Violet lay awake for a long time that night.

It didn't make sense. How could it be possible that Tate wasn't alive (she preferred 'wasn't alive' to 'dead' – 'dead' was too confronting. Too much like the things she'd seen in the basement. And Tate wasn't like those things. Was he?)? He had fallen asleep with his hand curled inside hers. He was warm. He was breathing.

She was cracking up. That was the only logical conclusion. Maybe her mom was right, and there had been some lasting psychological damage from the break in. And maybe Constance was just fucking with her. That seemed pretty likely. She'd been tapped in the head even before Addy had died. Perhaps that he just pushed her over the edge, and now she wanted everyone to suffer as much as she was. Would Constance set up a fake website just to screw with Violet? Would she really lie about her son having committed those horrible murders?

Violet let got of Tate's hand gently. He stirred a little in his sleep, a small snuffling sound as he buried his head in the pillow. She sat up, looking down at him. No way. It wasn't possible that he'd done those things. It didn't make sense that the same boy who'd brutally slaughtered his classmates would have sat with her in the bath-tub forcing her to regurgitate the pills she'd swallowed. The way he'd held her. So tightly she almost couldn't breathe.

She shook her head, running a hand through her long hair. It was too much to process. Tate. What he might have done. The shit she'd seen in the basement. The fact that he might not even be alive. She glanced over her shoulder at him. It was difficult to look at him now – it made her feel like a crazy person (though she couldn't work out whether she was crazy for half-believing Constance, or crazy for not believing her at all).

"What is this?" she muttered to herself, tangling her hands in her hair in frustration "…fucking 'Twilight'?"

As quietly as possible, she slipped off the bed and over to her dresser. The top was littered with crap – old CDs, books, jewellery, little china knick-knacks her grandmother had given her. She opened up a book and drew out an envelope concealed with the pages. Reaching in, she drew out a fresh, shiny razorblade. She looked over to Tate again. He was sleeping still, silently, one arm tucked under the pillow.

Tate had talked plenty about how he'd been a cutter – he'd even shown her the scars. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him, although a small part of her had known it probably wasn't healthy. But fuck healthy. He understood her. He didn't see the marks on her arms and demand a reason for them, or tell her that it was stupid, or bad, or wrong.

Could ghosts bleed?

Violet returned to her bed, kneeling down on the floor next to Tate. Her heart was beating hard against the walls of her chest, so hard she thought she could almost hear it. She bit her bottom lip, reaching out for Tate's hand, stroking it softly for a moment. Tate made gave a small sigh – frowned a little in his sleep.

Carefully, Violet turned his hand over so the palm faced upward. He didn't move – didn't seem to notice as she pushed the sleeve of his sweater up, enough to reveal the soft white underside of his wrist.

This was a stupid idea. She knew that. What kind of sick person thought about cutting up their boyfriend whilst he slept? But she needed to know. And it wasn't like she could ask, could she? 'Oh hi, met your mum, apparently you're dead – what's that about?'. All at once she remembered Halloween night – the kids on the beach. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

She took his hand in hers, pressing her thumb down on his palm to steady herself. His brows knit together, but he didn't wake. Her hand shook as she balanced the sharp edge of the razorblade against his wrist. Was she frightened? She couldn't tell anymore. She'd spent so long not being afraid of anything – or pretending not to be – that everything seemed unreal, like something from a dream. Had she been scared in the basement? She couldn't remember now. It seemed like something that had happened to someone else…or maybe something she'd watched on TV.

She swallowed heavily, pressing the blade down and dragging it swiftly up Tate's arm towards the bunched-up sleeve.

Down the road, not across the street.

Pain worked reflexively, and Tate's body responded before he had time to work his way back to consciousness. He yanked his arm back towards his body before his eyes even opened, jerking awkwardly across to the other side of the bed, away from Violet. When he opened his eyes he looked lost – confused. "What…?" he murmured, sleepily, moving his arm away from his body to examine the cut with confusion. It had been deeper than Violet had intended – a thick gash that had not only broken the skin, but parted the flesh. Violet stared at it, in the half-dark. It was bloodless, as if she'd cut into a piece of raw chicken.

