This is a rewrite of my previous story, on another account, of False Prophet. New title, a lot of changes, and hopefully I've become a bit better at writing.

Still not Beta'd. If you want to Beta my craziness, feel free to PM me!

Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, sex, light gore, etc-all typical Murphy!verse triggers apply. I did not do that the last time and I feel awful. ( Of course, the last time no one did it-but I'm glad we're becoming better as a society in a whole, because mental health should be protected. ) I will always put a trigger warning before a chapter so you can forego it if needed. You matter. Stay safe.

Onward!

There's a big difference between bravery and stupidity. Violet, for all her fifteen years as a fountain of infinite wisdom, thinks she's got the two down. "My fearless girl," her mom would say as she'd run her hands through her hair with an absentminded smile on her face, before being pulled into a hug. Of all the things Violet misses from her parents' hit-or-miss benign neglect are those hugs, especially when she feels her world is tumbling off its axis and she needs to be reminded that she's brave, not stupid. Never stupid. Fuck, she used to be a member of MENSA back when she gave a damn and actually loved school. Of course, Violet is smart enough to know common sense and a high IQ didn't always go hand-in-hand, but she still enjoys thinking she has both in the bag. She also enjoys throwing it in her parent's faces when they decide to actually be present in her life.

If she's stupid, then she's just like them: hypocritical.

That's something she can't live with.

It's Halloween when she puts the stupidity-vs-bravery theory to the test. It's not cold, but she wears a cardigan anyway. She says it's because she's cold natured when strangers, or her parents, ask about her clothing choices in a place like California, but it's her armor. The sweater cardigans, the long dresses, and the leggings underneath hide the scars that cover her legs and her arms. Some are now almost white, while others are still an angry pink, but those angry little scars are hers. Her little reminder that she's still there, even when she feels like she's just going through the motions. She isn't now, though; she's currently making out with her dad's patient as he gently coaxes her to lay on the sand. Her heart hammers in her chest as his hands brush against her small breast, and there's a part of her—the inexperienced girl who has never been on a date, or kissed, or let alone made out with a guy in her life!—that wants to push him away, to stop. To be able to think about this, clearly, and examine what is happening because she needs control.

The part that wins, the part that urges Violet's hand to boldly trail down his sweater covered chest to the front of his jeans to cup him in her hand, makes up her mind for her. All but suffocates the fearful part of her with a pillow because, holy shit, a boy is actually interested in her. A boy actually thinks she's attractive enough to begin to grow hard and rut against her hand. "Jesus, Vi," he breaks the kiss, his blond shaggy hair covering his face, nipping at her neck with almost an inhuman growl. He keeps saying her name—Violet, Violet, Violet—as his kisses and nips go southward and his calloused, all too cold hands lift up her dress. "Are you sure?" He asks with wide, dark eyes. "It hurts the first time."

"I don't care." She says, already doing her best to shimmy out of her leggings, thanking God she decided against underwear for tonight. The way Tate's breath hitched she supposes he's happy, too. Fortune favors the bold, so as soon as her leggings and high-tops are discarded she wraps her legs around Tate and pulls him down to meet her lips once more. He wants to tease her, make her wet, but she's been sopping since she heard his X-Rated confession to her dad; he had expected her to purr, but when his cold fingers make contact in between her legs she growls. He's amused, but he doesn't stop. Violet is pretty sure she'd kill him if he stops… but she wants more. Needs more.

She's afraid if this is drawn out, she'll never have the courage to go through with it. She's Vivian Harmon's fearless little girl: she has to go through with it. She wants to.

Tate moves his hand and pushes himself off of her to her chagrin, "Maybe we should stop. It's your first time and—and I don't—!" He looks almost ashamed. He's hard, definitely ready, and his jeans and underwear are to his ankles, but something about him looks pained. Most of all, he looks as though this feeling—consideration—isn't something he's used to, and is trying to find the easiest way to adjust to it. "I want you. I do. I want you so badly, but…"

Violet takes one deep, deep breath. While she's touched he's putting her first, even amused at how foreign it seems for him to do so, she only runs her hands through his shaggy blond hair, urging him to lower himself down on her once more. Despite misgivings, he complies readily. "Then show me, asshole." This earns her a huff of a laugh and all concerns about her comfort are out the door.

It happens fast. There's pain, but nothing awful like she's heard girls talk about, and it fades pretty fast. He comes first, but makes sure she does before he rolls off of her, away from the fire they made to keep warm. It seems laughable, considering it's in the eighties, but Violet thinks it is romantic. She thinks that this is romantic, even as she puts on her tights and can feel his seed—cum—inside her, dripping, along with blood.

"Thanks."

It's a dumb response, but it's the only thing she can think of. Tate isn't offended; he gives a huff of a laugh before pulling her close, her cheek on his broad shoulder and his on her head.

She doesn't feel any different. She feels happy. Happier than the endorphins razorblades or nicotine gives her. Violet can feel his hot breath as he speaks to her about school, life, how everything is somehow smaller than what you make it out to be—but all she can focus on are his lips. Maybe she has an addictive personality or something, because she's certain she can easily become addicted to his lips.

"Good job, Tate." A voice breaks the haze she's found herself in, causing Tate's body to stiffen. "We've been waiting for years for you to show your face." Violet turns around a group of teenagers, seemingly around their age, with possibly the most high-end horror FX makeup job Violet's ever seen. She has half the mind to compliment them, but their faces aren't kind, or friendly. Beneath mangled visages is a type of rage Violet's only seen once—with Tate and Leah in that basement.

