Being stuck in this house wasn't doing anything for Violet's hatred of her life. Granted, she didn't really have a life anymore, what with being dead and all. But still. It was stupid that she had to stay inside these shitty walls for 364 days and expected to keep her sanity. The twins made her want to pull her hair out on a good day, with their poppers and baseball bats and terribly foul language. She knew she didn't have the cleanest of mouths, but she hadn't even heard half the curses they used when she was 12.

There was Travis, the dull-witted pretty boy that she had only ever seen with Constance. He meant well, trying to make conversation with her and inviting her to tea parties, but then he'd go off on a tangent and talk about how his "career in Hollywood" had just begun taking off, and how Larry still hadn't brought him the newspaper clippings of his Boy Dahlia scandal, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap a noose around his neck and let him hang for a bit as a means to shut him up. There were just way too many personalities in this building; people that, had they still been alive, shouldn't have been allowed within 100 feet of each other. But here they all were; stuck inside an abandonded and weathered Victorian.

This day (She wasn't sure what day it was, exactly. When her calendar had run out of days, she hadn't had means to get a new one, and now all the days sort of blended together and become increasingly restless and agitating.) found her lying on her back in the attic, her calves and feet up on the bed that currently inhabited Beauregard. She'd figured out, after many attempts, what kept the boy calm (peanut butter on a spoon) and he sat with his legs beneath him, moving every so often and rattling the chain that kept him venturing too far away from all he'd ever known.

She moved her head slowly to the left, picking up her scratch count as she looked at the floor. This was what she did now; since her body had decomposed down to a pile of clothes, dust, and hair, she'd had to find something else to occupy her day. Her parents had taken to sitting out on the gazebo with baby Jeffrey, drinking lemonades and actually talking to each other. It was nice, and sometimes Violet would sit out and join them, because it felt good to be around them and not feel the awkward tension and bottled up feelings. Being dead had some perks.

But some days, like today, she didn't feel like sitting and watching them cuddle up to each other and laugh and play and be...in love again. If she was being honest, all of that just made her...miss Tate.

Violet felt lethargic and her body was aching all the time; she wasn't completely sure, but she thought that this was what heartbreak felt like.

And she wanted to forgive him, wanted nothing more than to cuddle with him on her bed and listen to music but everything in her screamed that this was best, because Tate was a monster, and there was no getting around that fact. He'd lied and manipulated and the trail of blood and sorrow that he left behind was sickening. If she didn't love him so much, the thought of him would make her vomit.

"More putter," she hears Beau mumble, and she looks over to see him with peanut butter all over his face, still holding the spoon in his mouth as he bites out a smile.

She smirks at him and rolls herself over.

"Sure, bud," she sighs, reaching out for the spoon, which the boy hands her a bit shyly. She grins a full smile at him then. Hanging out up here with him has made her like the boy, once she got past the assertive playfulness that he doesn't really show as much anymore. She figured it was just him trying to be friendly, which was kind of backwards considering how shy he got once he got used to you. At any rate, Violet had concluded that Beauregard was good company when she needed to mull over her thoughts in peace.

Sighing as she enters the kitchen, she walks straight over to the cabinet next to the sink. She doesn't hesitate to pull herself onto the countertop, clambering up on her knees and searching blindly for the jar she had nonchalantly tossed back in earlier.

"If you don't mind," a voice said, and Violet started, hitting her head on the bottom of the cabinet and cursing under her breath.

"I'd like you get off of the counter, I've just wiped it down," Moira continued, folding her hands on the island and giving the girl a small smile as she climbed down.

"I didn't notice you," Violet admitted, walking forward and pushing her hair out of her face. "I was just...trying to get the jar of peanut butter out that I tossed back there earlier..."

But she trails off when she notices the maid's eyes flick away from her face, over her shoulder, as if someone is there...

"Who are you looking at?" Violet inquires, though she's sure she already knows.

"Why, I'm not sure what you mean. I'm looking at you," the woman says, standing and moving to the cabinet above the pasta arm. "And as a matter of fact, I believe there's an extra jar in here, somewhere..."

"Moira, who's here? Who did you look at?"

And then the older woman is looking at her sadly, her ghostly eye twinklign with something Violet can't decipher.

"I'm sure you already know. You're a smart girl, after al," she says, reaching around a box of macaroni and grabbing an unopened jar of Jif, walking back to the island and sliding it across.

"Besides," she continues, folding her hands. "He's under the impression that you don't want to see him."

And with that, she was gone.

And being alone with him was beginning to maker her overthink. Her mind was reeling; how long had he been following her?, was he planning something?, was he angry? But then she remembered that he was very much still in love with her, and if he was angry and planning something, he would have acted on it by now, and she relaxes her death grip on the peanut butter jar, turning around to face the empty space in front of the back door.

"You may as well let me see you," she whispers, and her eyes slip closed on their own accord, because she knows she's got to mask the hurt and longing she feels inside her heart. It's been years, after all, at least she believes it's been years. It feels like decades since she's seent eh blond curls, touched the smooth skin, tasted the sweet lips...

The suddenly, she feeels arms wrap around her, and everything crumbles, because no matter how dark and evil Tate is, his arms will always be her safe haven. Even in the hell of an existence she's stuck in, she can just remember one of his hugs and everything will be alright again.

But she doesn't open her eyes as she wraps her arms around his waist. Even when she feels the tears squeeze through her lids, Violet doesn't dare open her eyes. Because this is his punishment; not having her is the only thing that would truly hurt Tate, make him pay for all the pain he's caused. And if she sees him, she knows she'll go back.

So she keeps her eyes closed tight, burying her nose in his collar. He's wearing a wool sweater, she notes. Probably the cream one he was wearing the day they compared their cuts. He smells like lilac and lavender detergent, which she assumes is just a lingering smell from when he was alive.

She hears him sniffle, and then feels his lips press to her temple, and she almost caves and opens her eyes, almost redirects his lips to hers, but then he's whispering "I'm sorry" into her left ear, and "I love you" into her right.

And then he's gone.

Violet feels something, like a tearing in her chest, and she swears she hears an audible rip as she opens her eyes and sinks to the kitchen floor, sobbing raw and outright. She realises that she's feeling her heart break for the second time. But the rip she knows is Tate taking her heart with him.