A/N: Hi guys! Welcome back. You all were so nice and wonderful so I'm here with another chapter for you all. Thank you so much to jandjsalmon, Trish, Sarah v, asdf, IDLETEEN (no need to pay, I do this for free :D), fanpire4000, threwthelookingglass, and an anonymous guest for your lovely reviews. Just a note, I forgot to include the part last Tate chapter where Ben prescribes the antidepressants to him so let's just pretend I addressed that mmk? I still can't believe I'm only technically on the first episode…this fic is going to be a long one! Oh and how do you like the new cover? I made it myself :D
Tate eyed the yellow prescription bottle suspiciously. Doctor Harmon had called Tate's mother not long after Tate had returned home and informed her that he had prescribed Lexapro to her son. He must have figured (correctly) that Tate would resist taking medication. Constance, in a rare show of motherly concern, had immediately gone out to fill the prescription…and get another carton of cigarettes. His mother did nothing if it did not also benefit her.
Now Tate sat in his room, reading the warning labels on the side of the bottle, the little white pills rattling about as he turned the container over in his hands. The doctor could have at least given him something fun. He knew from personal experience that anti-depressants were not the recreational pills that he enjoyed.
Tate popped off the child-safe lid and picked one pill out, considering it briefly, before slipping it into an empty soda can in his garbage. Constance was also too nosy for her own good and he would never put it past her to count the pills in the bottle to make sure he was taking them.
He found that he was looking forward to the next session with Doctor Harmon. Never in a million years had Tate ever thought that he would like seeing a shrink, but that man was different. His age probably had a little to do with it - most of Tate's past doctors had been old, or women. The women in particular were difficult for Tate to talk to. Probably because of his "mommy issues".
In a half-hour with Doctor Harmon he had told more than he had told any other person he had talked to, combined. He would have to watch himself. If he revealed all he would be thrown into a loony bin faster than you could say ghosts.
Over his music he could hear Addie wandering down the hall, talking to herself or one of her "friends". The house held many friends for his little sister. The only friends she would ever have besides him.
Feeling oddly at ease, Tate snorted a line of coke, as casually as one could do such a thing, grabbed a book off of his window sill, the play A Doll's House and lost himself for the rest of the night in its pages.
The rest of the week went by in a blur, as all weeks did nowadays. He fought with his cocksucker mother. He exchanged biting words and veiled threats with Larry over the dinner table when he was made to attend family dinner. The only reason he ever did give in to his mother's demands regarding family dinner was Addie. He may be mostly checked out from this god-awful world but he still had a responsibility to his younger sister. Unfortunately for her, not much longer.
The voices were getting louder, too.
The night before - Sunday, he thinks it was - he had awoken in a place that was definitely not his bed. He was downstairs, dressed only in his boxers, standing over the lit stove. Judging by the pain in his hand he hadn't just been standing over it the flame, he had been touching it.
A twinge of fear lanced through his disoriented body. So now he was sleepwalking on top of the hallucinations, nightmares, and voices? He would have to do it soon. If he didn't do it himself, his subconscious would off him itself. This world did not want Tate Langdon, and he most certainly did not want this world.
Yet…what if the doctor had been right? What if all he needed were a few months of those little white pills and somebody to talk to? He snorted out loud at himself, the sound echoing around the empty kitchen. No, there was no hope for him. Never was, never will be.
With a final look, Tate turned off the stove and began walking back up to his room. It was 4:40 am. He would have to be up for school soon. He hardly remembered the weekend. The only time he had left his house was to take Addie to the park. That had happened…right?
The whispers were starting again, getting louder the more he focused on them. The voices in his head said terrible things, showed him horrible images - but he was used to them by now. They had been around as long as he could remember, although not always in such a sadistic manner. That development was relatively new.
Tate took one stair at a time and began walking down the upstairs hall to his room when he heard a thump and a chair rattle above him. He almost dismissed this as a norm. It was Beau of course, stirring about his attic room. His prison.
Tate stopped in his tracks. Beau was dead. Larry had killed Beau.
He felt sick, staring up at the ceiling, following the quiet rumble of Beau's shackles with his eyes.
So the house had struck again. He should have known that Beau would fall to the same fate as the rest of them…those unfortunate souls who met their demise in this cursed house, unable to ever find peace or to escape.
He would make Larry pay.
Soon.
But not tonight. He was so tired. When was the last time that he had slept?
Tate listened to Beau's restless movements for a moment longer before returning to his room. He flopped upon his bed with a heavy sigh, throwing one arm across his face. He wanted to cry, to scream, but knew neither would make him feel any better.
He wasn't insane…wasn't delusional. Sometimes he had moments of such clarity that he wanted to run down to the police station and have them arrest him on the spot. Those moments never lasted long and were becoming fewer and farther between, but he still experienced them.
The voices began whispering to him again, conjuring images of exactly what a shotgun would do to a cheerleader's head at point-blank range. These were his bedtime stories.
But then…she broke into his fantasies. Her blood so red on that white sink. The fierce look in her eyes as she turned around to face him. The sadness in them before she knew he was there. She must go to Westfield. He tried to remember if he had seen her there this past week but, honestly, he didn't remember this past week. He would have to keep an eye out for her tomorrow. He would be in her house tomorrow afternoon, but there was always the chance that she could be out with friends or something. Girls made friends fast, didn't they?
The only females he really knew were his mother, his sister, and Nora. One made friends on her knees, one was only friends with ghosts, and Nora…
Well, Nora was Nora.
