Be warned: this is quite nonsensical and quite AU. Rated for a bit of lesbian smut, drug use, and evil vampires that may or may not be real. Oh, and bisexual Violet.
He was angry at her again.
She knew it like she knew how her heart would flutter like a terrified trapped bird beating at its cage, panicking and panicking and how it would rise, so swiftly, terrifying, thunder booms and lightning crashes, snapping this way and that; like how it would slow gently, soothingly, calmingly- soft and sweet, like the sound of running water after rain, the trickle of a stream; like how her eyes would roll back in her head so peacefully, so final, and the slow, thudding, ludding beat of her heart, always slowing. She'd been at this a long time; she knew exactly when and how her earthquakes would start, last, stop like she knew exactly where to cut, which vein, how deep is too deep- it had become all so familiar to her, familiar as the desert landscape of her dreams, desperate- vivid and lonely, filled with smoky dusky sunsets, stained glass skies and mesas in the distance, so colorful, and so infinitely sad- wandering under the night desert sky, cold and clear where under the full moon the scorpion leaves his stars and comes down from the sky, ready to sting, ready to kill; familiar as the expanse of his skin, the exact placement of the scars on his arms and hers, silver lines etched like power-flowing runes, the exact golden sunlight shade of his shaggy hair; his pupil-less night-dark hell-black eyes, so lovely and so dangerous; the exact rough feel of his lips and the layout of his face; the arresting angle of his cheekbones.
(Let it be never be said that Violet didn't pay attention to detail.)
She knew Tate was angry. He had barely spoken to her all morning, looked at her with reproach in his dark eyes, betrayal and mistrust. She knew he had found her new stash- all prescription medications: barbiturates, benzodiazepines, codeine, morphine, Vicodin- her pills would have the place poppin' tonight, a regular party. She wasn't picky- she'd share with him of course. Her weed dealer was sick that week, so no chance of fresh marijuana until next Tuesday. Tate had been looking at her strangely, wondering why she was out so often and so late, had blown off their get-togethers (not "dates", there wouldn't be any chiding tonight- tonight was special). She'd seen it all before, but she was sorry he was sad, sorry he was reproachful, sorry about everything, all the lying and all the craving, gnawing at her, day and night, itching and itching and itching for more more more, she really was. She knew he'd take her back, curl under her ribs like her heart in its hearth, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It was advantageous, it was wrong, but it was right, oh-so-right like the feel of his hands on her, everything on her, moving up and up and up and no more, no more of anything after that, just emptiness.
She was hooked, she was lined with her scars, and she was sinking into her place in her black-velvet-lined walnut coffin, lying in state in the house's basement, harsh and sterile and cold with Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, Komm, süßer Tod, komm selge Ruh, and all her dirges playing, pale under operatic florescent lights, soaring. It certainly made for an interesting picture in her mind. She never did like normal things.
- It was a dim, gloomy day in May, and in the fog she thought she could see shapes wandering, female ghosts of all the horse-riders with their needle veins, the overdoses, all the misty forms of all the broken hearts that the vampire Los Angeles had drained of life.
She had a sudden image of Los Angeles come to life as a woman with long, wavy, wine-dark hair, dark eyes like Tate's, but much more feline, she surmised, eyes that were dangerous, predatory, rabidly glinting in the moonlight. Long thin fingers, pale cappuccino skin, she is a vampire after all, long thin legs, flat abdomen, perky breasts, collarbones that looked like bird's wings, she would look exotic but unendingly fragile. She would travel alone through the deserts, finding lost people with broken hearts in lonely diners and bars scattered across the Mojave, they would fall in love with her or so they thought, heh, that's what they think isn't it, Maria, no one could ever truly fall in love with you both men and women would think they fell in love with her, with her haunted charm and her haunted eyes and her haunted heart, soft and sweet and sad and speaking slowly. They would leave with her, she would take them out under the stars, where the rattlesnakes are and the mesas loom in the distance, out to the desert under a deep-sea sky, where they would love each other until she tired, until she was hungry, and she pierced them with her long pointed teeth and drained them, blood on her lips and satisfaction in her wide dark eyes. She would leave the bodies out as carrion for the scavengers to eat evil things connect with evil things, isn't that right Maria and the lost people would remain lost forever, no one would notice and no one would care. She would traverse the deserts looking for her one-time one-hit lovers, lovers that could pay her price for love, people that would remain nameless and faceless under desert skies while she stood, shadowed against the mesas right before the sun came up, just enough that she cast her shadow, left her mark, but vanish before nature had a chance to vanquish her.
Violet had met her in a bookstore shortly after she moved, was looking for a Russian novel so she could be reminded of the bitter freeze of a Massachusetts winter when she saw her, staring at The Rosy Crucifixion so intently she seemed to be drowning in print and ink and vintage book. She sensed the change in Violet, sensed her transition from focused and frustrated to curious and slightly shy, and looked up with nothing but seduction and focus and hunger in her dark waiting eyes. She walked towards Violet, purposefully, striding in her dark jeans and teal lace top, with a ring with a purple stone on the pointer finger of her right hand, her hair wavy and loose and long around her shoulders and her breasts, small and fragile but commanding and exotic, knowing. Violet swallowed her fear and asked would you like to go out for some coffee and the girl with the dark waiting eyes simply smiled, said yes, she would like to go for some coffee.
