someday this pain will be useful to you
"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."
—Nietzsche
x
MARCH 4, 2012
He picks at a frayed string hanging off a whole in the knee of his jeans. It's been bothering him for a while. If he could just— just tug at it, without unraveling the whole goddamn thing, then maybe the voices in his head would quiet down for a second, and he would have peace. Peace. Something he hasn't experienced in over a year. People everywhere, asking him questions and shoving cameras in his face and forcing microphones to his mouth and—if he could just pull this loose string away from the rest of the fragile denim then maybe, maybe, things could go back—
"Tate."
—to the way before they were before this whole mess began and the world felt like it was permanently upside down. It felt like his life had gone from zero to sixty in less than a second and peace; peace, that was all he was really asking for.
"Tate? Are you all right?"
He looks up, eyes wide. The string is wrapped around the last knuckle of his middle finger. "What?" His finger flushes, and then slowly begins to turn pink. "Sorry, Dr. Harmon. What were you saying?"
Dr. Harmon watches him fondly, glances down at his legal pad, and then smiles up at Tate. "I was just asking how you've been doing. Are you all right?"
Tate's forehead wrinkles for a second as he looks off into space, somewhere beyond the naked eye can see, but his eyes are bright when he meets Dr. Harmon's gaze. "Yeah, I'm just dandy, you know," he replies, laced with sarcasm. "I aced my chemistry test, I've got a date with the hottest girl in school on Saturday, and my best friend is dead."
The click of the doctor's pen makes Tate jump in his seat. He looks at the young boy with pityO that makes vomit threaten to come up Tate's throat. The doctor scrawls something on the pad, sitting at an angle on his lap that makes it impossible to catch a glimpse. "Do you need to talk, Tate?"
He flushes pale and looks away furtively. "About what?" he growls, low and hurt. He can see her, standing b y the window, wearing her favorite boots and a long dress. She stares back at him for a split second and fades away, turning into sunlight.
"Violet," he says gently.
The thread wrapped around Tate's finger snaps.
"It's okay to want to talk about Violet, Tate," the doctor explains. "It can help with the grieving process."
Tate's eyes grow dark with hatred; his lips curl menacingly. The beautiful becomes the damned in an instant. "I'm done grieving, Dr. Harmon. I was done grieving a long time ago. What I feel is not grief."
The doctor frowns, writes something down. "Then what are you feeling, Tate?" He doesn't look up from his notepad.
"I'm angry, Doc." Tate laughs, slow and cruel. "I'm so angry, I feel like my blood is on fire. I feel like I'm being boiled alive, I am so fucking angry." His fists clench around empty air. He can feel her hot breath burn scars into the back of his neck.
"Why are you angry, Tate?" Dr. Harmon doesn't skip a beat. He writes without stopping.
Tate's face crumples with overwhelming emotion. "Well, Dr. Harmon, I'll tell you, but only because you asked so nicely." The voices are screaming in his head, egging him on, whispering dirty things, but he shakes them away. "I'm angry because my best friend was murdered a year ago. I'm angry because the world grieved for a girl they had pushed away during her lifetime. I'm angry because we should be graduating in a few months and planning our lives but instead, she's dead and I'm alone. I'm angry because the world is a filthy place—it's a filthy goddamn horror show—and whatever sick, sadistic God there is took away the only pure and beautiful thing on this Earth. I'm angry because my mother's an alcoholic and my sister thinks she's ugly and my father didn't take me with him and these stupid fucking meds leave me so fucking stoned that I don't even have the energy to blow my brains out. And most of all, good ol' Dr. Harmon, I am angry because Violet Harmon's killer is out there somewhere a free man."
"On January 29th, 2011, authorities found a pair of shoes belonging to Violet hanging from the underside of the Vincent Thomas Bridge. On February 1st, 2011, they found a suicide note hidden in Violet's room." The doctor paused, watching Tate's calm demeanor wearily. "Officially her case has been closed and the Los Angeles County Police Department has ruled her death a suicide."
