A/N: And I'm back with another story! Don't you worry, Oh, How It Burns will soon be updated. But I thought that this would be an interesting premise. What happened to our lovely Murder House residents much later in time? It will not be too long – only a few chapters – because I do want to finish Oh, How It Burns and start other stuff.
I have taken my title from the song by David Bowie. I don't own it, though I do possess an infatuation with Jareth the Goblin King.
As The World Falls Down
The world didn't end abruptly like everyone believed it would.
It ended so gradually that it snuck up on you and suddenly you were confronted with the undeniable fact that society as we knew it was over. It was more like a sigh than a bang, a slow, soft, stuttering gasp of someone on his or her deathbed rather than a nuclear bomb or a hurricane. And like the grieving family giving comfort to each other, too busy to notice that the reason for their gathering has flatlined and they have missed the moment that they have morbidly been waiting for, the world was surprised by its own demise, staring darkly and unforgiving back at the pathetic mess society had created.
Yet the house remained, strangely impervious to the many manmade and natural attempts to dismantle it. Storms, disease, bulldozers, and pollution were no match for the evil that anchored it and its ghostly inhabitants to that otherwise unremarkable plot of land.
And now, they are still here, trapped as they look out to see what the world has become.
Violet is not sure what year it is anymore, not that it matters since the outside counts time by the smog storms that billow around the open carcasses of the neighboring houses. The democratic government is no longer – true democracy is a faded thing of the past – and a dictatorial system has replaced it. The leader of the coup – Cavanaugh, she thinks his name is – claimed his takeover was to enact an expert force to clean up the cities and reform the country's infrastructure, but Violet has seen no change and, according to the spotty radio broadcasts she sometimes picks up, neither has the rest of the living world. She snorts because despite all that has happened, human nature has not changed at all.
"Typical."
She readjusts her radio, an old battered thing that she bravely stole from the wreckage nearby last Halloween. She had run out of the house to see if she could escape the property, always expecting to be thrown back into the kitchen, but this time, she stumbled right off the grounds into what used to be Constance's yard. She was so bewildered by her escape that she didn't notice the rabid dog growling at her and barely escaped a bite on the leg. But she got that radio before the dog almost got her and she smiles at the memory.
Shaky static hisses through the speakers and she frowns, whacking the machine gently since she knows that the wires can become loose over time. She turns the tuning dial so that the impassioned announcer's voice comes through a bit more clearly.
"In other news, President Cavanaugh has announced that he has instituted martial law for the entire country due to the devastating storms that have been systematically hitting the Mid West…"
She sighs and gets up as the host details the storms' path of destruction. Ever since the pollution got out of hand, horrible storms whip up from seemingly out of nowhere and will suffocate you on debris and dust in an instant.
For once, maybe this hellhole is better than the hell outside.
And Tate was right.
The world really is a filthy, goddamn horror show now.
She shivers.
And they will really see it through until the end.
Tate cannot help but bitterly laugh at the outside. Wasn't he right? Wasn't he always right? And everybody looked at him like he was crazy. Not that he was denying that they were right about the screws he even admits are a tad loose, but he savors the feeling of triumph. He knew about this so long ago and now everyone is just getting with the program. He feels like he is a prophet, privy to the secrets that only a few know and tasked with disseminating them to the poor souls around him. Back then – he is not sure how long since his existence in the house knows no end and he doesn't remember the beginning nor does he care enough to try – he was like Cassandra, trapped in the worst prison contrived. He knew beyond all doubt that he was right, but no one would listen to him. He was beating his head against a wall because he could not communicate what he infallibly knew. But slowly, the outside began to see the truth of his words as did the denizens of the Murder House. He knew before. The outside knew now. He doesn't know when she figured it out, but she was smart.
"And look who's had the last laugh."
He smirked. She was quick, that one. It was just one of the many reasons that he had fallen so hard for her.
"Me."
"You got that smug grin."
He turned around to face her and she could see that his gloating smile showed too many teeth.
"Let's just say I like to win."
She inhaled sharply and the sound of air whooshing past her canines made him smirk even wider.
Because he knows she didn't miss the other meaning behind his words before she slammed the door shut.
The air is too polluted and volatile for the ghosts to safely go outside anymore. Between the disgusting stench of refuse and rotting animal carcasses and deadly pieces of glass and steel that cut through skin as a knife does through butter, the outside was not a pleasant place to be. Her parents hardly ever took the baby out anymore. Moira just looked at the winds sorrowfully and Violet wondered what went through her mind. Sometimes she would catch him looking out at the world beyond, but she didn't have the courage to look at his face to see what emotions, if any, he held there. She herself longed to go out, longed to inhale clear, cool air instead of the stale atmosphere in the house even though her death made breathing an option instead of a necessity.
"How did this happen?"
Vivien joins her at the window, bouncing her baby brother in her arms gently.
"I'm not really sure, Mom."
"The world was already so full of sadness when we came here."
"We were the ones full of sadness, Mom."
"I suppose you're right, but we couldn't have been the only ones in the world who were so profoundly unhappy."
"No, we couldn't have been."
The silence stretches eschatologically between them because all time is encompassed in the present. Past and future were not longer distinct blocks of time. All time was connected and affected by all events. It was a curious feeling for Violet, but she suspected that when you are immortally dead like she is, the philosophical debates she could have on time would be pretty epic, for lack of a better word.
"Are you still sad, Violet?"
After so long? For all that happened to us? To you? To what you had with him? Violet knew the unspoken questions that were corollaries to Vivien's spoken one.
"Yes. No."
Vivien places her hand on Violet's shoulder.
I understand.
She speaks in answer to her mother's silent response.
"Do you?"
Vivien searches her eyes and sighs.
"I have tried to make peace with our fate, so I have tried to understand the best I can."
She pulls Violet into a tight hug, making sure not to crush the baby still in her arms, who is soundly sleeping.
"I'm not you, Violet. I cannot decide for you how you feel about everything. You alone must choose how you will live the rest of our time here."
"So if I choose to live it with him, you will accept that?" She hated the eagerness that crept into her voice, but it had been so long.
"I won't be happy, but I'm not you. You need to live for yourself, Violet, as much as we can given our peculiar situation." Violet couldn't help snorting because using peculiar as the adjective to describe their undead existence seemed grossly underestimated to her. "Do what makes you happy. I want you to be happy even if it makes me unhappy."
Violet blinked back tears.
"Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry."
Vivien cradled both her children in her arms and that was enough.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Vivien just held and shushed her softly as Violet's warm, salty tears fell into her sweater.
He didn't want to interrupt their moment because he knew he would not be a welcome sight for either of the Harmon women. But he couldn't help the rush of cruel joy – for it was cruel because he didn't know how fast it would be taken away – when he heard Violet speak.
"So if I choose to live it with him, you will accept that?"
When he went to sleep that night, he whispered his first prayer, which was tinged with the first flicker of hope he had felt in a long time.
"Just one more chance. All for her."
A/N: What do you think? Reviews are always loved.