I don't own American Horror Story. I don't own Tate. I don't own Violet. I don't own Leah.
I've been planning this story for a while, because I really want to bring light to the suffering Leah's experiences have caused her. I feel like she had the potential to be a complex character, so I'm going to try my best to tell her transformation and story. This little tale, while dark and twisted, is going to be a Tate/Leah/Violet love triangle. It takes place just after Violet had "disappeared" and the rest of the Harmon's perished in the Murder House. This chapter starts off as basically the building blocks for Leah's character and her life after her attack. Hope you like it!
Smudges of cosmetics ran aimlessly across the white surface of her vanity, tainting the porcelain that was one innocent – pure. In one palm she held a small glass bottle, the liquid pouring from it, engulfing her other hand as it stained her skin. She imagined it as an elixir as she lifted it to her cheeks, cringing as she felt the three raised marks trailing down the side of her face, her eyes beginning to water as she feverously packed the substance into her pores.
The mirror in front of her was covered with a floral sheet – she preferred not to face what she had become. Nice tits, nice ass – she was just a skeleton now, her once rosy cheeks dull and ashen. Laying in front of her, shattered and cracked, was a compact mirror that she timidly reached for, letting out a sarcastic chuckle as she held it in front of her.
Seven years bad luck. And she smirked at the irony.
Distorted and multiplied, she gazed upon her image in the broken pieces, focused on the three long marks – scars. They could never be covered up, no matter how much make up she put on. They were eternal … immortal compared to the rest of her aging body. Always. Always. Always. Always.
She slammed the compact down, tears flooding her eyes as she shut them, fighting back the memories. Not again.
"Leah?" a voice called, muffled as the sound traveled around the closed door.
"I'm fine," she replied, reaching for the facet so she could rinse her tainted hands.
The first time she ate a cigarette was three days after Violet had gone missing. It was her kind of sick, little tribute.
Once she started, she couldn't stop.
Every time she drove past the Murder House on her way to school, she'd cram one into her mouth, embracing the bitterness with a cold and stoic expression. She'd swallow it, fighting the urge to vomit it back up.
She truly was a sick, sick girl.
Once, she had been forced to babysit for a family that lived across the street from what she called Hell. They had three beautiful little children that she laid quietly down in their miniature beds, bidding them each a goodnight. When she heard their breathing begin to slow, she shuffled her way down to the living room, standing still in the bay window that faced the Murder House.
She ate an entire pack that night, one by one, staring at the building until she saw the Mr. and Mrs. arrive home from their date.
The next morning she was in the hospital, getting her stomach pumped.
"What the fuck, Leah?" the boy asked as she cowered away, pushing his hand out of her pants. No one at the party even noticed the situation emerging on the coach.
"I said no."
"We always fuck," he insisted, grabbing her wrist before she could shove him back any further. "You're lucky I even still look at you, scarred-up bitch."
"I should spit in your face," she bit back.
"What?"
"That's what Violet would do."
She got a job at the local grocery market, and it wasn't long before she noticed the blonde bitch, a regular customer, had acquired a little bundle of 'joy'. It would wail and wail as the old woman gracefully pranced through the aisles, disturbing Leah as she fumbled with the cans, placing them in their proper spot.
She would smile at the crying, though. It reminded her of how she felt … what she wished she could do.
"You're like … fucking psychotic, you know that right?" Danielle snapped, causing the surrounding students to turn their heads as they scurried down the hall to class.
"I'm not lying."
"The Murder House is bullshit, Leah! All they want is goddamned money and a movie deal!"
"I know what I saw!"
"You fucking rejected Josh, Leah! You quit the volleyball team!"
"The Devil makes you do strange things."
"You're going to drop this."
"Or what?"
"You'll find out how strange things can really get."
"Ew!" the little girl squealed, dashing out of the living room as Leah swallowed the last cigarette in her bag. The glare on the window caused her to squint as her eyes as she glared darkly at the house across the street.
Eat it. Eat it. Eat it. Eat it. The chant never stopped. It flooded her thoughts.
Two simple little words, she recalled, that meant an entirely different thing when she had first spoken them eleven months ago.
Violet had disappeared now – gone.
She was the only one in this goddamned world that understood, and she abandoned her.
And Leah was going to find out why.
Next chapter is going to involve some Constance and Leah time, as well as a little interaction with Tate and another ghost of the house.
Review?