"SHE'S MY BEST FRIEND!" Tate roared, ripping the paper out of Dr. Harmon's hands and flinging it across the room, smashing a vase on his desk. "I loved her. She's your daughter, goddamn it, Mr. Harmon. Why don't you care?" Tears spilled onto his face, and he wiped them away as fast as he could, embarrassed.
Dr. Harmon rubs a hand across his jaw. The façade of a stronger man falls away and for now he looks like someone exhausted. "Of course I care, Tate. Like you said, Violet was my daughter." He sighs, and then looks at Tate pointedly. The younger boy settles down onto the sofa stiffly. "I am still grieving for Violet, and I probably will grieve for her for the rest of my life. But I have a wife, Mrs. Harmon, and a son, Jeffrey. We're human, but we cannot let loss define us. Violet would not want her family to fall apart, and she definitely would want you to move on, Tate. She loved you, too, and she would want you to be happy. She would want us all to be happy."
Violet, with her bloody clothes and matted hair, is sitting half an inch away from kissing Tate's cheek with her nose, murmuring into his ear: Where's the body? Where's the witness? He's heard the things she curses and her first wish is definitely not for them to be happy. "If she committed suicide, then why didn't they ever find a body? If she jumped from the Vincent Thomas Bridge, then why didn't anybody see her?" Tate demands.
"Violet was last seen a week before they found the shoes, and wasn't even declared missing until a day later. That means that Violet's body would have had a week in the ocean to go wherever she wanted. The police have said that it's highly likely that she jumped anywhere between the hours of two am to four am, a period in which traffic can be slow on the bridge, and therefore explains the lack of witnesses," Dr. Harmon says with an even tone.
Tate shakes his head. His eyes are wet, and he blinks hard, desperately trying to make his pain less obvious. "Violet wouldn't commit suicide, Mr. Harmon," he pleads. "Violet was sad, but she believed in God. She wouldn't have killed herself if she believed that she would go to Hell."
The corners of Dr. Harmon's eyes crinkle, making him look older than he really is. "Violet had a lot of problems, Tate. She was very depressed. If she had only confided in someone, we could have helped her, but she—"
"Bullshit!" Tate slams his closed fist against the coffee table, causing a miniature earthquake of mahogany wood. He inhales, exhales deeply. "Violet didn't kill herself," he says one last time, defeat in his voice.
The doctor places his hands on his knees and slowly stands. "We're out of time for now, Tate. We'll continue this at the next session. Same time next week?"
Tate stands up shakily, his hair disheveled. "Like I have a choice," he mutters.
"Don't forget to take your medication," Dr. Harmon says good-naturedly as he watches Tate turn toward the door, his back hunched.
Just before he makes the step across the threshold, Violet appears behind him, breathing hot and heavy down the nape of his neck.
Help me, Tate.
He waits, shivers, and then leaves.
x
JANUARY 23, 2011
The sharp sound of the blinds on his window banging against the wall jerks Tate out his dreams. He glances at the clock sleepily. 3:07 AM. With a yawn, he brushes the hair out of his eyes and rolls out of bed to close the window, probably left forgotten when he'd snuck back in at midnight.
Something moves in the corner of his room.
"Hey."
Tate's heart stops for what feels like an eternity before he can breathe again. "Holy shit, Vi. You scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry," Violet says coldly, half-hidden in the shadows. She sits cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, glaring in the direction of her house.
He watches her for a little while, breathing in the sight of her.
Her eyes suddenly flicker up to his, and that's when he realizes that something is very wrong. The air is tense and stagnant. As a cold front tickles up the base of his spine to the notch on his neck, his stomach suddenly drops. All of a sudden, the wind outside falls completely silent. It feels as though everything on Earth has dropped dead.
"Violet," he murmurs, terrified of something he doesn't understand. "What's wrong?"
