Sociopath. Unstable. Dangerous.
Had you asked Violet Harmon to describe herself in three words, those would not have been her first choices. She would have said something like, morbid, bored, and outcast. But those three words wouldn't have helped her in front of a judge. No, they would have just pushed her to closer to the electric chair or a needle in her arm. The three words that her lawyer had used had been the only thing that kept her alive.
Violet remembered where it had all gone wrong. The doctors said that it started a week before the shooting. They said that Violet was being emotionally abused. That Tate, her boyfriend of two years, was manipulating her into doing what he wanted. When she refused, he'd become distant. She'd feel guilty and oh-so-lonely. Over the past twenty-two months she had grown so attached. Overly-attached, her father would say in that god-awful shrink voice that both his daughter and wife despised so much. But she couldn't help it. Tate was her everything.
She met Tate at such a vulnerable point in her life. With two suicide attempts under her belt and a history of blades against her skin, Violet was desperately looking for a change. It arrived when her mother came home to a woman—not much older than her own daughter—lying in her husband's bed. Violet had been waiting in the car. They were supposed to drop off the groceries and then head back out. She had been more than surprised when her mother was fleeing from the house with a knife in her hand, Ben Harmon stumbling after her with no more than a couch pillow to cover his shame.
That was how they ended up in Los Angeles—the less celebrity-centric side. The house was alright, the school had decent reviews, and her mother was trying so hard to pretend like everything was going to be okay.
Then he showed up.
He was a patient—though Violet often thought his mother was the one in need of therapy—with a killer smile and messy blonde hair that always made him look like he had just woken up. Her father was angry, her mother supported them. "As long as he makes you happy," she concluded. And he did. God, did Tate Langdon make her the happiest girl on Earth. They spent nights filled with nineties grunge, black and white horror flicks, and kisses that tasted of cigarettes and burnt popcorn.
Then it hit.
It came like a tidal wave, sweeping both of them off of their feet and throwing them into different, though equally violent, currents that pulled them further away from each other. Violet noticed the new car outside the Langdon house, occasionally catching glimpse of the man in the driver's seat. Simultaneously as the weather grew warmer, the longer Tate's sleeves became. How dare he, she had thought, the hypocrite. Telling her to stop mutilating herself when he was no better. It wasn't until his nose was broken and his lip bloodied that she realized the harm was not by his own hand.
The music was no longer for enjoyment, but to drown out the muffled sobbing that had replaced Friday night horror movies. The smile had left his eyes—in fact, everything else had too. Violet's heart broke a little more every day as she tried to swim to her lover, only to have him dragged under the surface just out of her reach.
And then he drowned.
He begged Violet to stay home that day, pleaded with her. It only encouraged her to go. She waited until first period was over before she arrived. Around third period was when she heard the first pop. The teacher dismissed it as a firecracker until it continued, followed by horrified screams.
She knew before she got out of her seat. She knew he'd be the one holding the gun, taking the shots. She knew what he was doing—she had seen it coming, but was unwilling to admit it. He looked so horrified when he saw her; his eyes filled with pain but no regret. She took his hand and they ran.
"I'm not sorry," he had whispered against her lips in the safety of her room. "I would do it again if I could."
"I know," she'd responded softly, taking his hand in hers. She wasn't sure how long it had been until she heard the sirens. She saw the fear in his eyes.
"They're going to kill me."
She knew it was true. Tate wouldn't go to prison. She wouldn't let him. She wouldn't let him be hurt in another place where he would be unable to defend himself. No. The police began yelling, demanding that Tate release Violet before something else happened. The lovers exchanged the same three words and a kiss.
Then Violet Harmon put two bullets in Tate Langdon's fucked up brain.
"It was self-defense," her father had tried to say. "He took her hostage. He was going to kill her too. Probably murder-suicide. Tate Langdon was a severely, severely disturbed boy."
Violet had never hated her father more than she did at that moment. That wasn't what he had said when Tate was invited over for Christmas dinner. Ben had smiled at him fondly, even allowing him to cut the holiday ham. Her parents loved Tate. He was broken, sure, but so was she. His home-life was far from ideal and that tugged on their pathetic, hypocritical heartstrings. But now—now that he had done something wrong. One wrong thing—they despised him. They feared him. They spewed stories about how he had 'always seemed off' and they had 'feared for their daughter'.
Shit, the look on their faces when Violet shared her side of the story.
"No, he didn't take me by force. I left with him. I brought him to my house."
"Tate didn't want to hurt me. I thought we could die together. He didn't want me to die at all."
"I didn't want him to get hurt again. People were always hurting him. I couldn't protect him."
"I sent him someplace nice. I saved him."
Some kind of mental break—produced by trauma, was her father's first protest. No, his little girl couldn't go to jail. Her victim was a murderer, but so was she. She couldn't go to the chair. Not a needle in her arm. No. Please no, not his perfect little girl.
"How do you plead?"
"Guilty, by means of insanity."
