Author's Note: So…I feel like I update way too much…haha. Everyone waits so long…but I feel guilty when I don't update. It's hard to update that much with school and stuff, so I'm sorry if it takes me a little longer to update. The more reviews I get, the faster I write! Love you all and I hope you enjoy the story!
Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.
Violet watched as the girl moved all of her things into what had once been her bedroom, and Tate's bedroom before that. She thought of how she had taken the pills that had killed her right where the girl stood beside the bed, how Tate had been shot dead there. The images were too much, superimposed of her own vision of that innocent young girl before her. In her mind, Violet was no longer a child; she'd been a child for far too long now. She was an adult, but she couldn't shake the sense of both comradery and rivalry as she looked at her pretty new housemate. It made Violet seethe, to see how alive she was, how happy and fulfilled. The pictures of her friends and family and places she had visited that were now hung on the walls only made the ghost girl increasingly bitter. She certainly did get around, from the looks of it. This girl was loved, adored, cherished, accepted. She lived. And, though Violet had never been the jealous type, she couldn't help the twisting in her gut at the realization that she had not been missed in the same that this girl would were harm to befall her. Nobody had noticed the absence of the Harmon daughter, not for sixteen days. It made her shudder.
She drifted closer to the girl, standing right beside her, watching as she folded her brightly colored clothes, all perfectly pressed and packed away. The way the bracelets on her wrists clanged together reminded Violet that she had never worn anything but long sleeves when she was alive, to cover her scars. To a certain point, it had contributed to her paleness, her general unwell appearance. She didn't like the sun, didn't like the summer, because it had been a catalyst in revealing all of her deepest secrets, her biggest insecurities about both her body and her soul. She had held back so much, worried about so much, and it was all too painful to recall.
"Mom?" the girl called over her shoulder, inadvertently shouting in Violet's ear. She might have shouted at her, had she not been too absorbed in watching life unfold before her. She missed this, the mundane part of living that she had never fully appreciated. "Mom, where are all my cd's?"
Music. It made Violet smile hopefully, until the woman came through the door carrying a small box of tapes, consisting mostly of happy pop remixes and main streamed hits. These were albums that Vivien had used to buy Violet whenever she caved to the misconception that she could be hip. It was never impressive, only depressing and full of false thanks.
"Are you almost done, Bethany? I'm not leaving this house until I know you've started your homework. So finish up, okay?"
Bethany. She didn't like the name much, but then she didn't like the person who it belonged to much either. She wasn't at all her style, and she doubted very much that they would get along well at all. But there were other options for entertainment—a different sort of bond—and Violet intended to test her theories just as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Pike walked out the door. From what she could tell, they were going on for a date night and wouldn't be back until late. She would have plenty of time. But watching them interact made her think of her parents, the way they had been before everything had fallen apart, before the miscarriage and the infidelity and the Murder House, the way they were now. They were happy. They had been happy. So were these people.
When the house was empty, Violet made her move. The bedroom—her bedroom—was empty, but she could wait. Seated on the bed, Violet anticipated Bethany Pike's entrance, wondering how the girl would react to her. She wasn't sure what she would say, but that was the beauty of Violet's mind, in the form that it now existed, twisted into something that she had always been attracted to but never truly had the courage to embrace within herself. Now, she felt a bit like Tate, or even Hayden, stretched out across the pink comforted of the bed, hands folded behind her head, a cheeky smile plastered on her face. She hoped to scare the girl, and she would get her wish.
"Who are you? What are you doing in my room?" Those were the first words spoken, and Violet smirked devilishly. This was what she had wanted, what she had needed and craved all along. She was affecting something, for once, and it felt amazing.
With smugness thick in her tone, she got to her feet and began to circle her prey. "Actually, this was my room. I don't think it's any more yours than it is mine, or any more mine than it was his before I lived here." She didn't dare to say his name out loud. "As to who I am, I guess you could say I'm a ghost of my former self." She repeated the words, shrinking away from their meaning, trying to ignore the irony there. "The real question here is, who are you?"
"Beth." she forced out quickly, her body stiff as a board. Violet saw this and it made her smile widen.
"Oh, really? I thought it was Bethany. But I guess we all have our own way of rebelling…I used to smoke cigarettes, chain smoke them really. Don't get me wrong; I still do, but it doesn't seem to matter so much anymore. It's not like they're going to kill me." She laughed at this, her face coming to rest just a few inches from that of the girl who she had so tactfully chosen to harass. "Do you do anything else bad? Drugs? Alcohol? Skipping school? Any boys you like that your parents don't approve of? I had one. Damn, do I regret it too. I'll never get away from him, though, and neither will they."
"What are you talking about? Why are you here?"
Violet ignore her panicked questions, staring her directly in the eyes as she lit another cigarette, growing more and more wild in the eyes as she spoke. "Do you believe in ghosts, Beth Pike?" And she blew the smoke in her face, right at her beautiful, blue eyes. "Well, do you?"
