Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved.
—"Bullet With Butterfly Wings", The Smashing Pumpkins
It's Tuesday April 12, 1994.
He's aware of the date because one week ago Kurt Cobain killed himself.
Tate Langdon rolls out of bed, puts on a pair of jeans and sneakers, grabs his backpack and is out the front door without speaking a word.
Westfield High is a place full of shit.
Shit teachers, shit students, and shit knowledge.
He wonders why no one else can see what he sees, that this world is utterly fucked and that maybe it'd be better for everyone if they all just left it. Tate thinks that death cannot be any worse than this, because life is already a living hell.
He's sitting in the back of his American Lit class, next to some black hair dyed cunt who thinks that if she wears raccoon eyes and cut up hosiery then she must understand what it's like to be sad.
No one has any fucking clue.
Tate is beginning to think that Cobain had the right idea.
After school Tate swings by Matt's apartment.
Matt is Tate's dealer.
The apartment reeks of weed and Tate fidgets by the front door as Matt rummages through his bedroom.
A moment later Matt walks out and hands Tate a bag. "It's good shit," the dealer says. He looks at Tate's shoulder, refusing to look him in the eye.
A lot of people think that Tate is creepy looking. Sometimes his dark brown eyes look black against his pale skin and dirty blonde hair, and it freaks people out. Tate doesn't mind. It's actually one of the few things about his appearance that he actually likes.
Tate nods, rolls the bag up and sticks it into his front pocket. "Thanks," he says. Then he leaves.
When Constance found out that Tate had been cutting himself she was pissed.
And not over the fact that Tate had been self-harming. Of course not.
She was mad that he'd mauled his arm.
"You'll have scars forever now. I hope you're happy," she had snapped in disgust. Then she'd thrown his arm back to him, smacked him upside the head and left his room, slamming the door behind her.
Tate has been more careful about his cutting since then.
He locks the door of the bathroom, as he always does, and turns on the shower. When it's hot enough he hops in and moves to the back, away from the shower head.
He slices the blade along his inner thigh. He doesn't wince, because the pain is the goal.
He watches the blood run down his leg and then swirl down the drain.
He's recruited into helping Constance make dinner.
He's chopping tomatoes, and Constance moves into his peripheral vision, then she's beside his shoulder.
It'd be too easy. All he'd have to do is turn his body, thrust his arm forward and then push.
Then the knife would be sticking out of Constance's stomach and she'd bleed to death right here on her on kitchen floor.
Tate thinks that she'd deserve it after what she did.
Instead he finishes with the tomatoes, rinses the knife off and leaves it in the sink.
He knows it's a dream immediately.
He's never been in this room before. There's dark paint on the walls, along with a chalkboard and some creepy but cool pictures. The curtains are open, so sunlight pours into the room.
But then Tate reasons that he can't be dreaming, because the human mind doesn't create the people you see in your dreams, it just echoes what it sees in the waking world.
And Tate is pretty he's never seen her before.
She's staring at him. "Who the fuck are you?" she says from atop her bed. He notices her clothes; she's wearing some baggy sweater, tights, and sneakers that are similar to his own.
Instead of answering her he gets up to inspect the room he's in. "Cool poster," he says, gesturing to a picture of a skull.
"Thanks." There's a pause. "I'm dreaming."
"Yeah?"
"This is my room but there aren't any boxes."
He looks back over at her. She's standing in the middle of the room now, surveying the clean floors. "I'm moving in less than a week. There should be boxes everywhere."
"Where are you moving to?"
"L.A. Why are you in my dream?" she asks again, frowning.
Tate shrugs. "Why are you in mine?"
The corner of her mouth tilts up. "I don't like sharing my dreams with people." Then she shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I never remember my dreams anyway."
Tate refrains from mentioning that he always remembers his dreams. He usually kills people in them.
Tate hopes he doesn't kill this girl, though. It'd be a waste of a dream. It'd be a waste of her.
He continues walking around her room. He finds a hat and immediately puts it on his head then studies himself in the mirror.
"What's your name?" the girl asks.
"Tate," he answers easily. He turns to her and gestures to his head. She rolls her eyes. "What's yours?"
"Violet."
"Like the flower?"
She grunts in response, and then begins to move about the room, opening drawers and searching through them.
"What're you looking for?"
"My lighter."
"You can smoke in dreams?"
"You can in mine."
This makes him smile.
She eventually finds it and lights up. Tate inhales. He quickly decides that the smell of a freshly lit cigarette fits her.
She moves to her dresser, fiddling with some box shaped thingy. She puts in on top of some speakers, and then scrolls her thumb over it. Music Tate doesn't recognize comes blaring out.
He walks over to her chalkboard and writes VIOLENT in big, bold letters.
He wakes up the next morning and remembers the dream.
He rolls out of bed, puts on his jeans and sneakers, grabs his backpack and is out the door without muttering a word.
He's never had a reoccurring dream before, but a part of him hopes that last night was the first of many.
A/N:
The point of this story (aside from writing Tate/Violet goodness) is to attempt to salvage Tate's character since, in my opinion, the Tate we meet in the very first episode is unsalvageable. I have several endings in mind, so I guess we'll just have to see how this goes.
Anyway, hope everyone enjoyed this first installment. Make sure to review. I like reviews ;)