Violet had almost screamed, almost demanded that she be put to death. She killed someone in cold blood. Not just anyone—She killed Tate. Sweet, misunderstood, quiet Tate Langdon. The boy who sent a shy smile to everyone he passed, who read books about birds and dreamed of flying away from the hell he had been placed in. Tate Langdon who—who killed fifteen of his classmates. Violet had killed him.
"Briarcliff is a good place," were her dad's last words to her. "They'll help you. They'll make you better." She could tell by the way he refused to meet her eyes, by the way that he stared down at his hands—they weren't going to help her. They couldn't. But she'd be alive. That weight felt lighter on his conscience.
"I don't understand," were her mother's. Pressed in between pathetic sobs and sniffles. Violet didn't understand either, but she refused to feel sympathy for the woman.
Violet didn't say anything to them. She didn't say anything at all, even when they tugged her by the chains on her handcuffs, shoving her into the back of a dull once-white van. She wondered how long her mother would miss her—how long she would wait before she turned her daughter's room into an art studio or a music room. Her dad would move on, of course. He'd find an even younger student or patient to fuck away his sorrows.
The ride was to be two hours long, according to one of the two armed men sitting across from her. She still didn't speak, instead focusing her eyes on their guns. She wondered what she could do within two hours to get them to react. To get them to—no, not sedate her, but place a bullet in her. Right through her forehead, just like Tate's. She wondered if her body would fall back slowly, as gracefully as his had. She wondered if her eyes would retain the last emotion she felt, just like his. She wondered if she would see him, or if they would both be put in opposite ends of hell.
Gray.
It was her first impression of Briarcliff. The sky was the same shade as the building; a disgusting, morbid gray that even Violet couldn't bring herself to like. The building itself was rather ominous, looming against the foreboding forest that rested behind it. It was certainly meant so no one would escape. Violet wondered how many people had thought their lives were over after being admitted, attempted to escape, only to have them truly end in that forest.
The large doors swung open as Violet was yanked from the van. A nun, looking far too pleasant for a woman of God working in an institution for those touched by the Devil, waited for them at the top of the steps. Her hands were placed behind her back and a small smile rested on her rose-tinted lips.
"Welcome to Briarcliff," she said, her voice sickening in its false sweetness. Violet had heard that tone before. It was a tone of pity, dusted with apprehension. Her lips curled, broadening her smile. "I am Sister Mary Eunice." Violet was sure there was no need to introduce herself, considering half the state had probably heard of her by now.
WESTFIELD HIGH SHOOTER TAKES HOSTAGE... STUDENTS SAY GIRLFRIEND...
The nun turned, her eyes briefly landing on Violet's cuffed wrists. If the sight unnerved her, she did well in not showing it. A guard gripping each bicep, Violet was forced into the dark cavern.
The interior of Briarcliff was outdated, to say the least. She didn't know why she was expecting some kind of rehabilitation center. Those Malibu fortresses were for the rich—the people who could have killed a homeless beggar on the streets for some coke and gotten away with it by signing off a check with a significant amount of zeros. Those were the places that you were supposed to get help at. This was just a prison with dull uniforms and—as she quickly noticed floating in from the distance—a DJ who was still stuck in the 50's.
"You'll be meeting with Sister Jude," Sister Mary Eunice's syrupy voice broke Violet's daze. She stopped outside of a door, pausing as though waiting for Violet to speak. When she didn't, the nun continued. "She's in charge of the place. You'd do well to get on her good side." She chuckled after that, as though she had just made quite the joke. Violet assumed that this Sister Jude was lacking a good side to get on. Ha Ha.
Mary Eunice knocked once before pushing the door open. The office was just as dreary as the rest of the building; consisting of no more than a floor lamp, a locked armoire in the corner, and a desk with two chairs in front of it and one chair behind. The desk was occupied by a sour looking nun, who sent a glare in the younger Sister's direction. She looked as though she were about to scold the woman, but when her eyes landed on Violet—or, more accurately, the police offers holding Violet—a strained smile formed on her thin lips.
There were two people sitting in the chairs in front of the desk, a young woman and a young man. The man didn't budge, hunched over with his head dipped. The woman, however, turned to look at the newcomer curiously. She had brown hair that hung to her shoulders, with wide chocolate eyes to match. Her skin was pale, making her thick eyebrows and gaunt features all the more striking. Her eyes fell on Violet's hands and a pained expression overtook her curiosity. Her gaze looked, unlike the young nun's, genuinely pitying. But Violet had the sense that she wasn't pitying her for the handcuffs. She was pitying her because she was here.
"You're early," the nun behind the desk finally said. Her accent was thick, and she tapped long nails against the wood of her desk. There was no time to make excuses, though Violet wasn't sure anyone would have, before she redirected her attention to the two patients in front of her. "Now you listen to me," she began, voice having lost all of its feigned mirth. "If you ever lay your hands on another one of my staff, you will be thrown into solitary. Do you understand me?"
"Tell your staff to keep their filthy hands off my brother, then," was the woman's snarky response.
