Ghosts: A Series of Vignettes (written on my iPhone)

There's a ghost in me, who wants to say I'm sorry, doesn't mean I'm sorry...

1.

She can't stay angry forever. The thought hits her like an ambush one afternoon as she moves chessmen across the board in a one-sided battle.

And fuck, she's been thinking an awful lot lately about forever, eternity. And boredom.

Violet was so fucking bored. And maybe a little lonely.

But then she wonders if it's the house, whispering, influencing her. It does that. She can see it now; the figurative hand in everything they do, feel. Sees her parents complacency, happiness with the new baby, forgetting everything else wrong with the world. Violet doubts the next family that tries to move in will get the same treatment as the Ramos'. But that's how things work here. It's called fucking Murder House for a reason.

And it's there in the vengefulness, the wrath, the insanity of other ghosts. Ghosts like Hayden. For her part, Violet just wants to stay neutral. Like Switzerland or some shit. And that's how she knows she can't stay mad forever.

But there will be no forgiveness. She can't find it in herself to forgive. Not now. Maybe not ever. So instead she resolves to accept it. What he did. Her mom, that gang of fucking ghouls he murdered. She can't change it.

When did her morals begin to slip, she wonders, or were they never really hers to begin with, just concepts she had been molded to believe?

As a little kid she had been wild, rebellious, fuck, a nightmare. But she got in trouble, her parents yelled, got mad, her teachers punished her and took away privileges until she learned to control herself, her impulses. But they were always there; to hurt people with her words, her fists. She had turned that rage in on herself. How was that better? And now, finally, no one could tell her what to do or who she was. She was dead. She answered to no one.

It was liberating.

Was that what Tate felt? Maybe even before he died? Did he feel free to live his own life, consequences be damned? Just stopped listening to that little voice that told him no, told him what was wrong and right, how other people expected him to behave?

Violet thought maybe Tate never had that voice in the first place.

So she stops hiding from him, stays visible, visits the basement, the attic, without a thought to whether he is there. Beauregard is fun to play with but she gets bored. Doctor and Mrs. Montgomery are just fucking loony. Travis follows Hayden, his own goddamn murderer, around like a puppy even as she moons over Violet's father, never forgiving, never forgetting, but unable to let go.

After a time Violet begins to question if they have something in common after all and decides to spend less time down there.

Tate doesn't speak to her, doesn't approach her and she is genuinely appreciates that. It makes things easier. He casts her the occasional lost, helpless glance, his eyes red rimmed, his cheeks gaunt. And he haunts her room, watching her. She can feel him, a tingle at the base of her spine where he used to rest his hand, the hairs on her arms, her neck, standing up, but she finds she doesn't really mind anymore. It's nice to have company. And, part of her rationalizes, her room was once his too. She would hate to have to give it up entirely. Having a room reminds her of what once was. Having a place to retreat to makes her feel almost human even when her thoughts are at their darkest.

Over time her resolve strengthens, which she supposes is just as well because at New Year's that's what you do. You make resolutions.

And Violet is just so fucking tired of having no one to talk to, to play games with, to have fun or cause mischief with. What's the point of being dead if you can't get into a little trouble now and again?

When the old grandfather clock in the hall chimes, telling her there are thirty minutes until midnight, until a new year, which she will not be alive to see, she casts her eyes to her parents. They are curled up on the sofa, watching the fire. The baby is snuggled into her mother's chest, her father's arm around her mother's shoulders. Then she glances back down, eyeing her lonely game of solitaire.

"Fuck this," she grumbles, voice pitched low so that no one hears her, standing and dusting off the ass of her silvery gray, silk party dress. It's loose on her, with a high waist and pleated skirt, the sleeves long, covering the fresh slashes on her forearm. She doesn't bother to bandage them anymore, lets the blood soak through fabric, smear across her flesh. No one notices.

They never did though, did they, she thinks with a sigh.

Similarly her exit goes unobserved, her family too wrapped up in themselves, their new child, their new lives. Violet decides she needs a new life too.

She finds him in her room, their room, sitting, staring out the window into the dark night. He looks at her as she enters, sees her, fucking notices her. Blonde locks fall across his forehead, into his glassy eyes, sticking to his cheeks stained with lines of pink. Violet wonders if he ever stops crying or if that's just the kind of ghost he is now, that she made him, that he made himself.

Wetting her lips she approaches, slow, like walking toward a trapped wild animal, afraid he'll bolt. Or strike.

"Hi," she says, unsmiling.

Tate stares, swallows. An indiscriminate amount of time passes but she waits, she's grown good at patience games.

"Violet, I," but she cuts him off before he can say I'm sorry or I love you. She doesn't want to hear either from his mouth tonight.

"I don't forgive you."

More silence.

"But I'm lonely," she sighs, "sad. And I'm still tired. So fucking tired, Tate." Her gaze shifts away from him as she mulls over her next words, his mouth open like a fish. "I want a friend."

"Violet," he chokes on her name, "I tried. I did but you," he breathes raggedly, "you stopped me. I could have given him to you. I never wanted you to be alone."

Her eyes find his once more. "I didn't want him."

"Then who do you want? I love you, Violet. I'll help you, whatever you want. I told you, your feelings matter more to me than..."

"Don't say that. Please. I just," she stumbles over her own words, "I can't hear it right now."

"That I love you? But Violet..."

"No. Please," her voice grows firmer, still resolved. "But I will be your friend."

And her words must stun him. He looks both like he's been slapped and kicked in the gut, and yet a smile stretches his face in an impossible way, his elation shining through everything else.

"So I can talk to you, be with you again?"

"In fairness, Tate, you never really fucking left, did you?"

His abashed grin tells her what she already knew. "But don't rush me, okay? Don't push. I want to try but I don't know if I can."

He stands, moving toward her, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "That's okay, Violet. I can be good," and he sounds like a little boy promising not to steal the other children's toys anymore.

"Okay," she agrees with finality as the clock below chimes the hour, midnight, the new year. And Violet leans forward as Tate holds so very still, eyes wide, watching her, holding his breath, as she brushes her lips across his cheek for one lingering moment. "Happy New Year, Tate."

"Happy New Year, Violet," he smiles and her grin matches his own.