/:one
Floral skims across her skin and she sucks in the soul that this damn house has got. This could be home. But its not home.
Her eyes drag across the curves and corners and history of it all. Excitement courses past the numbness in her veins and her cherry lips smirk like never before.
Pale legs trail across the wooden floor until they reach her parents. "I'm not gonna live in this 1900s Victorian bullshit," Violet says.
She thinks she catches a glimpse of blonde curls. The thought is dismissed and they move back to Boston.
/:two
She betrays no fear and he hesitates before he pulls the trigger.
Her blood is a nice shade of crimson. She looks peaceful.
/:three
Living dead girl coughs up enough pills. His kisses mean nothing under the scalding stream of the shower.
He savours her anyways but he cries even harder when she cuts vertically the next day.
/:four
Violet always hated Valentine's Day.
The dance was coming up and all that was around her was gossipy bullshit that ate through her imaginary shield. Seriously, would this even mean anything next year? They were going to high school, anyways. God, everyone is so damn stupid. Shouldn't you celebrate love everyday?
"Hey, Vi, y-"
"Don't call me that."
"Violet," Gabe corrected himself, ignoring her rudeness, "you've got a secret admirer."
Her pale cheeks darkened a shade as she attempted to continue her unfazed expression. "Yeah? Whatever," she replies and her voice goes up an octave and she literally hates her life right at this very moment.
The boy before her offers a tiny, fake smile and lays a black rose on her desk. He walks away and she carefully lifts it in front of her face.
"This has got to be a fuckin' joke," she mumbled to herself.
She walks over to the trash can and jams it in like its poison. Tate watches her from the back of the classroom and his teeny tiny heart breaks a bit.
They graduate and the only reason they ever talked is to copy homework off of each other.
/:five
This asshole moves into her floor and she groans every time she sees him. Bad vibes were always radiating off of him and, y'know, she listened to her gut.
She rolls her eyes when he practically shoves his way into the elevator. How obnoxious could he be? "Hey, neighbor," he greets and she swears he just gave her a migraine. She opts for a nod of her head to keep him satisfied.
Then she is aware of the fact that they have stopped moving.
"Good fucking lord, why," Violet grumbled, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. She glances over at him and he gives her this apologetic smile.
Its adorable.
"Well now I could tell you how pretty I think you are," he says and then maybe it doesn't seem so bad.
/:six
This time, the bullet is yet to be in him but he doesn't think he minds much.
Fuck this shithole of a world. Maybe he could clean it in death.
"Stop smiling, you fucking psycho," are the last words he hears before hazel eyes and small hands take him away.
/:seven
In this world, Tate isn't a monster.
But in this world, he still can't save her.
/:eight
He sets up a fire on the beach, the only place he can call home, and it illuminates honey blonde waves and a maroon skirt.
Curiosity pulls him towards her but she gets farther and farther away.
Doe eyes meet his, sad and miserable but content all the same, before he watches her breathe in the ocean because the beach is her home, too.
/:nine
Her dress is tight around her small waist and she desperately wishes she were in sweatpants right now. Her heels are making her calves hurt and, seriously, frat parties were extremely overrated.
She is alone 'cause her shitty semi-friend left her but warm brown eyes stare at her through ice and its kind of okay now. He stares at her in awe and she can't help but blush.
They flirt like crazy but then he fucking dies and there's nothing she could do about that now.
/:ten
Violet's favorite class was always English.
As a matter of fact, its the only reason why she even bothers to come to school.
Mr. Langdon is a babe, and that's all there is to it.
The way he talks about poetry, the way his dirty blonde curls are combed back in a way that reminds her of Zack Morris and the way he smiles at her and those dimples.
Damn, it was wrong.
But she's turning eighteen and he's twenty four so what's the big deal? Well, its not like anything is actually gonna happen. She's gotta keep herself from this lovey-dovey crap before it consumes her senior year.
"Violet," Mr. Langdon calls.
Fuck her plans. He better say her name again. And again. And again.
"Yes, Mr. Langdon?" she responds, all sugary, sickly sweet with a perfect little grin on her face.
His smile matches hers and then he asks her to stay after class. Her bottom lip involuntarily juts out into a pout and her eyebrows connect and what did she do wrong? Is he going to call her out on her probably-very-obvious crush on him? Fuck. Fuck her life.
