bullets away from fifteen
{all the other kids better run, better run, outrun my gun}
inspiration helms from "pumped up kicks" by foster the people / there were fifteen victims of the Westfield High Massacre
...
He's only vaguely aware of what he's doing, what he's thinking. It's all a blur, a fictitious blur happening right before his eyes.
It's a tape, pressing fastforward and speeding through the reel before he blinks to the end once more. It becomes unfortunate how you can't rewind, look back and regret.
(hell knows he's not lucid at this point)
.
His first kill wasn't intentional nor was it premeditated. He was walking through the doors of Westfield High School, just walking at his own satisfied pace.
He's shoved, elbowed, smoke is blown into his face: the typical day.
He's given a wide berth, singled out in the sea of endless teenagers: the atypical day
There's so many people, some guilty, some perfect, yet fragile all the same.
They're all equally likely to meet a gruesome fate in the hands of one blonde seventeen year old boy.
(he hasn't killed any of his kind yet, but...)
He pulls the trigger.
(it's a thrill, a sensation of a bloody creation)
.
His conscious dissolves in a shockwave of repentance.
(hint: it no longer exists)
.
The second person he kills was in his way, but that was a good excuse in his mind.
(it's a mind, however twisted of a mind it may seem)
He yawns like he's bored from his little violent venture.
He needs something interesting to preoccupy himself, because distractions are all he has in this hellhole.
He needs to be taken away from blindness and filth and lies.
This, is taking him away, he lets himself believe.
.
It's a rising death toll. Number three is shot down after a plea of mercy, begging on knees and ripped jeans.
(he likes it when they beg)
So number four and five, he decides, should die the same way.
.
He loses count.
.
His fingers are beginning to tremble after hell knows how many. Blood and bodies are starting to catch up to him.
(they're starting to exist)
.
He has whispers of regret he didn't aim an inch higher (then the body count would be odd. he's always liked odd numbers, solely because of their name) He supposes paralysis will be entertaining to watch.
Recognition stirs in his head; he knows these people, he's seem them... he just can't quite put his shaking finger on it.
.
A girl in a petite cheerleading uniform hides under a chair, mascara streaked and tears like streamers.
(like blood splatter, he fantasizes)
She's scared, but there's a hint of defiance in her eyes. Just a hint. She doesn't think she'll die within the next ten seconds.
He falters for just a moment, not knowing how to breach the difference in will.
The machine isn't stable in his hands, his forefinger trying to find the small black indent of plastic. He's drawing a shaky breath, sucking in each molecule through his chattering teeth.
A few heartbeats past, both racing.
The show must always go on.
.
The world becomes a cleaner place.
He should be remembered for that, honored even.
.
(he's not)
(author's notes, because no one wants to read them in the beginning)
This is what happens when you leave me in my room with "Pumped Up Kicks" on constant repeat. I really wanted to get into Tate's head beyond those counseling sessions with Ben and encapsulate those intoxicated and disjointed thoughts.
Slight deviation from canon about his victim because I haven't watched the last episode in a while.
(+ a disclaimer)
I claim no ownership of American Horror Story; Respective rights to the series belongs to the creators, including one Ryan Murphy and his stupid yellow hat.