Tate's face contorted in pain as he stared at the cut.

"What the fuck, Vi?"

So Constance was right. He wasn't bleeding. He was a ghost.

But as she watched, the cut started to fill with blood. It blossomed through the split in his flesh, filling the gash quickly and spilling over his skin. He made a sound Violet couldn't quite interpret (anger? Pain? Confusion?) and stared at her, mouth slightly parted.

And then he smiled – a slow smirk that crept across his features like a cloud passing across the sun.

Violet looked up at him. Her heart seemed to have stopped beating temporarily. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

"Lick it up." Tate said, softly.

"What!" now that she was able to speak, the words started tumbling out all at once – jumbled, wrong "…Tate, I didn't mean with the…I just…your mom and then I…I thought I was going crazy so I – shit, you're bleeding so much – I…shit, I'm sorry…"

Tate sat up, tugging his sweater over his head. The sleeve pulled over the cut, scraping away the top layer of coagulating fluid, reopening the wound. He tossed the bloody garment on the floor, watching Violet carefully. He held out his arm to her.

"Lick. It. Up." He repeated, slowly.

At a loss for what else to do, Violet climbed back onto the bed. Tate said nothing – merely kept his arm out, extended towards her. She looked at him, wide eyed.

"Tate…I think you need a bandaid or…or stitches or something…fuck…" she winced as she watched the blood trail down the boys arm. "Maybe we should take you to hospi-"

"I didn't ask you." He replied, tonelessly. "I said lick it up."

Maybe she was dreaming. This could be a dream, couldn't it? Maybe he'd never saved her from the overdose after all, and this was all some elaborate hallucination she was having, prior to her death. Hands still shaking, she reaching out and took his arm, fingers curling around his wrist. His blood was hot, spilling out around her fingers.

"Jesus Christ…" she whimpered.

"Just do it."

Slowly, Violet bent her head towards the cut. She could smell the blood as she got closer – a thin, metallic scent like rust. She'd licked at her own blood before – it wasn't like she was squeamish about it, but this was different. There was so much. Closing her eyes, she stuck her tongue out, licking up the length of Tate's arm, her tongue darting back into her mouth slicked with his blood.

Tate began to laugh, softly.

"What's it like?" he asked her. His voice sounded soft again. Warm.

She opened her eyes to look at him. Her mouth was slightly open, dark and wet with blood.

"…it's…" she tried to think. She felt dizzy, suddenly. Not quite present in her own body. Tate's blood tasted different to her own. Richer, somehow. More complex.

"It's…good…?" she wasn't sure if that was the right answer, or even what she wanted to say.

He smiled at her, reaching out to grip her shoulders, pulling her close to him. His mouth closed over hers, licking the blood from her lips, his tongue opening up her mouth, tangling with hers.

Violet moaned gently into the kiss, allowing herself to be pulling down onto the mattress, Tate repositioning himself to hover above her.

He broke the kiss, looking down at her. His bloody arm was rubbing against her bare shoulder, where her t-shirt had slipped down.

"I don't care why you did it." He said. She could feel his weight above her, his hips pressing against hers. All at once she wanted him, badly. Worse than she had when they were on the beach. She let out a shaky breath, reaching one hand up to rest on his hip, pushing up the fabric of his t-shirt. His skin was warm.

"But you owe me, now." He continued. There was something in his eyes – something unreadable. She didn't reply, just snaked her hand a little further up, over his stomach, up to graze along his ribs.

Tate's eyes closed for a moment. His hips pressed down against hers.

"That's how it…works…" his breathing was heavier. She could feel it through the erratic swell of his chest. "You…cut me...I…cut…you. Next time."

Violet let her hand fall back down to the waistband of his pants. She wanted to go on, but something stopped her. Maybe it was the implication of 'next time'. Or the memory of what had happened Halloween night. How shitty she'd felt when he'd rejected her.

"Okay," she agreed, letting her hand fall back to the bloody sheets beside her. "I'll let you. Next time."