'Promise me you'll never cut yourself again.'
Tate looked into Violet's eyes silently pleading with her never to hurt herself again. In his mind he urged her to to make this promise to him. Tate knew a lot about Violet. He had learnt a lot since the day they had first met. After meeting – in the bathroom of all places, Violet had been interested in this guy, this strange guy who walked in on her doing something so private to her and pretended like it was normal, even giving her advice no less, that she had waited for him to finish his session with her dad and gently pulled him into her room, no introductions, no words, nothing. They had spent a few blissful hours in Violet's room, the room that had once been Tate's, the room that Tate had died in, the room that Violet would later choose to die in before Ben caught them and kicked Tate out, claiming he was dangerous to Violet. At the time Tate had been outraged but now after seeing what he was capable of, Tate realised Ben was right. He was dangerous. But what had angered Tate the most was the thought of Ben thinking he was dangerous to Violet. To Violet. One thing Tate was sure of was he would never intentionally hurt Violet. All he had ever wanted to do was protect her ever since he had first met her in the bathroom, dragging the blade over her milky white skin, slicing it, making the white of her skin run red with blood. Tate had learnt about Violet's family, her few friends back in Boston. He knew what books she favored, the music she listened to in a bid to block out the sounds of her parents arguing. He learnt how unhappy and insecure she really was. Some of this Tate had found out from watching Violet in the house, aimlessly roaming around from room to room with no real purpose as though she was a ghost already, other things Violet had told Tate, secretly confiding in him things she would never tell her parents.
One thing Violet didn't need to tell him was that to cut yourself you had to be in a lot of pain. Tate winced when ever he thought of his sweet Violet baring all of this pain, feeling as helpless as he once felt. Tate knew it was Violet's way of coping. Once she had mumbled something barely audible about how cutting was her way of coping, that punishing herself gave her a sense of relief, a relief she couldn't get anywhere else. She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. Tate knew the joys of cutting all by himself. The scars on his arms were faded now. White, silver if they caught the light. When first inflicted all those years ago they were long, angry, jagged. Fiery red and way too close to the veins of his wrists, much like Violet's much newer scars. Tate had eventually stopped cutting when he had died. It had been his escape, taking him to a state of nirvana. Dragging a long, sharp knife, one of many purchased from the hardware store nearby, across his wrist gave him a sense of release that nothing else ever could. He often watched the small trickle of blood flow from his wrist down to his arm. He would trace it with his finger, breath in the sickly sent, a smile on his face. The blood fascinated him more than anything. And the pain..He loved to feel pain. Of course, being a ghost he never quite got the same kick out of cutting after his death that he'd had when he'd been alive. It just wasn't the same and his self destructive habit faded in time.
Constance didn't know of course, much like Violet's own oblivious parents, too concerned with themselves to notice their daughters pain. Constance never got past arms length with Tate so it all came as a huge albeit heartbreaking surprise to her. When she sat on the floor of her son's bedroom, gripping his cold hand, the newly dead body in front of her she noticed his sleeve had slightly risen up in the fall. She quickly discovered long angry gashes, lines of white, purple and red. At first she was confused. Where had her son got these marks from? During the school shooting? From Larry? From her sweet Beauregard in an angry, accidental swipe of confusion? These thoughts passed in Constance's mind in a
matter of seconds. Of course these were not the right conclusions. As the truth dawned on her the realisation brought on a fresh flood of tears. Although grimacing at the thought of Constance finally getting close enough to touch him, Tate, watching his mother hanging over his dead body, sobbing, with a cold sense of detachment only laughed cruelly at her pain. 'Cocksucker.' he muttered under his breath before turning around leaving his mother alone in his room and retreating to the dark basement.
Despite Tate's last efforts at cutting failing the pain was all too fresh in his mind. It wasn't as much the actual pain of the blade as it cut skin and drew blood, but the emotional pain that came with it. The guilt. The self loathing. The horror of realising what you have done to yourself, who you have become. He winced in pain thinking of Violet hurting like that. He wanted to protect her. He needed to protect her. Her greatest enemy was herself. He just hoped she would listen to him before it was too late. Even the thought of Violet drawing blood, scaring her perfect skin, her arms littered with scars was enough to make Tate angry. But what really terrified him was the fact that one day he would go to her and find her not breathing, find her dead. Cutting too deep was far too easy, especially with the razor blades Violet had managed to steal from Ben without raising suspicion. The thought made his heart beat so quickly he was afraid it would burst. Weird wasn't it, that a ghost had a heartbeat. However, that fact simply didn't mean anything. It was a mundane fact that he, as a ghost, had a beating heart. It didn't mean anything. It certainly didn't mean he
He was simply a corpse with a heartbeat.
