I'm saying go away.
It had been almost five years.
Go away, Tate.
1788 days since Violet told Tate to go away.
Go away, Tate!
Not that she was counting.
Go away!
There was always a part of Violet that still loved him—a part that would never let her stop loving him. But some days, she could push that part to the very back corner of her mind. Doing that made it easier to forget all that he had done—the good as well as the bad. When she remembered the good, the only thing she wanted to was call his name and tell him that she forgives him, but she couldn't. Tate still had to pay. Forgetting made being trapped in this house bearable.
Today was not one of those days. Violet stood in front of the bathroom mirror, razor blade in hand. She watched the line of red form as the blade bit into her wrist. The pain was like an old friend she hadn't seen in a long time, where you don't even realize how much you missed them until you see them again. She had missed the comforting feeling of the cold edge against her wrist and the starkness of the blood against her skin.
It seemed like forever ago that Tate had made her promise to never cut herself, and she had kept that promise. Until now.
As the blood welled up and dripped onto the sink, déjà vu came over Violet. It was here, in this bathroom, that Violet had first met Tate. She closed her eyes, and before she could stop them, the memories she had tried so hard to push away were dredged up and played out for her like a movie. She saw herself sitting on her bed with Tate, comparing scars, kissing him for the first time, Tate giving her a black rose, going to the beach for their first date, when they slept together for the first time, Tate showing Violet her corpse, Tate telling her he loves her, her telling Tate to go away. So many memories came flooding back. So many firsts.
She tried to hold back the tears, but like the memories, she couldn't stop them. They slid down her cheeks and she stared at the puddle of blood that had accumulated in the sink. I still love him.