The boring author's note before we begin: obviously, I do not own AHS. A bit of information: this is a little off-plot, so neither Tate nor Violet are dead at the moment. The massacre never happened. It is set in present time. I have sort of swapped Tate + Violet's lives around just to be different. I hope you enjoy + don't be shy with reviews/questions.
Tate Langdon shuffled miserably into his new bedroom and sat on the bare mattress, surveying the room. Boxes were carelessly distributed and this lack of organisation bothered him. He sighed, disgruntled; he hated change. He never wanted to move here and he certainly didn't want to move here on her terms. Who was she to make decisions for him? Tate frowned as he pictured her face in his mind, hatred flowing through his veins.
His father's new whore. He has a new bitch every week, he sneered internally. This will all be a waste of time. Tate's father did not go by name, only Doctor Langdon or, mainly in Tate's case, Sir. Doctor Langdon was a psychologist who worked from home. He had cheated on his wife with one of his ex-patients and now they were engaged. Her name was Lucy but Tate called her The Home Wrecker. It was her idea to up sticks and move to L.A. Tate hated the idea even more because it came from her.
The mess around him bore too much, so Tate stood up and crouched beside the nearest cardboard box. He felt in the back pocket of his jeans and produced a shiny pocket knife with a blood red handle. He flipped up the blade and sliced through the tape on the box. He grabbed an armful of the books he discovered and carried them to the book shelf in one of the dank corners of the room. Firstly, he placed them all in a random order, spines facing outwards, in order to judge their size. He then shuffled them around until they all sat in size order, from largest to smallest. He repeated this task until he had emptied the box. He traced his fingers lightly along their spines; some leather-bound, some paperback, some so papery and worn he dared never to read them again in case they tore. He never stuck to a particular genre of reading as he enjoyed anything that provided an escape from his reality. Classic English literature, biographies of long-dead celebrities, nature journals... He was sure the Bible was in there somewhere too.
An hour or two later, Tate had successfully managed to completely unpack his things and everything was neat and orderly. If his brain and life had to be a mess, he could at least keep a clean bedroom. He gathered the torn cardboard under his arm and hopped down the mahogany staircase. He wondered if it was real mahogany or if it was a cheap alternative to give the house 'character'. He unlocked the front door and walked down the driveway to the trash can. He lifted the tin lid and dropped the cardboard in. As he replaced the lid he noticed movement in the yard next door. For some reason, he had never noticed how different his neighbour's house was to his own. The entire street was full of cookie cutter houses, each identical to the next – typical, suburban L.A. homes. But this one was so incredibly distinguished he had no clue how he'd missed it before. It was a grand, early-twenties-looking manor. Everything was completely accurate to the time – right down to the window panes. Tate let out a low whistle which caught the attention of a figure in the front garden. Tate diverted his attention to them and he noticed it was a young girl, around his age, perhaps a year or so younger. She had long, dirty blonde hair and a passive expression. She wore a baggy, ill-fitting green jumper and maroon tights with some battered leather boots. She had a cigarette balanced between her lips and didn't break eye contact once. Tate surveyed her and offered her a small nod. He cleared his throat to speak to her but she had already put the cigarette back in its packet and retreated inside. Tate frowned slightly and slumped up the front porch to his new home. Welcome to the neighbourhood, Tate, you bastard, he thought bitterly.