Violet noticed that Sister Mary Eunice was shifting her weight uncomfortably, sending an almost nervous smile back at the police officers. Sister Jude's right brow twitched ever-so-slightly, and she cast an almost unseen glance at the quad of guests. She clenched her jaw, and Violet noticed that her fingers curled against the top of the desk. She looked like she was debating on what to say, what to do, and when she did speak, it was obvious in the way she spoke through her teeth that she had chosen an unfavorable option. "We will discuss this later," she said, trying to keep a calm voice of authority. "For now, the two of you may go back to the common room." The woman looked like she was about to protest, but Sister Jude quickly added. "Dinner will be soon."
The woman let out a short breath that could have been either a scoff or a laugh before she got to her feet. She set a glare on Sister Jude, then turned to set the same glare on the people behind her. She hesitated for a moment before she closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly. When she opened them again, there was a softness that Violet hadn't seen before. She turned to the man in the chair and lightly touched his shoulder. "C'mon," she whispered. There was a moment before he slowly pulled himself out of the seat with what looked like great difficulty. She draped his arm over her shoulders and wrapped hers around his waist, stabilizing him. He kept his head down, messy dark hair falling over his forehead. Violet caught glimpse of a bruising cut on his cheekbone as the two exited.
Violet watched them until her neck started aching and she was forced to look at Sister Jude. The nun was eyeing her with an almost predatory smile. She waved a hand dismissively. "I apologize about that. Miss Winters is one of our more... Spirited patients." There was a grunt from one of the policemen and Sister Jude's lips stretched to keep her smile from faltering. "We already received Miss Harmon's paperwork, you are welcome to leave her."
Another grunt and Violet's wrists were lifted. She hadn't realized how sore they were until the cop unlocked the handcuffs. She rubbed at the red lines on her pale flesh absently, watching as the cops exchanged brief farewells before disappearing.
"Sister, would you mind seeing to the two miscreants I just sent out there?" Sister Jude's eyes never left Violet's face. "Make sure she's not destroying the common's air with her nicotine." Sister Mary Eunice nodded, barely sparing Violet a glance before leaving the room. There was a period of silence before Sister Jude lifted her brows. "Aren't ya' going to sit?"
Violet slowly approached the desk, sinking into the chair the girl had sat in before. Her eyes fell on the floor briefly, widening slightly when she noticed a few drops of red to her left, where the man had been sitting.
Sister Jude released a soft sigh as she opened one of the desk's drawers. She pulled out a cream folder and sat it down on the tabletop. "So, Miss Violet Harmon," she drawled. Violet didn't bother to meet her gaze. The woman scoffed, eyes roaming through the file. "You would have been better off becoming a nun." She closed the folder, clasping her hands on top of it. "Seems you have very poor taste in men."
Violet's head snapped up, her eyes wide but filled with horror. How dare she? How fucking dare—
"No need to get defensive, Miss Harmon. You wouldn't want to be thrown into solitary on your first day." Sister Jude smiled, though this one held something darker than her previous smirk. "I am going to cut to the chase here, now that Tweedledee, Tweedledum, and that wispy dormouse have left us." She leaned forward. "This is how things are going to go during your little stay with us." Violet didn't say anything, instead watching with glassy eyes as the woman rose from her seat, dragging her fingers along the wood as she circled the desk.
"You will have a schedule. You are out of bed no later than seven. Breakfast is at seven-ten. You are permitted to wander about the common area. You will work in the bakery Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. There are snacks in the commons, no lunch. Dinner is at seven. You will be back in your room no later than ten. You will participate in group therapy every Thursday, and you will meet your personal therapist, Dr. Oliver Thredson, tomorrow at nine a.m."
"No one here cares about you. No one wants to hear your little Romeo and Juliet sob-story. You are simply a piece of paper in a stack. You have no name, no life, you are not a patient — you are a prisoner. I know what your original plea was. You knew what you had done, you had no remorse, and you would probably kill again should it please you. This was an alternative. This is not your way out of jail." She rested against the desk, studying Violet's reaction. She must have seen something in the girl's caramel eyes because she leaned forward and caught her chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Do you understand?"
Violet scowled, but managed to nod in the woman's deadly grip.
Sister Jude hesitated before releasing the girl, a sneer-like smile tugging at her lips. "Well, then." She straightened up and took her place behind her desk. As though on cue, the doors opened, Mary Eunice and an orderly entering and approaching the desk. The orderly roughly grabbed Violet's arm and pulled her to her feet.
"Welcome to hell, Miss Harmon."
Author's Note: Oh jeez. Well, you know how I am with Parmiga crossovers. (I also wrote the beginnings of a Zoe/Jimmy story. But then again I'm not a fan of Freak Show but who knows where it'll go.) Anywho, this one will be different than Zames because we aren't going to address the physical similarities between Tate and Kit, just the few personality ones, if present. Also, we're just going to say that this time period is recent, though Briarcliff's methods are old-fashioned, to say the least. This was unbeta'd, as usual, but I hope you enjoyed! Reviews are always appreciated - let me know if you'd like it to continue!