All of the characters belong to their rightful owners.
Warning: This story contains adul themes, mentions of self-harm/mental illness, and gruesome descriptions.
AU. Tate is alive, he never committed the shooting.
This chapter is quite short. The next one will be twice as long, I promise.
She has never been the type to show her true feelings. Discontent was a mere frown on her face. Her anger never outspoken. Best she could come up with were sarcastic remarks. Running upstairs and shutting the door if things got too heated up. Not once did she shout at her father for being a disgusting cheater. On the other hand, not once did she try to comfort her mother. She was always there, ready to listen to her ramblings if need be, but never to offer a helping hand. It is not that she did not have a strong opinion on the matter. If it was up to her, Ben would be long gone, contact cut-off for good. Even more so, if she had the guts she would find that little student of his and spit into her face. But she didn't. All her feelings kept deep inside, the only way to let them go was through slicing the razor across her arms. Or hips. Or chest. She once tried to slide the blade around her throat but she wasn't ready. Not yet. If the day comes, she thought, she will be.
Throughout long months between her father's affair and them moving, she devoted her time to listening. Listening and taking those silly pills supposed to cure her depression.
"Isn't it funny," she thought to herself "that 50 mg of this is supposed to heal my mind?" Anytime she went to the kitchen to take her shot, as she liked to call it, she would stand by the counter and listen. Funny how some people believe they are private while they scream so loud that neighbors three floors down can hear. At first there was no screaming though. Dead silence. Anytime she went downstairs she could hear Morissey's voice pumping through her speakers. Then, occasionally, there would be hushed voice of her father followed by her mother's rapid screaming. Get outs and leave me alones became the most used phrases in Harmon's household. Later came the screaming marathons. Ben would no longer leave when ordered. He would stay and try to "talk things out". His exact words. "Talk things out." As if brutal miscarriage and affair with someone 20 years his junior could be talked out.
"Hey, I fucked my student in our bed. It happened more than once. You slept in the very same sheets as did she. Let's talk this out!" Violet would be disgusted with her father's persistence if not for her sick curiosity. Curiosity that would get her killed one day. Then the screamings turned into actual conversations. The conversations led to the bright idea of leaving Boston and traveling across the country to start "anew". As always, she did not say a word. She was unhappy, sure. But she believed that the best way to put her parents off is to stay quiet. So quiet she stayed.
Arriving in California was even worse than she imagined. The exaggerating heat was too much too handle. She was used to wearing layers over layers. Oversized sweaters over oversized dresses and shirts over thighs. Not exactly the clothes you would wear on always sunny, always humid West Coast. Although she couldn't deny that she felt a tiny bit excited. She has only ever left Boston to visit her grandmother in Virginia. And now she was across the country. In a new place. She knew right away that she would not make friends here. She knew that she would suffer in the heat. But she was looking forward to overstepping her boundaries. For any normal sixteen years old moving across the country would be maddening because of all the friends left behind, all the high-school sweethearts forgotten, and all the favorite places not to be visited again. She felt the angst too, after all she wasn't a complete loner. Actually, the way she carried herself was considered kinda cool in Boston. But the part of herself that hated her body, and her mind at times, was excited. In some twisted way she was looking forward to suffering under those new conditions. She wanted the sweat to make her favorite, yellow sweater itchy on her skin. She looked forward to being confronted with loneliness, not having someone to sneak out to smoke cigarettes or to drink vodka straight from the bottle while hiding behind the school bins.
Her father's rambling interrupted her peaceful thinking. They were getting close to their destination. Long street with similar houses on the each side, green lawns and exotic flowers. They weren't really exotic. She has just never seen them in real life. Violet's eyes focused on person after person, perfect Californian mothers and their groomed husbands. Each woman with long legs, tiny waist, fake tits and fat-injected-from-my-stomach ass. The way they carried themselves like models on a catwalk made her chuckle. They were all the same. Perfect Stepford Wives, devoting their lives to cooking balanced meals and changing shitty diapers. All of that, of course, when they weren't sucking their husbands' dicks religiously as to make them stay.
At last their soon-to-be house appeared. She would never admit that but after her father's constant rambling about "historical" mansion, Violet looked it up online. She was not disappointed. The Murder House, as it was referred to on one of the websites, was supposedly the place where numerous gruesome events took place. It looked even better than in the pictures. The creepy vibe it was giving out made her smile. Best of all, it wasn't the very same type of building like each of the houses with perfect gardens that they had passed. After stepping out of the car, she had to stop her stomach from turning. Apparently Ben believed that all is good in the family and he held Vivien close against her obvious stiffness. Violet followed them to the door. Stepping in, she felt overwhelmed. The place was huge with wide corridors and massive wooden stairs. Dark wallpaper and bottle-green lamps suited her style. Straight away she left the parents' side to discover what else was there.
"Isn't it beautiful?" She heard her father's voice. It sure was, at least in Violet's book.
"I am going to pick my room," Violet shouted while running upstairs.
"Just not the master bedroom," answered Vivien merrily. Violet's heart was pumping with excitement. The house had at least three floors from what she's already seen, but she suspected that there had to be an attic and cellar as well in such a spacious building. In her head she started making plans. There were only three of them, the master bedroom was on the first floor. If she was to pick a room on the third one she would have all of the storey to herself. That meant that she could do whatever she wanted, listening to her music loud, smoking in her bedroom even. Finally, she stopped in front of one of the open doors. The room had her attention instantly. Dark-purple walls, enormous bed just by the window overlooking the street. It was fully furnitured as well. The desk, the wardrobe, even an old chalkboard on the wall left to the bed. Previous owners did not even remove rugs or curtains. She walked slowly to the bed, taking all of the new in. For the first time in months Violet felt content.