NOVISSIMO DIE, an opera in three acts
A/N: This is obviously not an opera, haha. But I've recently developed a liking for American Horror Story, and it really inspired me. One thing I really wish we had gotten to delve deeper into was Tate's final day, and see the shooting and the immolation of Larry Harvey, more from his perspective than a third person view. So that's what I'm going to attempt to do. "Novissimo Die," by the way, means "last day" in Latin. Allegedly. I hope. Or else I look completely ridiculous.
It must be the journalist in me, but I've always found this kind of story fascinating. I've done a lot of research and reading on school shooters and killing sprees. In Tate's case, Constance blames the Murder House for Tate's behavior, but she's the only character that does that, and the show never fully reaches into everything. I think there's obviously something much more than that, which can be picked up from his interactions with Ben throughout the early parts of the series.
So, here goes. I'm sure I won't do this amazing character a semblance of justice, but I'm going to try.
"I prepare for the noble war. I'm calm, I know the secret. I know what's coming and I know no one can stop me, including myself. I kill people I like. Some of them beg for their life. I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything. It's a filthy world we live in. It's a filthy goddamn helpless world, and honestly, I feel like I'm helping to take them away from the shit and the piss and the vomit that run in the streets. I'm helping to take them somewhere clean, and kind."
Act One
Libretto – God of Fire
I.
The meth hits my brain first, rocketing through my senses like a bullet, pounding into my skull. I blink, inhaling deeply, before allowing the hot sensation to spark my body. The coke follows shortly behind it, intensifying the trip. My skin is on fire, and I'm ready to melt, become someone else, end this fucking joke of a life that I've been living and start something new. Anything else.
There's one line left on my desk and I snort it with practiced precision. I can't remember if it's more cocaine or the crushed amphetamines or both or something else entirely but it's the last catalyst I need to fall over the edge. I slouch over the desk, my vision blurred and my jagged thoughts rattling from one thing to the next to the next to the next to the next to the next to the...
It's because of that fucking cunt – my mother – that I'm getting fucked up, anyway. The last thing I saw before insufflating myself oblivion was her old blonde head in that fucker Larry's lap, deep-throating his limp, wrinkly dick. She's usually not this careless, but he bought her a necklace today or something.
She wonders why I hate him, why I hate her, why I hate everyone. Growing up at the hands of that fucking bitch is enough to make anyone like me, drive anyone to smack and crack and dope and molly and whatever the fuck else I need to keep myself together, keep myself sane.
I blink again. Where the hell am I? Oh, right.
A photo of my mother, my sister and me smiles tauntingly up at me from the desk. I pick it up, running a tingling finger along the fake wood frame before throwing it roughly to the floor. The glass shatters with a satisfying crash. I wrap a hand around one of the largest shards, feeling it bite into my palm.
Blood, think and red and full of life, my life, oozes slowly down the side of my hand and onto the floor. A drop splatters on Addy's face, and I wince. I would never hurt her, never, not even in my most fucked up of states – like right now – would I consider it. I lift the shard, and it has a mind of its own now, I think, because it's suddenly sticking out of my mother's face, the point piercing just between her perfectly plucked and sculpted eyebrows.
I want more drugs. More and more, always more. With my razor, I diligently cut two more lines, smashing a meth rock with my fist to sprinkle into the coke. The power sprints up my nose and into my head, and then I'm struck with inspiration. A great idea. My mind is ringing. I've always been a smart kid, but school never struck me as something to give a fuck about, it's just a passing phase.
But this. This is something real. Something I'll be proud of. I feel like a god, sent to earth with this purpose. I'm born again – ruler of these world.
I'll be doing so much good, freeing people of this sick fucking place and sending them somewhere so much better. Except for Constance. That bitch will suffer for all of this – she'll loose simpering Larry and her perfect son and her perfectly empty lie of a life. Two birds with one stone.
Hmm. I like birds. They're free. Free to fly, to move on.
II.
Finding the weapons is easy enough. It's about 5 a.m., and the house is empty and quiet and dead. Some of my father's old rifles are stashed in the attic, while the rest are in the basement. I creep downstairs first.