They had known each other only a few weeks when things began to get heavy, heady and sweet with the scent of summer intoxication and summer infatuation, lesbian love in the Los Angeles heat. They had started out in dusky teal twilight, in coffee shops and old bookstores, browsing caffeine and eating novels like candy, and Violet grew to be at ease with Los Angeles, with Maria, with the noble heat under the desert sun. They had ended at black midnight on wired city streets, late at night, with books and coffee and up-all-nights, up for every hour of the night. Maria lived in an apartment lit with candles and art nouveau prints, surreal prints, "Le Pater" by Alphonse Mucha on her wall, Dali's "The Last Supper" on another. Sometimes Violet would stay at Maria's and they would end staring, at surreal mind-blank art with her head on Maria's chest, with Maria stroking her hair and murmuring old songs in soft Spanish, the two of them watching pictures move on paper, wandering up into the mountains and floating up to the sky. Sometimes they would end with Maria's mouth on hers, Maria's body on hers, Maria's hands on her chest and Maria's knees between her legs, fused together, molten white heat and an uncontrolled desperate aching, a river released from a long-standing dam that flowed with a purpose and a fury born of desperation, a river wide and rolling, tossing, filled with water from the spring rains.
It was one night when her father called look, Vi, we got the house, we're moving in on Friday (Saturday) Saturday then, I'm really excited, I know living in our apartment hasn't been all that great and it's going to be better in the house Vi, it's going to be so much better and it was all she could do to choke out a that's great, I'm staying over at Maria's tonight, so don't worry about meunderneath the feeling of Maria's mouth on her throat, nibbling and sucking and the occasional sharp bite, moving down to her collarbones, down to her chest, down through her abdomen, nibbling and sucking and occasionally biting the whole way, calmly stoking a fire that was incinerating all her doubt and shame and disbelief, growing need and want and recklessness that was a hellfire inside her, hellfire burning at the apex of her thighs. She was nearly naked, and she opened her hazy doe eyes and suddenly she was terrified of Maria, in her black lace bra and a pair of denim shorts, terrified of her wide dark hungry-eyed gaze. She looked like she wanted to eat her heart, drain her blood, take her in it, and then leave her pale and naked in a windowless cell, with a rotting hole where her heart should have been and blood seeping into a mossy stone floor. She flung Maria off of her, grabbed her dress and ran out of the apartment with the glowing candles, with the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost floating up to heaven and climbing on the walls, and a dark-haired, dark-eyed fiend. Maria had merely been biding her time .
When she had gotten to her parent's apartment, she had beat and hollered on the door screaming let me in goddamn it there's a vampire outside and it's chasing me at three in the morning, and her parents did nothing but let her in and calm her down, give her a random cross and send her to bed with a cup of hot tea and before she fell asleep she heard them talking about how she's on something, did you hear her, did you see her eyes did you see her shaking and fell deeply asleep, twitching around her bane's bane, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
After she moved into the house, after she had met Tate, after the red pill blue pill one pill two pills began to take her over, after the lying and the deceit and utter shit she felt like all the time, she called the apartment building where Maria lived, out of nostalgia and curiosity and perhaps a little bit of a death-wish, she wasn't really sure. She called the stoner landlord and asked for Maria in Apartment L-33 and he came back with what the hell are you on girl, there's no Maria in apartment L-33 because there is no apartment L-33, now get off the phone because you're wasting my blunt and hung up, and Violet was left staring at the rain running down the windowpanes, crystalline and ethereal and the sky outside was a grey-blue and what the hell this is bullshit. The pill bottles in her hands were all empty and she was sitting on the kitchen counter, breathing slower and slower and slower, the rain rocking her and thunder lulling her to sleep and she was falling, falling off the counter and sprawled on the ground with her vision disoriented, with nothing but a grey sky in her mind and thunder, Tate's shouts in her ears, and then she was being picked up and carried up the stairs, more rain pelting her face and Tate's fingers down her throat and she dimly realized she had puked all over her legs. Then lightning struck, amplified by water as conductor and it surged and crackled and purged her awake, she saw Tate's terrified, dark-eyed face and it looked so much like Maria's used to she began to turn away and keen, sobbing underneath the running shower with Tate's kisses at the back of her neck, trying to soothe and instead he incited little birds of panic in her ivory birdcage ribs, screeching around and fluttering at imprisoning bones. The birds lived off of her heart. She didn't need Maria.
- It was a dim, gloomy day in May, and Violet was sitting on the counter, thinking about vampires and their lovers lost in deserts, except Maria never loved her and Tate did, Tate did love her. She was staring out the window at Maria's misty victims, one, a poet with long hair that died before the moon came out, to expire for love is beautiful but stupid she thought, another was an artist with a doll-like face that illustrated the horrors and monsters that lurked in her mind with a precise light hand, she could see two aspiring actresses that died from overdoses, one from heroin and another from meth, she could see their rabid eyes glowing out of the mist, seeking retribution they would never would never fall prey to Los Angeles. She would fall prey to different monsters, she'd find other lovers, much closer to the house, one that came in the form of an amoral heartbroken boy, and the others manufactured robotically, futuristically, in sterile pharmaceutical laboratories, with lights like the ones above her walnut coffin in the basement. She slipped down off the counter, she was ready to mock the dead. She would apologize to Tate, they would fuck and they would spoon and they would fall more deeply down their drug-fueled god-forsaken rabbit hole together, all the way down, until they cracked themselves into pieces on the rocky bottom of their goddamn spiral.
Desperate attracts lonely.
Author's note: Okay guys, I found this on my computer while I was going through my documents and I decided to finish it all in one night because I'm on spring break and remarkably less stressed than I normally am. I am incredibly sorry that it makes no sense and that it sort of ran away with me. Just know that Violet and Tate are falling into their self-destruction and drug addiction together, and Maria may or may not have been real, I'm not really sure either. This was inspired by an AHS AU meme on Tumblr, and I wrote the first two paragraphs and then I abandoned it for a few months, so it's a bit disconnected. Reviews would be extremely nice, I would love to hear what you think of my two a.m. ramblings and here's yet another apology for my atrocious grammar.