Music blared in the background, blocking out any social interaction Violet would be forced to have with anyone in the house. The sweet sound of pain, sorrow and sacrilege filled the room, and her thoughts were left stranded as she buried herself deep in the book she caressed between her fragile, cold fingers.
She traced over pages, her eyes darting from line to line as she read further on. The darkness surrounded her, and the only light in the room was being given off by the lamp on the bedside table, illuminating the crevice of the room in which she lay in silence. Violet seemed to have a compelling and overwhelming edacity for loneliness and solitude, and was granted such when she was handed a book and lulling tunes. Her volatile innocence shone brightest when she was in isolation, and much preferred not to be pestered, knowing that she was very inconsistent.
There was one person she knew she wanted to be with, the only person who could make her feel like her life was worth something, and could make her feel happy. Tate Langdon. As she put the book down her thoughts began flooding back, and her mind was once again filled with compelling images of Tate. It was crucial that he was the one to comfort her, after all, he was the only one she believed to understand her and the sufferings she'd been through.
In the midst of her loneliness, when Tate wasn't there, she kept a diary, with mainly thoughts and feelings, but with the occasional drawing when she grew even more bored of her surroundings. It was kept hidden under her pillow in case her parents found it and deemed her unstable, verging on suicidal, but she had it out before she began reading just to add to the words of misery.
"What are you reading, now?" The familiar voice called from the darkness. Violet turned to see Tate standing at the bottom of her bed. She flashed a smile.
"None of your business," Violet retorted, smirking as she did so.
Tate crawled over the metal bars at the bottom of the bed that separated him from the warmth of the radiant girl lying comfortably before him. Then he proceeded to slide up the bed until he was right beside her, and could finally snuggle up close with her.
"You're always reading. Every time I see you you've got a book in your hands,"
"Is that such a bad thing?" Violet questioned his statement.
"I never said it was," Tate answered, "I'm just curious, what else do you like to do?"
"Listen to music, smoke-" She was cut off before she could finish.
"Yeah, I know all that stuff, but I was thinking more along the lines of," He paused for a moment, "... Dancing?"
Violet let out a loud, sarcastic laugh and watched as Tate also regretted the decision to assume in any way that Violet liked to dance. In fact, it was one of her most hated activities, even mentioning it made her feel revolted. They sat in silence for a moment before Tate raised his hand to fondle the end of Violet's hair. He entwined the strands between his fingers and stared at Violet.
"So how have you been without me?" Tate asked sarcastically, knowing he had only been away a few hours, yet he still felt the need to ask.
"It's been awful," Violet played along with the joke, "Caught my dad with the maid again, and my mom... She's making Meatloaf for dinner."
"You poor thing," Tate sat up and nuzzled his head into her neck, and Violet proceeded to place her head upon Tate's for comfort, however Tate was fidgeting into new positions, and made it hard for her to rest on him.
"What's wrong?" She looked at him as he sat up. He was feeling the bed for something hard under the blanket.
"I think there's something under here. It's pressing into my back,"
"It's probably just the springs. Mom and dad couldn't afford to buy a new mattress for moving in, so I was stuck with my old one." Violet said, however Tate refused to stop looking.
"No. It's not the springs. I've lay in this bed long enough to know that." He insisted, getting up and throwing the blanket downwards so that it left Violet cold in the cool, night air. As Tate found what he was looking for, Violet rolled off the bed, walked over to the window and closed it, giving Tate just enough time to hide it behind his back.
Just then a voice was heard, "Violet! Dinners ready!" Ben Harmon, Violet's father, shouted from the bottom of the staircase.
Violet turned to see Tate standing innocently, with his hands behind his back and smiling.
"Did you find what was irritating you?" She questioned him, a strange look plastered onto her face at the boy standing beside her bed.
"No." He answered, " You're right, it's probably just the springs,"
"Alright, well I won't be too long. Not unless I need to throw up after this Meatloaf," Violet turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Tate standing alone.
As he moved his hands from behind his back he looked down at what was held between them. It was a small, leather book. He traced his fingers down the spine and over the front, undoing the latch as he did so, and his eyes rested on the writing in black on the first page.
This book belongs to: Violet Harmon. Keep out!
He clutched the tiny book in his hands, pondering on whether or not he should continue reading, but his bad side got the better of him and he sat down on the edge of the bed and flicked the page.
At first, it was just song lyrics from her favourite bands with small illustrations between the lines she had written, but the further he read on through the book, the more frequent his name would turn up. Violet would mention Tate often in her diary, writing about how he looked, and how he treated her. She even wrote a paragraph about his eyes, and how even though they were as dark as his soul, they still shone brightest when he was around her. She described how he would try to scare her often, and how the attempts would usually fail, as Violet was afraid of nothing. Yet he tried his best every time.
He sat back and soaked in what had been written. No one had ever spoken so kind of him, and no one had ever seemed to love him as much as Violet. The words brought him pleasure and a small smile stuck on his face as he began to read again. She called him caring, loving and gentle, however, Tate knew that he was none of those things. He was reckless, violent... Evil. Still, her words gave him comfort.
The last page of the diary was a small drawing of two hands entwined, with a small, black raven perched on one finger. Tate placed the book back down on the bed and looked out of the window at the black night. The moon shone behind the trees and there were no stars to be seen.
He wished to see Violet, to feel her soft skin, and caress her in his arms, but she was with her family, and he was all alone.
Tate stood up, walked to the black board at the far end of Violet's room, and lifted a small, worn down piece of white chalk. He then began to write. His arm dug deep and almost broke the chalk stick in half with the intensity and ferocity of his writing, and when he was finished there was white dust flowing through the room, made visible by the rays of moonlight that beamed through. Illuminated on the board in big, block letters, he left his message to Violet.
I LOVE YOU
He stood back and stared in admiration, and then looked down at the table beside him. Sitting on the desk he noticed a small bottle of what seemed to be sleeping pills. He ignored them and continued to put the chalk down, and then he sauntered out of the room, with a huge smile plastered onto his face.
"I love you, Violet..." he whispered to himself as he walked down the hall, "And I always will."