This doesn't seem to bother Tate. He's still stiffens, his hold a little more tighter than she likes with his arms still around her, but Violet plays it off as some social anxiety thing. "Nice costumes. You know, there's a whole beach guys."

Two girls and three boys. One wore a letter jacket with a bullet hole in his head; the other, a cheerleader, with a bullet hole where her heart would be; a goth with her brains spewing out; a punkish-rebel covered in blood; and one without a mouth. Again, the FX is superior, pretty bad ass, but the vibes—and smells—they're giving turns Violet's insides. When Tate suggests they leave, she doesn't complain.

After the ordeal with the Dead Breakfast Club—Violet is pretty proud of that coinage, if she says so herself—she hasn't seen Tate in weeks. "I have no idea who they are!" He had claimed with a pinched face, shrugging helplessly. "Probably some dumb jocks that just want to be mean." Violet bought it—buys it—because Westfield High is filled with people who enjoy being ugly just to be ugly, but there's a sliver of doubt she nurses in the back of her mind. His posture, the darting of his dark eyes, even how well they seemed to know Tate. It's as if her intuition, that normally is dead on, is screaming at her to open her eyes. Violet doesn't want to. Scared to.

Violet is afraid of the axis being set off course if she does.

"Violet—school!" Her mom yells. Her honey colored hair is sprawled out on her pillow like a halo, her hands on her stomach, as brandy colored eyes stare at the ceiling. She could fake sick, or just skip and go by a bookstore, even a vinyl record store, if she wants. It's Friday. Who cares if she skips another day? "Violet!"

Apparently, her mom.

The woman rapt on her door, as if taking her anger out on the furniture than the person she should, her father, in emphasis as she says her name again. "Violet Harmon—"

She swings her legs off her bed and makes her way to the door, her sock covered feet shuffling, and opens it almost violently. "I heard you the first time!" She snaps at her mouth, but immediately regrets it when she sees her face. Vivian, who Violet considers the most beautiful woman in the whole world, has bags under her eyes. They are red and puffy and normally tan, freckled skin that held some ethereal glow looks—sunken. Drained. Violet wants to punch her dad in the throat. Repeatedly. She wants to get a chainsaw and saw off his dick. She wants to right the wrongs done to her mother who, when she isn't focused on her failing marriage, is usually consistent at parenting. Mom isn't even dressed for the day—she's only in her pajamas.

Her mom is miserable and she knows she isn't helping.

Fuck. She's weak, too.

"Mom…" she tries, but Vivian just shakes her head and walks away. Violet doesn't blame her.

Her dad. Her mom. Now, it looks like she's pushing Tate away, too.

She can feel snot drip from her nose and notices how blurry her eyes are becoming, so she slams the door petulantly before resting her back against it. She has the urge to slide down, hide her face in her knees, and cry—all she wants to do now is cry and scream—but forces her angst down a tad. No matter if she likes it or not, she really does need to go to school. It doesn't take long for her to shower, moisturize, and then put on her armor of cardigans, dresses, tights and sneakers before slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She's ready. Her mom doesn't offer her to take her to school, and her dad isn't even staying with them anymore. If anything, at least she can focus on work and not her shit home life?

"Come with me!" A familiar southern accent takes her out of her reverie, grabbing her roughly by the arm.

"Like hell I am, you dumb bitch!" Mind your manners, Violet, she hears her mom scolding her in her head, but why should she? Her neighbor is the one who should mind her manners. "Let go!" Maybe if she starts screaming stranger danger her mom would notice? Fat chance.

What Constance says next wipes away Violet's attitude quicker than a slap on her face, which she could tell is what the older woman so desperately wants to do. "Adelaide is dead." She spits it at her like a curse; what is even worse, from the horrified expression on Violet's face, is that the passing of her impish neighbor strikes a chord in Violet's heart. For the second time today, her eyes become blurry. "What—how?" Is all Violet can say, besides allowing herself to be dragged into Constance's house than make her way to school like she set out for.

She shares a cigarette with the older woman as she goes on about Adelaide. Hit by a car, she says, but Violet knows Constance blames her for encouraging her. "It was a cruel thing, but I suppose you were just trying to be kind." A pause when dark eyes start to glare daggers, the southern drawl almost dangerous. "Weren't you?"

Violet nods, doe eyes wider than normal, as she takes another drag. Exhaling the smoke, it is only by happenstance does she notice a picture on the kitchen counter. It's Adelaide, smiling, with a young man in a sweater with his arm wrapped around her. Her blood turns icy when she drops the cigarette, causing Constance to notice the expression.

"Tate's my son." Before Violet can ask how, since she's really old enough to be his grandmother and not his son, Constance continues, "he… he's dead, Violet. You know as well as I that," she raises her pointer finger to the direction of her home, voice lowering for dramatic effect. "That house is more than meets the eye."

Dead.

Tate.

"Bullshit!" Violet hisses under her breath, pushing herself from the counter, but Constance's wrinkled hand grabs her, stalling her from her departure. "Are you so arrogant to assume that this reality is the only one you live in?" Violet stiffens as Constance goes on. "There's more to this world than just Heaven and Earth, little girl, and it's about time you start opening your eyes when it comes to my boy."