A/N there is a second part to this story. :) Please tell me if there's typos I missed.
"Violet would you like to decorate the mantel piece? You did a lovely job on the tree, even though you've never exactly been a fan of Christmas" Ben joked running a finger across what would feel like a cold dead cheek to a living person, but he wasn't and his daughter felt soft and warm.
"Can't take all the credit Dad, Moira helped a lot too" Violet smiled over at Moira who returned her own slight smile, her gammy eye sparkling in the crackling firelight. Sighing as she placed the final ornaments on the last few prickly pine smelling arms. She feels his eyes on her from the hall and is wondering why the fuck she feels bad for him. She shakes her head slightly as if to rid it of him.
"I'm going to bed, night." The three others in the room wished Violet a fair well. Violet retreated from the room as she watched her Mom and Dad coo over their new baby boy.
If this had been in Boston she probably would have been jealous, her parents had never paid much attention to her.
If this had been in Boston Violet would have barricaded herself in her room reading some pretentious novel with only the sounds of a screaming Kathleen Hanna to block out that damn Jingle Bell Rock.
As Violet entered the hall the wood floor was cold against the balls of her stocking clad feet.
He wasn't there anymore, she would have felt him, he was weak around her.
She ascended the creaky stairs of the murder house quickly.
But this house had changed her, a lot. Mentally and physically.
Violet had wondered if Einstein knew ghosts existed? That a house could have a gravitational force on its deceased inhabitants, feed on the trauma of all those living who entered, never to come out. She often thought of the house like a machine and the ghosts were the batteries, that was the best way to describe it she thought.
Way to fuck up general relativity.
Oddly she didn't feel happy she knew the secrets physicists wouldn't even dream of. Could she get out of this house? It wasn't likely she thought. The first time she tried to escape the house it wore her out and she wasn't going to try it again any time soon.
In this house she had seen the stuff of nightmares, felt the darkness, not the turn off your light before you go to bed darkness - The real, legit, cold sweat ear pulsing shit. There was much darkness in this house, some she could do without and others she craved.
The darkness that shared her taste in music, also stuck in the wrong decade, stubborn, sceptical and moderately nihilistic like her. The darkness that too hated pop culture, ate poetry like cheerio's and could quote Keats like the alphabet. The darkness she played board games and card games with for hours in silence stealing glances at each other and smiling when they catch each other, her stomach clenches when its black eyes devour her own his smile like a basket full of puppies, she wants to stab each one with a Stanley blade.
The darkness that used to crawl into her bed in the early hours of the morning snaked an arm around her waist, whispered a hundred different expressions of love in her ear. The darkness that then caressed her with hot roughly soft hands, pulled her shirt over her head, her panties down her legs and off onto the floor without a sound.
Merciless hands.
Guilty of incalculable amounts of pain and sorrow, hands that had felt the barrel of multiple weapons, a cylinder of gasoline, the cool metal of a fire poker. The same hands that always found her and held her whenever she ws upset, soothed her back, ran their fingers through her hair, lit her cigarette.
Hands that had touched her in places until she cried into her pillow, her thighs clenched and shaking, the tingle of a cold thumb ring resting against her throbbing mound as it pumps three fingers in and out, the same three fingers that were shoved down her throat once in a desperate attempt to rid her stomach of the thirty two pills she had swallowed, pills that were slowly poisoning your organs. Yes she had counted so had he. Every breath, heartbeat, every possible sign of life praying to a God he didn't believe in that she would open those beautiful god damn eyes.
The same darkness that told her she was beautiful when it had her on yher back naked and out of breath, her cheeks flushed lips plushed, swollen and bitten. Strips of hair stuck to the sweat cascading down the side of her face, down the valley of her spine, her chest and neck peppered with the tingling bruises left by his mouth.
The darkness that had muffled her 3 am moans of ecstasy with hot, wet, languorous kisses so as not to wake her parents, as its hot shaft moved into her filling her up with the flesh and fluid of nature's darkest most dangerous matter.
The weight of its broad chest squishing her small breasts and the hands she placed on his chest, heavy, warm, protective and safe, she's never felt more safe, more wanted, appreciated.
In this house Violet Harmon met the love of her life literally and lost, sent him away in that same year. Her parents were too, taken by the darkness, the darkness she loved the most, loved more than the sharp edge of a cool blade against her skinny wrist.
The darkness that had hurt her the most, betrayed her, finished her off like one of the Westfield kids.
Violet's eyes drifted open dragging her from the depths of her subconscious to the sound of silence, the vision of darkness, a disappointing kind of darkness she didn't find it soothing like she used to. She sat up and flicked on her lamp to rid the room of it.
It was nothing personal.
The right side of her bed was empty and cold. She wanted it no other way, or so she told herself. Violet lay there awake for some amount of time contemplating whether she should do what she was about to do. She lit a cigarette cause that's what she did when she needed to think.
Getting out of the bed she padded across the creaking wood bare foot in shorts and her favourite Bobby Smith tee shirt before she laid her cigarette on her desk and pulled a large sweater on and slipped her bare feet into unlaced Converse, tucking the laces in not bothered to tie them. She retrieved her cigarette, grabbed the flashlight off the desk and proceeded out the door.
Creeping down the stairs Violet tried to be as quiet as possible, there were no other ghosts around and she was glad she wasn't in the mood for a look what he did to me or where's my baby right now.
She opened the door to the basement and jogged down the stairs making her way through the blackness not bothering to use the flash light, she didn't need it. Ghosts could see in the dark but human habits die hard, that's why she smoked even though she couldn't feel it anymore.
She couldn't feel his presence anywhere, she even checked the crawl space, it wasn't her favourite place for obvious reasons, but she knew he sat in there sometimes, crying mostly, with only the company of her rotting corpse somewhere.
Maybe it made him feel close to her, how sick. He could cuddle it if he wanted for all she cared.
She did care, but she didn't want to.
She didn't want to feel anything she wouldn't let herself.
He needed to pay for what he did and until she could think of a way to make that happen she could let loneliness eat him up for a bit. Tough shit.
But she still wanted to see him. There was only one other place he'd be. Taking a quick drag of contemplation Violet exhaled, turned on her heels and made her way back up the basement stairs feeling a gaze staring at her out of the darkness.
"He's in the attic." it was Hayden.
"Yeah, I know." Violet said coldly before closing the door behind her.
She flitted through the hall like a good ghost appearing on the top floor of the house where her parent's room was. She made sure she was extra quiet. Pulling open the attic door she climbed up the ladder slowly. The attic was always so bright when there was a full moon.
They had spent a lot of time up here, too much time. Making out and playing chess, discussing Literature, feminism, Kurt Cobain, the futility of war.
Sure enough he was there sitting with his feet up on the large windowsill, his forehead pressed against the old glass. The moonlight bounced off his pale skin, his broad jaw, those soft blonde curls she used to love running her fingers through hanging loosely around his eyes. They were closed now but she knew he wasn't asleep. He knew she was there.