Moving on is a Cold-hearted B*tch
"Shit. Shitshitshit. Fuck! Fucking idiot. Shit fucking shit-fuck head. Bastard. Shitty bastard. Mother FUCKING shit head!" Tate recited his lines as though they were bible verses. The basement smelled of mildew and faintly of formaldehyde, despite past owners' attempts to mast the odor. It was dark, lines of light seeped through the slats of the blinds. If Tate had to name the feeling of the basement that night, it'd be comparable to the despair he felt the night that Violet died or the turmoil that day at the school.
Tate shivered. He seldom thought of it.
"Fuck. Shit. Hell." His words came out softer, less harsh, the longer he went on. Some nights he'd begin to cry. Other's he'd watch Violet from afar. More often than not he would go into the crawl-space and think. Every time, without trying, he'd wind up exactly where he'd lied Violet's body. It was no tombstone, but it was sacred. He wanted to share everything with her, but not an unceramonial death.
"Well, fuck…" His fight had left his body for the night. Tate crawled, hands-and-knees out of the crawl-space. Contently, tate wandered upstairs to sleep with his brother.
"Isn't it a little early to turn in?" Moira asked, slinking around the corner.
"Not tonight."
"Rough day? I can try to help you relax," she insisted, licking her lips.
"Go fuck up someone else's night," Tate snarled. His lip curled at the left and his cheeks grew hot.
After giving her a disgusted glance, he retreated upstairs, stopping only a moment before Violet's door to listen for music. Tate climbed the ladder with grace and swung the door shut. He lied on his back and stared blankly at the ceiling.
"Fuck. Fuck it all. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! Fucking screwed this up! I screwed up."
Just a bit of drabble. It has been a long time since I've posted, so I hope you enjoy, in anticipation for American Horror Story Season 4. Sorry for the profanity, the idea was how you feel better after just letting it all out.
As always: READ, REVIEW and ENJOY!