Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from American Horror Story.
She walked away that night, wishing she could cry but not being able to find it inside of herself to do so. Violet had planned this. It was what she had wanted for as long as she could remember, but she suddenly wondered if she was doing the right thing. It wasn't leaving, or saying goodbye to her parents that made her hesitant. It was the notion of the promise, the commitment, she was making to Trevor. He was everything that she usually liked in a guy. He was dangerous, out of the ordinary, a musician from Jersey with a history or bad behavior. He was like her. Violet had spent years perfecting the art of rebelling, and it seemed to be the perfect ending to her troublesome childhood: running away with a twenty-five-year-old drummer with long hair and an eagle tattoo on his chest. Vivien and Ben had been furious, as she had expected, even hoped. She had finally cut ties with their control entirely. So why did Violet feel so incomplete?
When the young couple landed in Los Angeles, she decided that she was being silly. Maybe it was the city of their destination that had worried her; she had been right to worry. She didn't belong in LA. She wasn't a star, wasn't talented, wasn't very pretty either. She was just Violet Harmon, the therapist daughter, the troubled youth with a bad attitude. Immediately, she realized just how badly she stuck out—more so than usual. Her purple tights and floral dress, the gray cardigan sweater that hung loosely from her tiny shoulders, the charcoal colored cloche hat that was balanced precariously over her light brown hair, even her beaten old sneakers, suddenly seemed ridiculously gaudy. She didn't care, but she noticed, all the same.
They were staying in Trevor's aunt's old house. She had died earlier that year and he was the only surviving relative. Violet wasn't sure what to expect, but she couldn't imagine that it would be anything grand. Nothing about Trevor or his family members was very glamorous. In reality, they were white trash, at least the ones that she had met.
"Excited?" he asked her as they loaded their things into the taxi: luggage that they had purchased in Boston, with one of her mother's credit cards the previous weekend, just seven days before.
Violet lied. "Absolutely thrilled..." The reply sounded genuine, but that was no surprise. Lying came easily to her.
The music that played softly in the background made her drag her nails against the fabric of her seat. It was mainstream and a woman's auto-tuned voice sang the chorus loudly. She hated it, more than she hated not having any semblance of breasts or having never known what it felt like to actually enjoy being with someone in more than a friendly way. Sex was not her specialty. In fact, she hadn't done it at all, not with Trevor or any of the other boys. Why? Because she hadn't ever cared enough to bite the bullet. It was no secret that Trevor hated her for it, even questioned whether or not he would wait it out.
Eventually, soon…she can't hold out forever, he would always assure himself. It was something he was proud of: his ability to seduce women, but Violet had been a hard nut to crack and he was growing impatient.
"How about tonight, Vivi?" She knew what he meant.
The nickname made her squirm. It reminded her of her mother, but Trevor never seemed to care. She'd told him a million times, too. "I don't know, Trev." Violet sneered the word. "And don't effing call me that. You know how much I hate it."
And he did know.