Summary: Violet-centric, post-death drabble. Set after Smoldering Children with no references to subsequent episodes.
Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story or its characters.
Violet tries to be happy that she is dead.
She spends a great deal of time tracing her fingers over the scars on her arms, memories of their infliction running through her mind like photographs. Hadn't this been what she wanted? Death was should have been the ultimate release from pain. She longs to feel relief that she had achieved what each wound must have sought. Yet all she has is loneliness and emptiness, fear and guilt.
And she has Tate, of course the catalyst for her suicide and her would-be savior. A murderer and her best friend. Her only friend, now and possibly forever. At certain moments, usually late at night when rational thoughts and equally rational fears are hidden in the shadows, she believes that they will be fine and maybe even happy. She can't touch her scars when her fingers are entangled in his.
In daylight, she is tired. The prospect of facing an eternity of endless days makes her still heart ache. Tate tries unsuccessfully to hide his delight that he is no longer alone, as they play their games and declarations of love fall relentlessly from his lips. She is suffocating, a sensation so surreally at odds with her ever-growing realization that she will never take another breath. Despite her promises to Tate, when she is alone, she drags a razor across her skin; imaginary blood wells like the tears in her eyes as she clings to rapidly fading remembrances of how it feels to be alive.
She sits outside, smoking cigarettes and staring across the lawn to the place on the street where Addie was killed. There are no signs of the accident that delivered her to a freedom that Violet will never know.
When the sun sets, obscuring this point just beyond her reach, she stamps out her cigarette and goes inside to find Tate.