Her mouth is bleeding a bit by the time the bell rings from all the anxious chewing. Her stomach drops as she remains in her seat and she watches all her dumb classmates basically throw themselves out of the classroom for five minutes of freedom in the hallway before its back to reality.
Violet then remembers who she is and she pushes all that anxiety down.
"What's wrong? Did I do something?" she inquired, priding herself for not allowing her voice to waver.
"Yeah, you did," he says and his eyes are dark. She likes it.
A shit-eating, innocent little smile graces her features. Its not long before his mouth is on hers.
He is as passionate in kissing as he is in Keats.
/:eleven
They're seventeen and stupid in 1984 and deep gold layers of hair hide her fascination. Little did she know, his lungs were flooding with acid and despair but his eyes bloom onyx over laced and shredded sleeves. And, he's not lyin', he'd take her in a heartbeat.
Little did he know, she was dragged into an absence of light. Misery slashed past her aspirations and dripped down as lavender. She smirks and she feels his world stop.
He sets a Ramones and Sex Pistols record on the counter, galaxy and soul on fire. "Friend of mine smashed my old ones. I swear, I'm not a chump."
"Wanna bet?" she winks.
Tate and Violet are happy here.
/: twelve
Violet is at a corner deli, carefully (not really) selecting what cravings she would satisfy. Then some weird dude stumbles into her, and when she turns around to face greasy strands and tired eyes, he mumbles an apology and walks past her. She sneers and pays for her shit, ready to call her long-time girlfriend to tell her about what this stoner scumbag just did.
/: thirteen
"Violet, baby, do you remember me?"
She shakes her head.
/: fourteen
She pulls the plug. She can only hear the beats his heart can't make no more.
/: fifteen
"Tate, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying go away."
"What? No, Tate, Tate, no, pl-"
"Go away, Violet."
/: sixteen
"Vi, babe, my parents couldn't give two shits 'bout me," Tate says, hand smoothing over his quiff. "But you're the queen, you're all I need. Prettier than Ms. Bardot," he flirts, watching her hazel eyes roll under early autumn sun. "C'mon Tate, we've gotta hit the backseat bingo before Junior finds out I ain't only neckin' him."
He smiles at her, hair all teased and curled and perfect. Her dress, all fluffy and purple, compliments her tiny waist and he's ready to take her on the boardwalk.
Coney Island, 1959.
The faces of the toughest teen-age street gang, ready to rumble at a moment's notice, and she'll do anything for him. "Let's head to the candy shop on Surf Avenue, first. Bengie's heard 'round there's some guy snappin' pics or some bullshit. We gotta be part of that."
"Alright, baby," Violet replies, strawberry lips curling upwards and then landing on his. He strings his fingers through hers. "Let's go," he says, pecking her on the temple before they head off.
/: seventeen
Instead of popping those little circles of death, she carves the word "TAINT" into her thigh. He watches her do it in the bathtub without the water running and a week later, when he strips her down and makes her purr like a kitten, he pretends he doesn't like it and he pretends it never gets him hot.
/: eighteen
"That girl is a fuckin' loser," Leah stated bluntly during lunch, watching the new girl pick at her tights and scribble in her notebook on the floor, back against the brick of the building.
"Yeah. Just leave her alone," Tate responds, wrapping his arm around Leah's shoulders. He thinks he feels her glance up at them. He brushes it off.
The very next day, he hides out in the library, doing his best to avoid his bitching girlfriend. He was playing on his phone before he feels a tap on his shoulder.
Slowly, he turns, eyebrows raised. Its her. Long dress with a cardigan piled on top. "I heard what you said yesterday. Thanks for that. Nice to know everyone isn't horrible in this shithole," she tells him. He attempts to refrain from smiling. "I know how it feels," he says.
"Violet."
"Tate."
Her grip on his hand is firm while they shake.
He likes her already.
/: nineteen
December 30th, 1993, and Tate's taking his girlfriend to see Nirvana, live, in L.A.
She rims her eyes with black and he falls in love all over again. She holds his hand and kisses his neck all throughout the concert, never letting him leave her side, and he loves it.
April 8th, 1994, and Tate's in a state of shock, missing his idol.
She circles her arms around him and envelopes him into her and he falls in love all over again. She holds him and kisses him all over throughout his mourning, never letting him leave her side, and he loves it.
/: twenty
In this universe,
they're okay.