The words hung in the air as each girl appraised one another, one dead, one alive. The dead one seemed fearless, almost scoffing at the notion of fear. Because, truly, what was there to be afraid of? Nothing. She had seen it all. The living one, on the other hand, was terrified. She had so much to lose. She didn't even realize all that was at stake. And it was that truth that kept Violet from fading out right there, that pushed her to thrill to the sound of the girl's heavy, quick breaths. She was thriving on the fear, and she didn't want to let it go. She wouldn't. It a new sort of bloodletting, a new vice that she found more solace in than anything.
"What are you doing, Violet?" sounded a voice from behind her. She hadn't realized that Bethany was staring past her until it was too late. Because it was not the voice of her mother, or even her father or Moira. It was his voice, and the sound burned through her ears like acid.
"I thought I told you to go away, Tate. I told you to stay out of my life…existence, whatever it is. So do what I said. Don't break any more promises." There was threat there and, any other day, under any other circumstances, he might have withdrawn willingly. But not then, because there was more to this than just his pain and her pain, their separation and all of the sin and sick deeds that had come between them.
"You don't want to do this, Vi. You think you do, but it isn't you. This is exactly the kind of thing that you would stop me from doing. But you're not me, remember? You're supposed to be the good one." The words hurt more than she had thought that they would. Was he honestly going to stand there and judge her? Though concern was clear in his voice, she heard nothing but a reprimanding, like a guilty child. "Violet, you need to stop, before this goes too far." But who was he to say what too far was?
She returned her attention to the girl before her. "Do you ever think about death, Beth? Have you thought about what happens after you die? Have you wondered what it's like to die? I could tell you. Better yet, I could show you." And, with that, Violet raised the razor blade that she had been clutching in her hand, brought it up between them so that it was right between each pair of eyes—one innocent blue, the other a tainted brown. Slowly, deliberately, she dragged the sharp edge of the razor across the skin, opening up a large, narrow wound and watching with fascination as the blood ran to the floor. It was sick, but she was actually enjoying this. The terror on her victim's eyes made it worth the pain.
Tate lurched forward, catching Violet in his arms and retrieving the crude weapon from her boney hands. She was so small, so weak, yet so bold. He might have stopped to marvel at this trait, but the sight of her bleeding from the self-inflicted injury filled him with rage. She hadn't killed the girl, as he had thought she might. She had killed herself all over again, as she did quite frequently. Only, this time, she'd had an audience, and that was what made all the difference. It was the young girl's fault, but how could she have known?
"Where's the phone?" Bethany mouthed the words to herself, glancing around, but Tate caught her arm with one bloody hand, the other still supporting Violet's limp form. She was easy to support, fit so perfectly in his arms, and he couldn't stop the sob that choked his throat.
"She's already dead! Don't you understand?" he shouted in her face, just as terrifying as always. In many ways, they were so much alike, yet so different. In the moment, Beth couldn't tell the difference between the homicidal and suicidal. "It won't matter, and they'll just think you're crazy, so don't call the cops." He awarded her no explanation further than that. It was all she deserved—a stupid girl, a girl who was everything he had always found wrong with society, everything that he had ever tried not to be, tried to erase. Violet was her polar opposite, and that was what made him love her so much: her unconventional ways. She was like a puzzle that even he couldn't figure out, couldn't piece together. Sometimes, though—like right then—he wished he didn't need to, wished she would stop being complicated in ways that would only hurt her.
Broken hearted at being able to touch her for the first time in so long, he dragged her out into the hall, towards the bathroom just as he had the day that she had died. There had been less blood then, and he'd been more panicked because there was still a life to be saved. Now, he felt no urgency, only torturous mourning for the girl that he loved. As he pulled her into the bathtub and turned on the water, he thought, of all the terrible things she would say to him when came to again and of all the reasons that he wouldn't raise a finger to stop her from walking away from him again. He deserved this, he knew. But how could she not miss him? How could she not think about him every day, the same way he thought about her? How could she not forgive him? That wasn't love, he didn't think. He loved her no matter what she did, who she became, but she would never love him again. It made him wonder if she had lied before, when she had confessed her feelings for him. He pondered the idea that she had never been in love with him at all, rather that she had used him in the moment, simply because he was there and he cared for her. This shattered his blackened soul, for the thousandth time since she'd said goodbye.
It was never apparent to him why she did certain things. For instance, he didn't understand why she had slit her own throat instead of that of the young girl's. It would have been his first instinct, yet he wasn't quite right in that way, was he? His reactions were always wrong, he knew this. But, Tate did feel a sense of right as he watched her there, waited for her to heal. Perhaps it was a step in correct direction, towards convincing her to put her faith in him again. He could be strong for her. He was certain of it. He could do anything for her, be anything she asked him to be. It was one of the best things about his sickness, the twisted monster inside of himself that he could never seem to be rid of. It could take many forms, morph into whatever served his purposes best and Tate was sure that it could be something good, if that was what could make him happy. If leaving the anger and the vicious demons behind was what he needed to do in order to find peace, in order to satisfy all of the urges that he now harbored within his body, then it should be easy. Tate was positive of this fact, put his trust in the theory.