The girl on the floor lets out a dry sob, her face contorted in rage. "You can't let them get away with this, Tate," she cries out.
He steps toward her to touch her, but she turns away from him fiercely. "What happened?" he asks, trembling with confusion and anger all at once. His mind races with possibilities of whatever could have defeated the invincible.
Violet stands up very slowly, still glaring down at her feet. She breathes in shakily. "I can't tell you, Tate," she says gently, her hair falling into her face. "It's the rules."
"What the hell are you talking about, Vi?" he demands in a harsh whisper. "What rules? Just tell me."
Without warning, she grabs his hands in hers and looks up at him. Her eyes are faded, filmy, and full of love. "They won't let me tell you, but I know you can figure it out, Tate. I know that you're the only one who won't give up on me."
Tate feels like vomiting all at once. He thrashes away from her, his heart threatening to beat itself to death. Spots start to dot his vision as he struggles to breathe, but his throat constricts. He falls to the ground and crawls away from Violet, unable to speak.
"Tate?" she sobs. In a panic, she covers her face with her hands, but suddenly pulls away from herself. As she stares down at her palms, she whimpers at the sight of her dark red blood, making teardrop streaks from her fingers down to her scarred wrists. She runs a hand down her face to her neck and screams at the feeling of an open wound; her slit throat, blood pouring out. Her scream never stops.
The feeling of falling envelops Tate, and with a gasp, he awakens on the floor of his bedroom, entangled in his bed sheets and a layer of cold sweat.
He breathes like he's drowning, his heart still pounding. "Just a dream," he mutters, trying to convince himself. "It was just a dream." He glances at the clock. 9:18 AM.
The sudden sound of his cell phone vibrating makes him jump. He takes a second to get his breathing back down to normal, and then answers the phone.
"Hello?"
"Tate, it's—it's Leah." She sounds horrified, like she can't seem to figure out the words to say.
A familiar feeling crawls up Tate's spine as his stomach begins to drop. "What's wrong?" he demands, already pulling on a t-shirt and jeans.
"It's Violet," she says, and the phone line goes dead.
x
FEBRUARY 26, 2011
"My daughter, Violet, was one of the most amazing people I have ever known." Dr. Harmon pauses, his hands shaking as he gathers his thoughts somberly. "She was intelligent, absolutely beautiful, and never afraid to speak her mind."
Mrs. Harmon wails loudly from the front row, her face buried in the redhead maid's arms.
"Violet knew that she could do anything that she set her mind to." He parts his lips, and suddenly looks up, his eyes scanning across the room, emotionless. He settles on Tate's sober gaze, and then breaks. "She was my little girl," the doctor sobs, openly crying on the platform. The funeral is suddenly filled with murmured gossip.
Tate looks away, disgusted by the blatant disrespect of the attendees—seemingly selected at random, made up of people who had rejected Violet when she was alive and now embraced her for the glamour of an early death.
The funeral is held in the evening, at a beach about ten minutes' drive from Malibu. No body was ever found, but Mrs. Harmon was hysterical with grief, so the doctor decided that closure would come in the form of a remembrance. The Harmon family and two hundred of Violet's closest friends and family would gather to remember Violet Harmon, share their memories, reminisce, and celebrate her life rather than mourn her death.
Tate knows that Violet would have hated it.
Poor, forgotten Jeffrey sits at his side, playing with his hands. At only three years old, he hasn't quite grasped the concept of death, and instead constantly asks when his big sister is coming home.
"You okay, buddy?" Tate asks, forcing a gentle smile.
"Yeah," Jeffrey sighs, not looking up. "I wish Violet was here."
Something catches in Tate's throat, and he turns away from the child. "Me, too," he says.
He can already see the paparazzi waiting like starving lions in the distance. When the news first broke, the media had gone ballistic. The only daughter of the brilliant and revolutionary psychiatrist Ben Harmon and the acclaimed cellist Vivien Harmon was dead. Suicide always made for a good headline.
