Tate missed that familiar sensation of the powder being snorted up his nose; he missed the razor gliding across his wrist. That high; all of that blood; it's what he needed. It's what he wanted.

"Promise me you'll never do it again."

Why did he care what she thought? Why did he care about making a stupid promise to a stupid girl from school? He shouldn't. He wouldn't.

He heard his sister's screams, something his mother must have caused, but Tate simply tried to block those screams out. He hated hearing his siblings in pain, hated it more than anything. All of it was his mothers fault, she treated them like shit. Some type of punishment for each of them.

Adelaide: the mirror room.

Beauregard: she'd hit him.

Tate: simply, pure emotional abuse.

But she was the worst to Lynette. Lynette always tried taking the blame for everything. She didn't care what it resulted to; she, just as much as Tate did, hated seeing her siblings in pain. She had a great heart, and a hell of a brain. She was smart, beautiful, and all around, perfect. But that was taken away from her.

Tate walked through the doors of his house, still rubbing his bruised arm from the stupid assholes at school shoving him around all the time, and beating him up, luckily, they didn't go full out on beating him up today. Tate could fight back, he just chose not too. He figured it would piss them off more. Plus, in the moment, he always felt so defenselessness.

Tate threw his backpack onto the floor. "Addie?" He called out; she was usually the first to great him when he came home. But there was no response. "Beau?" Still, no response. He would call out for his other sister, but she usually stayed at school late on fridays, either hanging out with a friend, or some after school club thing. She was always busy. "Ma?" He decided to try. Maybe Constance had taken them out? Tate rolled his shoulders back, shrugging it off, not putting much thought into it. As Tate walked upstairs he stepped on a ripped piece of paper that was carelessly thrown onto the floor; Tate thought nothing of it, instead he continued up the stairs. His hand felt his forearm, which was covered by a long sleeved shirt. He felt the crave for the sting that the blade gave. No one was home. No one would notice. It would release the energy. It would make things better.

Tate opened the bathroom door, and suddenly, the thought of cutting, left. The thought of everything, was gone. He felt nothing. He couldn't think, he didn't know how to react. He could hear his heart pounding; it felt like the organ was plummeting down his entire body. He stared up at the unconscious body that was hanged from the iron bar on the top of the shower. Hung there. His sister. Lynette. Dead. Gone forever. Tears fell from his eyes as soon as he saw the image. He felt his whole body shake. He felt denial for the first moments he witnessed this event. Tate climbed in the shower and reached up to untie the knot when his sister had used to hung herself. Once the knot was undone, her body fell into his arms. He sunk down to the floor of the bathtub. It finally hit him. He came to realization that this was happening.

"No…" He cried between sobs. "Don't..." He couldn't speak, his voice was cracking. His words were barely understandable. He held a tighter grip onto the dead, pale body and cried into his shoulder. "Please, don't leave me…" The words might have helped, if she wasn't already gone.

Tate stood on the top of the stairs, staring at the police, taking his sister away. Putting her in a dead body bag and out of the house. As many left to properly take care of the body, and preserve it, for what they assumed to be a funeral that the family would give the young girl, but two police officers were advised to stay with Tate until someone of the family came home. They sat at the dinning room table, conversing, until one of them saw Tate, just staring at them with his dark brown eyes. "Do you need to talk, son?" One of them offered, but Tate just scowled at them. Tate felt numb and empty. His gaze stayed at the two officers. Once they heard no response, they went back to their previous conversation.

Why hadn't she told him? Why? He could have prevented this. He could have helped...But how would a coke head help anyone? How would he be of any use? That's probably why she hadn't come to him. Soon, more tears filled his eyes, and his gaze followed down to the floor. He saw a crumbled up paper. Tate blinked a couple times before slowly walking down the stairs. He sat down on the floor, and his brittle hands clasped onto the piece of paper as he carefully unfolded it.

Tate, take care of Addie and Beau, they need you. Stay strong. Stronger than me

Love, Lynette.

Tate shut his eyes tight, reliving that day, certainly did not help the monstrous thoughts. "Fuck it," He mumbled, in tears now of the thought of his dead sister. "It doesn't matter," He yanked the draw open and looked at the silver box, he took it out, just thinking of the relief he would soon feel, calmed him. "You deserve it anyway," he whispered, and opened the box, seeing a couple of blades. He took one, setting the box on his desk.

Tate put the blade against his skin, as soon as he was about to apply pressure between the two materials, flesh and metal, a voice interrupted, "Stop it," It sounded just like his sister. Tate flinched. He sniffled and looked around, panicked. He saw nothing. Not a damn thing.

I'm going crazy. He concluded as his attention drew back to the blade and his wrist. He then, put aside everything he heard, and sliced his arm.