But, while clarity found him, Violet was lost in questions mixed with confusion and the pain and silence of her temporary death. It was like sleeping—very much like sleeping, yet it was usually so much more peaceful than this, like a short break from her awful reality. Slowly, she was beginning to come back to the body that she inhabited, just a spiritual body but a body nonetheless. She was an entity again and she could feel the slight tingling in her throat where she knew the self-inflicted wound would be healing. Then, her memory returned, and she began to wonder just how badly she had frightened Bethany Pike. She wondered why Tate had wanted to stop her, why he had shown up at all. Did he watch her? Valid questions, all, but there would be plenty of time for that. As her eyes fluttered open, she replaced her queries with the underlying anger that she felt. Tate had stopped her, told her that what she was doing was wrong. But who was he to judge?
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Violet asked, staring straight ahead of her, the water still beating down on her small, cold form, whatever it was. The venom in her tone made him shy away, made him flinch. He had expected it, but it hurt all the same. Tate had never been afraid of anything, not ever, not dying or the consequences of his decisions. He'd never had any fear in him at all, any conscience, until he'd met Violet. Now, fear was the only emotion that he could seem to find within himself.
"I was stopping you." It was a simple answer, and it was the truth, but it would not appease her. She stood up, dripping wet, and came to stand before him, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief. Her jaw was clenched, and the way her lips curled around the words would have made his blood run cold if he hadn't already been chilled with death.
"Why would you stop me? Because you get to be all self-righteous now? You decided you want to play for the other team now? I bet you thought I was gonna kill her. I'm not you, Tate." She wasn't, not yet, but she moved closer with ever cold word, every flipped action. He could see the wheels turning, her morals changing. She wouldn't be any form of Violet for very long. She was letting it all in, and it was altering her. Violet was just as beautiful to him as she had always been, but it hurt him to see the way she saw things, after all that had happened.
"I didn't want you to do something that you'll regret. You don't want to hurt people, Vi. I know you."
She scoffed, poking one of her long, slender fingers into his chest. "You don't know a thing about me, and don't try to tell me what I will and will not regret. I don't need you, Tate Langdon. Understand that? I never needed you. I'll do what I want. Don't question me." Her eyes flashed to down at his bloody clothes and hands, reminding her of what she had done, what a crazy idea it had been. She couldn't help the horror that flooded through her at the memory, but she swallowed it, kept her revulsion from showing on her face. She refused to let him win, even if he'd never known that there was a battle to be fought there.
Tate only wanted to help, in whatever misguided way he saw fit. "This isn't you, Violet. You don't do bad things like I do…like I did." He didn't do those things anymore, he told himself as though to reinforce his resolve. He was good, just as good as her. It was not him that was evil; it was the monsters that fought to control him. But he had decided to be strong. He wouldn't listen to the voices, to the dark desires that sometimes crept into his mind in the most unexpected moments.
"It's not like I raped the woman…not like you did. I only had a little fun." It had been fun, to watch the way terror filled her eyes. It wasn't until Tate had shown up that she had been forced to return to reality, to remember all of the reasons why she was able to do what she was doing. She had been shoved back to the past, to all of the most painful places in her mind, devoid of all light, to those places that had once been filled with love and affection and passion. Now, she found them empty. That was why she had cut her throat. She had never planned to cut herself, but it had felt right in the moment, just as soon as her hand found the razor that she kept in the pocket of her sweater. It was a way of crying for help, somehow, not that Violet would ever admit that.
"Rape isn't the only way to hurt someone. Stop pretending like it's all that matters, just because it touched you personally. And that's some fun you're having. I'm sick of watching you bleed out. It makes me sick—and I'm dead. That's not easy to do, Violet. How long are you going to punish me for?" By this time, his voice had steadily climbed to a higher volume, a greater strength. He was frustrated, because he would never be able to understand. The years went by, and Violet was never happy. She was miserable. Why would she subject herself to that, if the solution was right there beside her, entirely willing? He could make the pain go away, but she wouldn't let him, refused to forget. He could be everything to her, as he once had been, yet she pushed him farther away.
"Who are you?" The question only made the tears in Tate's eyes spill over the brims. He had cried so much in Violet's presence. She thought she should be immune to his sobs by this time, but she wasn't. They tortured her, crushed her every single time. "Please, stop crying, Tate." Despite the plea, her voice was cold, distant. There was no hope of comforting him in that way.
"I'm trying to be what you want, Violet."
He had been everything that she wanted and more. He still was. But she couldn't look at him without remembering, without seeing all of the deplorable things that he'd had a hand in. She couldn't let it go, and there was nothing she could do to change that.
"I'm sorry, Tate." Violet told him, shaking her head and grazing her hand over his shoulder as she walked away, feeling more empty than she had in a very long time.