Tate, alone in the basement sank down onto an abandoned chair and closed his eyes, his head in his hands. He thought of his razor blades still around here somewhere, along with some of his other things he had taken down to the basement before Constance began to clear out his things, claiming it was all too 'painful' to look at. He thought of Violet's blades kept secretly in her bathroom, hidden under shampoo bottles and shower gel. He thought of scars, cutting, blades, blood. So much blood. He thought of Violet holding one of her many blades to her wrists and pressing down, tracing falling blood with her finger. This thought and this thought alone brought him to tears. All alone alone in the darkness of the attic, Tate Langdon began to cry.
Violet stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the door safely locked. She had even run the water in the tap to disguise what she was doing, just in case. Violet stared at herself in the mirror, the dim lighting illuminating her every feature, her every flaw. She wasn't being vain of conceited. She was thinking. As she looked in the mirror tears began to form in Violet's hazel eyes, her expression full of pain. She had given up and it was evident on her face. Violet stared at her pale skin, her faace void of any colour, any expression. She looked at the huge bags under her eyes, a tell tale sign of the fact that she hadn't been sleeping. Her long blonde hair hung limp on her shoulders. She lifted her arms and hugged them around her thin frame. If anything, Violet Harmon looked ill. Dead. Violet looked once again into the mirror, searching her face for any sign of the person she used to be. She found none. Violet leant into the mirror, grimacing at the girl staring back at her. She ran a hand through her long blonde hair and let out a small cry. A small tear slid delicately down her cheek. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was never supposed to be like this. Violet thought back to yesterday. It was late, Tate had left for the night. As the wind howled around the windows whipping at the trees outside, Violet had sat crossed legged on the old hard wood of her bedroom floor, her back propped up against the frame of her bed, photographs spread all around her. Most of the photographs were taken in Boston within the last few years. In the photographs the Harmon family were together, albeit different locations and different time periods each time but together all the same. They were together – and they were smiling. They were happy back then. The most recent photo was taken a few months before they had moved to L.A and into the nightmare of the Murder House. Vivien and Ben were standing, Violet in between them, their love for one another evident in their eyes. That was before the miscarriage, before Ben had betrayed his family's trust by burying his sorrow in the pussy of one of his 21 year old students, just six years older than his own daughter. Violet was fifteen in the photograph and although stll kookily dressed, straight talking if not bordering on bitchy and with not many friends to her name, she was an entirely different person. She wasn't sure when the depression had started or where she had even heard about cutting but pretty soon after trying it, it took over her life. She alienated her family and friends even more than before and had hid in her room, taking solace in her books and music. Now Violet was sixteen, her good grades a thing of the past, her arms littered with scars she found ugly but beautiful at the same time. Violet infuriated, hopeless and desperate leaned against the sink counter, her long hair falling over her face. Tears formed in her eyes clouding her vision and creating a small puddle in the base of the sink before trickling down the plug hole. Memories passed through Violet's mind. Past arguments, angry insults thrown in fury, long nights spent alone, her parents arguing, screaming at each other when they thought she was asleep.
Violet slammed her hand down on the sink counter, willing the memories to go away.
The voices in her head begged her to cut, again and again.
Violet shook her head as if to rid her head of these unwelcome thoughts.
'Cut,' they screamed again, the voices getting louder and louder.
Violet glanced once again into the mirror, her cheeks stained with tears, a lost version of the girl she had once been. She reached for the razor blade that had been at her side the whole time before picking it up and making several deep slices into her arm. Violet stared at herself in the mirror noting the pain in her eyes and her sorrowful expression. 'Who am I kidding?' She thought to herself. 'I'm not as strong as everyone seems to think I am.' She turned her attention back to her bleeding wrist, imagining what it would be like to slit it right there and then.
'I promise.'
After all, promises are meant to be broken.