The taste of cigarettes lingers on her teeth as she inhales and collects more deadening smoke through her lips. Her eyes alert and wired as if an electric current is running through her head. Her hands locked on that cancer stick as she absently stares towards the window where the cracked glass is visible, and the marred flesh on her wrists is presented. Blood and carnage, something Tate would have been elated to see. He loves to see her bleed. He just hates when she does it. He hates that it's not him.
She smirks sarcastically dipping toward the window, sensing Tate standing near her, maybe he's thinking of stopping that replay because it's her. Maybe he just wants to watch her react. They haven't spoken in a year, but he's always waiting, watching, and barely hoping she'll love him in return of his fucked up faults and psychopathic mentality. The moon is full, blazing in a deep white almost gray contrast to the black sky, stars twinkle hazily as she moves to the pavement. It's jagged and ruthless, worthy of cutting anybody through their exposed limbs. Fuck, she misses that sense of blood pumping through her in a warmth, blood still drips from her dead veins but it's as cold as ice and it makes her skin crawl. The skin doesn't split easily anymore when she drags a razor across it, it's stiff and cold. She hates it. She can't mutilate herself, it's not the same, she's not depressed anymore. She's going fucking crazy. She can feel it. Her brain spinning as she feels Tate breathing on her dead flesh.
She's dead amongst the living, and living amongst the dead.
"You want to die, don't you?" Tate whispers in her hair, he smells of blood and gunpowder. He's shedding away the facade of a human. Blood seeps from his chest, perfect marks of precision, she sees what arteries are hit, she can almost hear the shots, smell death. It's almost radiating off him. He places the very same pistol he aimed at SWAT at his temple.
"I crave death too sweetheart."
"Put a bullet in your skull then. I want to watch you splatter." her voice is cold and as dead as she is. It's the power of persuasion that she has. Or so she thinks. Tate would do anything for her. His Violet.
"My girl, I'll come back. I always do."
"You always will." deadpanned, she replaces his hand with her own, she watches his eyes space slightly off of hers, dripping out of focus as the colors slosh together in an intensity as she clicks off the safety and flicks the trigger with her thumb. She looks so beautiful with power in her eyes, her wired gaze matches his as she presses her lips to the son of death.
She pulls the trigger. Her hand bouncing slightly as the shot vibrated through her skin, giving her a taste of life that she will never get back.
His lips are cold against hers as she pressed herself to his stiff frame unmoving on the hardwood floor. He blinks back to living, not taking his gaze off the girl against him. She's beautiful. She's ruthless, she's him. A murderer. She killed in cold blood and no remorse. She shot him in the head, he saw it in her eyes, that killers thrill, it gave her life, gave her power.
His angel finally had finally fallen to the darkness of the house.
"Tate." her voice was airy. "I love you." he stood behind her against the vanity, staring at each-others reflection in the glass.
"I love you too, Violet." the razor in his hand slit across her neck. Crimson coated her as the razor dropped to the floor before she followed with a thud.
In a few minutes, she would come back, and the cycle would start again.
Together forever, just like they promised.