.
1983
"I am not havin' this conversation with you," Constance said, one hand raised like a shield.
The person she warded with that manicured hand was her eldest son. Despite being albino he was a beautiful example of a young man, something that had been a source of pride for his mother. Now it had become a horrific curse to her.
"Mother," Byron said, trying to be patient. "It's a great opportunity."
"How can you say something like that?!" Constance raged. Hot tears fell from her lashes but she blinked them away furiously as she closed in on her son. She grabbed his strong arms and looked up at him, imploring and accusing at once. "Look at you! You've got everything goin' for you! You don't have to resort to- to trash!"
He sighed and tried to hug her. "People pay big money for this kind of stuff. I can make how I look pay off for me."
"In pornography!" she spat and shoved him away. "That's the best you think you can do? After everything I've sacrificed for you!"
"Oh, stop it, mother!" Byron said, patience exhausted. "You did what you did for your dream. I don't have that dream! I want something real, something that's right in front of me. You spend so much time dreaming your life, you've completely lost touch with what's real! This job, for me, that's real!"
"Real," said Constance, voice cracking on the low growl of a word. "You think you know what real life is like? You don't have a clue!"
"I know a lot more than you think," Byron said loftily. "More than you do. You go around pretending your sham of a marriage is real then you want to lecture me? At least when I sleep around, I'll be getting paid for it. Dad has to pay our maid to get off."
He'd gone too far. He could see it in the hollowed-out way she stared at him. Hugo's infidelity had been a recurring thorn in their family bliss but Byron hadn't intended to bring the latest issue to light in such a cruel way. Regretting it, he reached for her again but she slapped his hand. Just like that, the hurt was gone from her face, replaced with rage.
"Get away from me!" she screamed. "Go do your precious pornography! Turn your whole life into whoring around just like your worthless, son-of-a-bitch father!"
Byron retreated, wounded. He rushed upstairs and stuffed his gym bag with a few clothes and personal things. It wasn't the first time he'd packed a runaway bag but it was the first time Constance didn't stop him. He went to the front door where he paused. Then he opened the door but still she didn't come to stop him. When he left, he slammed the door and he didn't look back.
...
2018
It was well past midnight when the a shadow of a man entered the back yard of Murder House, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He was a tall at 6-foot-4 and had a broad frame. His clothes were so filthy they'd lost distinct color and were varying shades of dark. His hair was an unwashed mess of knotted gray dredlocks; his face was covered with a strange mask of his design. It was a curved piece of metal that had eye slits cut out in it. He'd painted a smile on it in dark red and affixed a cage of spikes over it so the thing had a gruesome, sharp-toothed grin.
After a glance toward the house he crossed the dark yard and checked out the shed. Trying the door, he found it unlocked. Soon he was in the shed. He set the duffel bag down on the floor and shoved a large box in front of the door. Then he unzipped the bag. He turned it over and dumped out the redheaded girl he had inside.
She was nineteen, tied up and gagged, and very afraid. He nudged her with the toe of his mud-crusted jack boot. She whimpered. He chuckled. The sound was muffled by the mask and sounded less human for it. He pulled a large hunting knife out of the sheath on his hip. It was far cleaner than he was, sharp and deadly-looking in the moonlight that filtered through the tiny window.
The redhead saw the knife and squealed in terror. She wriggled fruitlessly. He chuckled again and dropped to one knee beside her. A wide hole in the black denim jeans put a patch of his paper-white skin next to her head. He grabbed her by the curls and yanked her head up. She scrunched her eyes shut, whimpering. Tears of fright slipped out and slid down her freckled cheeks.
He pulled the knife through her hair, close to the scalp. The sharp blade sheared the ginger locks easily. He caught another fistful of her curls and carved that clump off as well. He didn't want to keep it; he dropped it into the old duffel bag without care. Once her head was crudely shaved he turned the knife on her clothes. He sliced them off with practiced ease and swiftness. She whimpered more but the gag was stifling.
Once his victim was naked the man reached into a side pouch on the bag and pulled out some duct tape. He tore off a broad strip and pressed it over her nose, nice and tight, then another over her gagged mouth. He smoothed the tape down firm then dropped the roll back in the bag. Then he sat down beside her to wait.
"That is fucked up," Tate said. He had positioned himself on the box the masked man had shoved in front of the door. He had his elbows propped on his knees and hands folded under his chin. "I think that's probably the most fucked up shit I've seen all week."
The man shifted into a feral crouch and assessed the intruder. Then he slowly got to his feet. He reached for the mask and shoved it up.
"Tate?"
Tate blinked. The man didn't look familiar to him and the teen was pretty sure he'd remember someone so distinctive. The guy was chalk white and had weird pink eyes. He looked like he might be about Dr. Harmon's age. The man smiled, showing deep dimples.
"Tate! It is you! Holy shit. You're not quite as old as I would've thought. You're definitely bigger than the last time I saw you."
Tate stared at him. He was beginning to worry. It was never good when someone recognized him and he didn't recognize them.
The boogieman spread his arms. "It's me, squirt! Byron! I know it's been a while but you can't tell me you've forgotten your big brother."
-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-
x
Author's Note:
I found this short while I was digging around in my archives and I thought I'd share. I know it sorta reads like a new Season but... it's not. It's just a one-shot AU exploration of what might have happened to Tate's older brother, if he hadn't died at birth in my fic. He's inspired by the actual brother, who was cut to merely a mention or two in post-editing. You can see a pic of him at AmericanHorrorStory-dot-wikia-dot-com. Search for albino1.
I picked the name "Byron" because the show never named him. Since Constance loved poetic names, I named him after the gloomy Lord Byron, who wrote the world's first awesome vampire poem. Wasn't till I was editing this for publication that I recalled the Columbine shooter Ryan Murphy patterned Tate after-Dylan Klebold-also had an older brother named Byron.
Getting back to my Asylum AU now.