The darkness is extra stark in my drug haze. I stumble down the stairs, staying upright but barely able to control my limbs. They feel loose, fuzzy. It'll make things easier.
I hear her before I see her, her sad voice sounding extra wrenching alongside the meth. "My baby…? Where is my baby?" she murmurs, moving through the darkness. Even though I love Nora Montgomery, and I have from the moment I saw her, even she cannot keep me from my purpose. I grab a large, double-barreled shotgun, testing its weight. It feels comfortable, made for my hand.
Suddenly, she's behind me, her hand on my shoulder. "Who…who are you?" she says softly, brushing my hair with her fingers. I turn. I hope she can't see the drug haze that's around me. If there's anyone I want to approve of me, it's her.
"I'm Tate," I answer, trying not to draw attention to the shotgun in my hand. "Remember?"
Nora's eyes are empty. She doesn't understand. "What have you done to my house?"
I pause thoughtfully. "Nothing yet. But I'm going to."
She touches my hair again. She grazes her thumb across my cheek. "You're so full of sadness, and far too young for it." I close my eyes, allowing her to comfort me, to give me one last out from this horror, this idea, to remind me that I'm not a god.
She vanishes. I can't tell if I actually encountered her or if the coke just conjured her up. If anyone could have stopped me, stopped this, put an end to everything, it would have been Nora.
There's a handgun in the basement, too, which will make for a solid secondary weapon. It fits comfortably in the back pocket of my jeans. Meant to be there, meant for this, perfect.
The last thing I need is tucked into the corner, close to the door. A scuffling, moaning fills the air behind me, but it doesn't matter. Even that fucking monster can't stop me. The canister of kerosene is heavier than I thought and unwieldy, but I manage, hauling it up the stairs alongside my personal arsenal.
"My baby…? Where is my sweet baby?" Her voice follows me up from the darkness. I slam the door, shutting her out, shutting out everything that can hold me back.
I'm so sorry, Nora. I'm so sorry.
I leave the large, red metal container at the top of the basement steps and traipse back to my room, guns in tow. I want to load them here, where I have full control, in my domain. It just feels fitting.
I'm not very familiar with guns, but they're not that complicated. They probably should be, right? You'd think most people wouldn't want someone like me to do what I'm about to do and would try to keep it from being so fucking easy.
So. Fucking. Easy. Candy from a baby easy. I think some part of that cunt will be proud of me. Maybe.
Loading the rifle takes longer than I thought, but I'm enjoying the effort. By the time I'm done with my ritual, I can hear Larry leave for work. That will make this more interesting and dramatic. I had expected to catch him before he left the house.
This is the point where my mother would typically try to make sure I am shuttled off to school, but for some reason she's leaving me alone this morning, and I am appreciate that. I'm too fucked up, too high on adrenaline and filled with purpose to deal with her. Not today. Not yet.
I wonder if she spotted the metal can. Doubt it. That fucking bitch wouldn't notice anything amiss now that she's back in this fucking house.
The rifle sits beside me and I stroke the barrel, taking in the coolness of the metal. It's almost soothing.
My alarm sounds. It's almost 7:30 a.m. I can't wait around here much longer.
I decide to do another line before I go. The haze is wearing off, slowly. I need another spike. It hits me like lightning and I leave my room, and what was left of me, behind.
III.
There was a second hesitation before I made it out the door.
The only other person in this world with the power to hold me to it.
She's behind me. Right behind me. If I make it through this test, it's all over for me.
"Tate." I pause, turning. She can plainly see the huge canister in my hand, and I'm not sure if she recognizes the shape of the rifle under my black trenchcoat. She probably wouldn't know what it was if she did, and what I'm going to do with it. "Why are you leaving so early?"
"Addy." I turn away from her again, back to the door. My hand goes limp around the doorknob. This is my conscience's last stand. I can feel her looking at me. "I just…"
I slam the door behind me.
I'm sorry, Addy. So, so sorry.
IV.
Being an accountant must be the fucking pits.
