I do not own American Horror Story: Murder House.

But apparently it's stuck in my head right now. Poor me.

Who I Am

Hi, I'm Tate.

I am, by definition, a sick, twisted, manipulative, lying bastard.

See, it's already working.

You want to believe in me, don't you?

You wonder how such a cute, blond boy with dark eyes and smile dimples could say something so mean about himself. Doesn't he have a good mommy or daddy to love him and encourage him? Poor thing, how can he say that about himself?

So now you want to believe in my good, in my possibility for change.

And that's how I've got you.

Because you want to care and believe and I can't bear to.

Just like this guy, Dr. Harmon. He's a head shrink. I talk to him because my mother wants me to. And because if I do it, and do it just right, I'll hurt her more.

Or I might get a little better and surprise us all.

So I sit there on his couch and he sits there in his chair and writes on his notepad and pretends not to be shocked and disgusted when I say crazy, terrible things.

Which is really fun 'cause then I just try to think of something even worse to say. Something even worse to push him.

Watch him refuse to squirm.

And know it's me doing it.

And then I smile at him with my dark, dead eyes so he can see that I know that he knows I'm doing it to him.

On purpose.

At least until our session ends or he throws me out in a childish rage.

And I'm bored again and wander off to do something else.

Roll the little red ball back and forth to Beauregard up in his attic prison.

Whisper one sided conversations with Thaddeus in the shadows of the cellar.

Watch the living, free people come and go and wonder what it's like out there in the outside world. Wish I could leave this damned property.

And observe the dead people inside as they scheme and plot and manipulate against each other and the living that dare to enter this place.

But all that pales in comparison to her.

Violet.

It's the name of a purple flower.

A delicate little flower that's not near as beautiful and breathtaking and perfect as the girl I know who carries the same name.

That long silky hair. Those veiled brown eyes. That mouth wants to smile but often finds little reason to and sometimes refuses to out of sheer stubbornness.

She's beautiful and tortured and angsty and still relatively fresh in this world.

She's so open and yet still so closed off at the same time.

Even though she's been through a lot with her crazy parents, I feel like she could be and can be fine.

If she'll only stop cutting herself.

And if I don't destroy her first.

Everything about her is wonderful to me.

I like her music, I like her style.

I love her smell, I love her voice

I love her life and her heart.

I love everything about her.

Except her parents.

I hate her parents.

Self-involved, self-pitying, self-serving bastards who don't care enough about her. Don't pay true attention to her. Don't deserve her.

They're better than my parents by a mile.

But they still suck.

But they serve my purposes well enough.

I use Dr. Harmon to try to figure myself out. And then when I'm done with him for the time being, I try to disturb him as much as possible with how sick and twisted I am.

Because he deserves it, the egocentric prick.

And Mrs. Harmon. She'd be so pretty and sexy with her tall, lithe figure and thick, curly red hair.

If only she wasn't such a whiny, self-involved bitch.

But she'll serve my purposes in getting Nora Montgomery a baby she can love to make her happy.

She'll do.

I mean she is a female. A living, breathing female.

And she was really tight. And ready. And willing.

No matter what she screamed and cried later about me raping her.

Because that first time, she wanted it. She invited it. She said so.

And I didn't want to.

Not to her.

But I worked myself up and did it as a means to an end.

And I won't lie and say it didn't feel good.

But then I took off that mask and looked it the mirror later, trying to figure out what I had become.

A person who could do something like that to somebody surely wouldn't look like me, would he?

I looked the same when I stared owlishly, nearly horror struck, into that bathroom mirror.

I'd never slept with a girl before.

I was a seventeen year old virgin when I died.

Because what girl in my high school would want a loser creep like me? None of them, that's who.

So Mrs. Harmon was my first.

And she felt great. She sounded great.

Even though it was all a great, big, sick lie to get the crying Nora Montgomery a baby.

And Violet would hate me forever if and when she ever found out.

But I'd done it just the same.

And so I was different now.

And completely the same.

I sulk, I pout.

I rage and I scream and I cry when I don't get my way.

I lie to everyone. About whatever I feel like.

Whatever suits my purposes at the time.

And whether or not they accept my lies, I still try to make them, as much as I can.

Because it's what I do.

Sometimes I lie to myself.

About what I've done and what I am.

I lie so well I can't even remember where I've hidden the truth.

Because I don't want to.

I even lie to Violet.

Sort of.

Mostly I just don't tell her everything.

Because I love being with her. I love the way she pretends she's not looking at me.

I love the way she talks, the way she thinks.

I love the way she makes me feel.

Like I'm not a monster. Not a creep loser or a murderous freak.

She makes me feel like a guy.

Kinda weird, kinda different.

But in a good way. In a not boring way. In a not dead and damned way.

Just the better parts of me that I wish I could be.

I love her.

And I don't want to go away from her.

And if she knew, really understood, she'd send me away forever.

And I'd be left in the darkness alone without her light to warm me and my black, rotted insides.

And I don't want that.

I just want her.

My Violet.

My light.

So I lie to her and withhold my dark secrets from her. I show her the other side of me that nobody's ever taken the time to see.

I show the silly boy, the compassionate guy, the gentle, thoughtful person that I wish I could really be all the time.

I show her the illusion, the dream of what I want to be. Of what I could be, if I could only be with her.

With her and send away all the evil inside and surrounding me.

And in that way, I lie and manipulate her to care about a monster, a murderer, a damned soul.

Because I don't want to live in darkness without her light anymore.

Because I'm a sick, twisted, manipulative, lying bastard.

So, still want to believe in me and my potential for redemption and goodness?

Too bad for you.

And me.

And her.

'Cause that's a really, really long shot in the best of circumstances.

And these aren't them.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's Halloween.

And I've got plans.

And a date.

Now let's see, where's that black spray paint?

Is this drivel? I don't know. But I hope you enjoyed it, whatever it is. :)

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