I Live in the Light

AU. Tate is alive. I've finished writing it, and updates will depend on how quickly I type it up, which I'm not looking forward to, so.

Chapter 1: The Crash

To an outsider, the Murder House would seem like the worst thing that had happened to Violet Harmon. But an outsider wouldn't be able to see the pain in Violet, simmering underneath her skin, slipping out of the cuts on her arms. Violet couldn't keep the sadness and anger away, no matter how many times she slid the razor through her skin. Because something happened to Violet before she even left Boston.

She was only 15. Her parents were still happy; her mom was still pregnant. The room next to Violet's was painted light yellow, a crib on one end, a changing table on the other. Violet had been painting a mural of a sunny meadow on one wall. She had seen it in a dream, and she couldn't deny her mom this. Violet had always been embarrassed by her artistic talent, but the light in her mother's eyes as she stood in front of the then empty wall was too much for Violet. How could she openly deny her mother something that would make her so happy?

So Violet began painting the mural, the mural that caused everything. Violet had run out of some paint color—it's was vermillion, she'll never forget—so her and her mom and her unborn brother had driven to the art store in town.

That drive was the last happy time she shared with her mother. They listened to The Tallest Man On Earth and bonded over their love for his voice, and scoffed at how Ben hated it. They passed a baby boutique and Vivien looked hopefully at Violet.

"Mom, you have so much baby shit, I want to get back to painting," Violet whined.

"Vi, please don't say that word, but fine. We'll go some other day." Violet looked at her mom behind the wheel, her skin glowing with pregnancy hormones, and smiled.

Vivien waited in the car while Violet ran into the store, buying two tubes of vermillion, because meadows really did have an awful lot of grass.

While she was waiting in line to pay, Violet noticed a young guy, maybe 25, watching her. She was creeped out, but thought nothing of it, until he followed her out of the store. She got in the car and fought against her fear, not wanting to worry her mother.

They were almost home, and her mother was talking about how wonderful pregnancy was—she had forgotten since Violet—when a car veered into their lane. Violet yelled, and her mother stomped on the brakes, swerving to the right. Their car smashed against the guard rail and flipped, crashing down a slight hill and finally stopping upside down against a tree. Violet was unconscious, and she barely remembers what it was like, turning over and over down the hill. She only woke up when someone pulled her out of the car.

"Mom?" she mumbled, her head pounding. She opened her eyes enough to see her mom still behind the wheel, blood on her swollen, pregnant stomach. "Mom! Wake up!" she screamed as she was dragged away. A hand clamped over her mouth, and she was picked up, her limbs held tightly, and carried to a car. Violet barely noticed that it was the same car that had swerved in front of her and her mom.

Her mom, still in the car, hurt. She had to help her. But whenever she struggled, the person's arms would squeeze her tightly, and the breath would be sucked out of her lungs.

Then she was thrown into the backseat and a cloth was tied around her mouth, another around her feet, another around her hands. When that person got into the driver's seat, Violet recognized him. It was the man from the art store. Her breath sped up, and her heart pounded desperately against her chest. He glanced back at Violet and grinned.

The art store, she remembered. Vermillion. The mural. She would never finish it, because, in that grin, Violet saw pure menace, and she knew she would never be able to paint again, because this man was going to kill her. As he drove, Violet started to cry.

She didn't know it at the time, but someone else had witnessed the crash and called 911. They had gotten half of the license plate of the car that took Violet, but it wasn't enough. Later, the police would go to the art store and talk to the teenager who had sold Violet the paint, and the nervous boy would give a detailed enough description to get a photo id.

And Violet also didn't know then, lying in the back of that car, that she would make it out alive, only to accidentally attempt to take her own life, by her own hand, one year later.