No wonder Lawrence loves to fuck around with a whore like my mother. He needs something other than endless numbers and typing and digits and counting and math and whatever. I see his cock in her mouth again and spit, disgusted.
I park the car behind his CPA office. The lot is looking pretty empty for after 8:00 a.m., considering that Larry himself is always here way too early for it to be normal.
The canister sloshes. I savor the sound.
Some bitch rides up in the elevator with me. She looks me over, my all black ensemble and my bright red barrel of kerosene, and wrinkles up her nose.
She thinks I'm beneath her. Everyone thinks I'm beneath them. Don't they realize I'm a god?
Try and step on me after this, you fucking whore. I'll take you out the same way I'm about to do Larry if you want. Would you like that, bitch? I bet you would.
What's another on a day like today?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I'm hallucinating her. The drive over here had been impossible, my mind so full of coke and meth and bloodlust that I couldn't concentrate on the road. Considering how many people were out, I'm surprised I didn't splatter a few on the way here.
Appetizers, they would have been. No, not even appetizers. They'd be the rolls on the side, just a bonus.
Larry is the appetizer. The real fun starts after him.
The elevator door opens. She steps out around me, fleeing from whatever fear I might have instilled on her. I let her go, I want to take my time and enjoy this moment.
The cubicles all blend together, a hazy grey backdrop.
No one looks up at me.
No one notices.
No one cares.
Typical.
I see that bitch from the elevator again, her eyes fearful as she watches me. I bare my teeth at her. What are you going to do? Stop me?
It's far too late for that. It's over. I'm lost.
Larry's office is a glass case in the middle of a sea of cubicles, something I always found kind of fucked up because it implies he's some amazing fucking thing when he's just a loser who's fucking that slut, that cunt, my mother.
I glance back at the rows and rows of grey felt walls, almost wistful. I could burn them, too. I have enough juice with me.
But I won't. These people are ants, invisible. Unimportant. Useless. A waste.
I push the door open to the clacking of Larry's fingers on his calculator. It takes him a moment to realize that I've entered. He looks up at me with a smile on his face. Like he saw his son.
Fuck you. You're not my dad. You're a fucking loser that's being taken advantage of by that whore.
I don't say it today, but I have in the past. He knows it, we know it. He's a loser.
"Tate." He says my name warmly, like he's happy to see me, although his smile is turned down at the corners. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in school?"
I take a step toward him, keeping the canister beneath his sight line. Larry's watching me closely, wondering, concerned. It's not me he should be worried about, but he doesn't know that, only I do, and I'm not going to spoil the surprise.
"I'm going right after," I tell him, my voice placating, soft. Do you want me to call you daddy or something?
His eyebrow lifts. "After what?" He sounds so innocent, like he cares.
God damn it I hate him.
I lose myself.
I dump kerosene all over him, and he sputters, obviously caught off guard. I can see the liquid go into his mouth, his eyes and melt into his clothes.
Perfect.
He holds a doused hand over one eye, trembling. He sees the lit match in my hand almost before I realize myself that I've struck it. The flame bathes my hand in a warm sensation, but this fire isn't for me.
I stare at him for a moment, prolonging it, wondering for a fleeting second what he thinks of me.
Then I realize I don't care. And he's a fucking piece of shit.
I flick the match. It's effortless, no effort involved.
He ignites in an explosion of heat and anguished screaming. Larry's entire body is on fire, writhing in his office.
I turn and push open the glass door, leaving that fucker behind to burn the way he deserves.
A/N: I've divided everything into three "acts" which follow each part of Tate Langdon's last day alive. This was the first. Obviously the next will be much longer, as it will follow the most violent part of Tate's…er…day, the shooting.
I based my characterization on a lot of factors. One, it's heavily implied throughout the series that Tate is the most evil thing in the Murder House, though he does change obviously after falling in love with Violet. Two, he says explicitly that his mother's treatment of him and her whoring have contributed to his mental state. And three, personal research and knowledge of both the effects of mind-altering drugs and the lives of real-life school shooters.
This story is really a labor of love, and I'm planning to crank it out much quicker than my other projects. Expect an update soon, and long one.
As always, let me know what you think.
xoxo