Once Dr. Harmon had insisted on privacy, the media hounds moved onto their next prey. High school students who had spit in Violet's face now cried on national television about how kind and popular Violet had been. Cameras flashed in Tate's face as he got out of his car, shoving microphones and notepads at him.
The worst were the rumors.
The trio of Tate, Violet, and Leah had been notorious at Westfield High School. Violet and Leah were friends for two reasons: because they had once given each other matching black eyes when Violet moved to Los Angeles at thirteen, and because Violet needed a girl friend. Leah and Tate were also friends for two reasons: because of Violet, and because Leah dealt cocaine.
The media fabricated fantasies about love triangles and unrequited romances; that she had been in love with Tate, who loved Leah; that she and Tate had been secretly dating, but Tate had cheated on her with her best friend. The friendship between Tate and Leah had been rocky at best, held together only by Violet's sheer will and Tate's coke habit, but they had wanted to remain close for the sake of their fallen friend. The world's macabre obsessions never even gave them a chance.
Tate.
Her voice sounds like something floating, caught in a breeze to be sailed away. The feeling of it settling upon his shoulders sends a chill down his back.
Tate.
He turns around quickly, trying to pinpoint the origin of Violet's voice. He sees her in the distance, beyond the rocks that separate one side of the beach from the other. She wears a white dress, her hair flying around her face. She smirks at him, cocks her head, and fades away.
Something pulls him to the spot, away from the crowd. Jeffrey watches him for a while and his mother glowers at him, but he leaves otherwise unnoticed. He stands on the rock where he had seen Violet seconds before, searching for any sign that she was still there, still with him. She leaves nothing behind for him, not even a footprint, and he has never felt more alone in the world.
"Tate? Are you okay?"
Startled, his knees nearly buckle underneath him. Hope tugs at his chest, and then slams into him like a car accident. It's only Leah, a floppy dark red hat shadowing her face, wearing black with Chanel on her shoulder.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." She averts her eyes, too embarrassed to make eye contact with him. "I just—I saw you leave, and I wanted to make sure you were okay."
Tate's not used to being the recipient of Leah's nice voice. "Just fuck off, Leah," he says, but immediately feels guilty at the hurt in her eyes. "Sorry. I just need to be alone," he adds, looking away.
She huffs out a frustrated breath. "She was my best friend, too. You act like you're the only one who's hurting, but you're not, asshole."
"I've been seeing her," he admits, still staring out at the ocean.
Leah rolls her eyes, and then sighs. "Yeah, I've been having dreams about her, too. Night terrors."
"No," Tate insists. "I mean, like, I've been seeing her. She keeps showing up around me."
"Are you high right now?" Leah deadpans, glaring at him. He turns around and they lock stares, neither budging. She shifts her weight to her other foot uncomfortably, and then puts a hand on her hip. "Like, as in, ghosts and shit?" she asks.
Tate nods seriously. "She's trying to tell me something. There's something wrong," he says, half trying to convince himself that he wasn't simply slowly going insane.
Leah laughs in exasperation. "I think you're going through withdrawals," she tells him with an air of superiority.
"You know what? Fuck you, Leah."
"Thanks, Tate," she retorts, full of sarcasm. "You know where to find me when you need your fix."
x
JULY 17, 2011
He's coming down from his high, hard. The world spins around him, mocking him. He stumbles onto the front door step, banging on the hardwood door in desperation. He needs someone.
Leah opens the door with bloodshot eyes, impeccably dressed, pushing her limits. "Tate?"
"Leah, I—" He can't seem to be able to form the words, to ask for help, to confess that he cannot do this on his own. "Leah, I'm sorry," he manages in defeat, barely able to choke it out.
She holds him as he cries into her shoulder, breathing hard and fast.
He opens his eyes briefly, and sees Violet in the shadows of Leah's house, glaring at him darkly. There's betrayal in her face, frighteningly so. He shuts his eyes and whimpers, wishing for a time when everything was easy.