind that just loved all the darkness that was Tate Langdon.
She cried for hours until she had no more tears left. She sobbed and gagged and kicked her feet in fits. She knew it wouldn't make her feel better, but being still would make her feel worse. She was angry more than sad. Not at him, though she should be. But at the fact that she wanted him. She shouldn't want him. Shouldn't love him. Then again she always did things she shouldn't. She knew no one would come to comfort her. She knew that nobody dared to go near her anymore. They wanted no part in her grieving. The fact that no one besides Tate could make her feel happy made her even more sick and she ran to the bathroom just in time before vomiting in the sink.
She stood with her head facing down towards the sink just staring at the drain. After a few minutes she slowly raised her head and looked up at herself in the mirror. She almost puked again. She looked like complete shit. She looked like death. How ironic. Her cheeks were sucked slightly into her skull, and when she lifted her shirt you could see her ribs and hip bones jutting out towards her skin. She had nothing but skin and bones left. She looked terrible and she felt terrible. She had enough of herself for one day and slowly turned her back to the mirror and walked into her room. She changed into a baggy T- shirt and shorts and made her way to the windowsill to watch the rain fall outside, stepping all over Tate's patient file papers as she walked. She would probably burn them tomorrow.
She pulled the zippo from her bag and admired the zipping sound it made when she twisted the nob on the side to expose the fire. Before she ever even smoked she loved playing with her friends lighters. She used to carry one around for no particular reason at all just because she liked it. This made her think of Tate and how he carried one around to. He didn't smoke but she did, and that was the only reason he kept it. She pushed the thought from her mind and lit her first cigarette hoping it would make her forget about all the memories that had come flooding back to her today.
After three cigarettes she figured she would give herself a break and try to sleep. That was what she did most days now because it was her only escape from the horrible hell hole she was stuck in. She still dreamt when she slept. That scared her though for fear of his face showing up in one. She had gotten lucky so far as to not dream about him. If she did she probably would cry for a week straight. She didn't know if they would be sad tears or angry tears or both. But, tonight when she dreamt, she didn't get so lucky.