The next thing Tate knew the bell was ringing after his fourth class. He jumped, looking around with barely concealed surprise. So he was missing time now, too? He supposed he remembered saying goodbye to Addie this morning…but that was his last clear memory. There were bits and pieces of the last six hours but, for the most part, the day was a blur. He figured it was a sign of his impending insanity that he was able to dismiss this gap in his memory so easily. He also did not give a shit.
His free period was next and so he headed to the library, hiking his hood up farther over his head, weaving through the mindless sheep that were his peers.
Didn't they realize how pathetic they were? What pointless lives they lead? Soon…so soon, they would know just how precious life could be. Right before he snatched it away from them.
The library was his sanctuary. It was always so quiet and calm. None of the ridiculous assholes ever set foot in this place and the people that did always kept to themselves. The librarian was an okay guy - he mostly sat at his computer and told people to shut up if they were being too loud. Tate headed for the natural science section, selecting books at random and then stopped off at the poetry stack to retrieve the complete works of Byron.
Lost in his own thoughts, he picked out a seat at an empty table in the study area and settled in for an hour of peace.
He had come to notice that the voices were quieter outside of the house. They were still there, yes, but they weren't the ceaseless chatter that plagued him when he was at home. It seemed as soon as he set foot across the threshold they swarmed his head like angry bees, making up for lost time. He loved them and he hated them and would never be free until he carried out their demands, ending his miserable existence once and for all.
Tate examined his selection of books and cracked open a book that held detailed illustrations of birds. He wasn't in the mood to think, or to brood as Byron always made him do. Yes, pictures of birds would do nicely. He slumped down over the table, resting his head on his elbow and zoned out.
Just as he was turning the first page something caught Tate's eye from over the top of the book. He flicked his eyes up and shifted the book so he could see over the top of it.
It was her.
She was seated a few tables away from him with just her eyes visible over the top of a small book. Their dark eyes met. She had been staring at him, but how could he blame her after he practically accosted her in her own bathroom? Her fault for not shutting the damn door, he thought and a small smile came across his lips at the memory.
Would she talk to him? Their eyes remained locked on the other's, in an intense staring contest. Finally, she looked back down at her book and he was surprised at the disappointment that he felt. He watched for a moment longer as she tugged the sleeves of her maroon top higher on her arms, over the cuts, and he knew that she was thinking of their last encounter.
Tate did want to talk to her, to get to know her. Maybe find out the reason she was so sad that she would slice her own skin open as he did. However, he figured he should let her make the first move. She could easily be freaked out and want nothing to do with him. So he looked back down at his birds, and attempted to clear his mind. But he couldn't
What was it about this girl? He hadn't even had a real conversation with her but already he felt such a connection. He had never felt connected to anyone in his entire life and so the feeling did not come lightly. Maybe it was because he had seen her at her most vulnerable? Because he had witnessed her weakest moment? Whatever it was, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. The sunlight through the library's windows lit up the highlights in her untreated hair, creating a halo that he felt somewhat ironic.
His dark angel.
The same sunlight danced its way across the flawless skin of her cheek, casting shadows that only intensified the glances she gave him. Kept giving him. Their eyes met over and over again, and he imagined that they were each daring the other to breach this strange silence. He wouldn't give in, as much as he wanted to. It was her move.
He hadn't even turned three pages when the bell rang, signaling that it was time for the last class of the day. Tate didn't move, he didn't mind being late to class, but he watched the girl carefully as she stood up quickly and thrust her book into her messenger bag. He knew the most direct path to the exit passed right by him and he waited to see what she would do next.
With a small note of satisfaction Tate realized that she was flustered. His satisfaction waned slightly when he realized it might just be because she was afraid of him.
He saw her hesitate and then make up her mind, walking quickly by the table that he was sitting at. Tate fixed her with the most direct stare that he could, looking her dead in the eyes and didn't miss it when she tripped a little bit over her own feet. He couldn't help himself, he smiled. What surprised him was when she smiled back.
She rushed by him, not looking his way again. Tate turned and watched every step of her speedy departure, the smile still upon his lips.
Tate made a quick pit-stop in the bathroom before starting his walk home. The last hour had not passed in the usual blur. He had been aware of every second ticking by on the clock mounted on the wall above his head. He replayed what had happened in the library over and over again, at times berating himself for not talking to her, at other times glad that he didn't.
The bathroom was empty and so he stepped into stall without bothering to lock it. He was stressed and needed his cure.
Tate knew he had a problem, but drugs were the only thing that could quell his hate. The only thing that could take away his sadness. With deft fingers he swiftly rolled a small joint out of the supplies he kept in a mint tin in his backpack. He slid his toungue along the glue like to seal it, and tucked it behind his ear, concealing it in his hair and hood. He exited the school feeling as on top of the world as he ever got these days. Which was probably a low day for most people. He had almost forgotten his appointment with Doctor Harmon at 3pm and picked up his pace slightly, unsure of how much time he had passed in the bathroom.
When he was off school grounds he lit the joint, burning the twisted paper tip and then sticking the unlit end between his lips, inhaling deeply. Almost immediately rare peace washed over him. Tate didn't smoke marijuana often, he usually preferred uppers like cocaine and even meth on occasion, but today seemed like a day to be high. If nothing else, weed absolutely helped him forget his problems, if even for an hour or so, and he needed all the distraction he could get.
Tate didn't realize that he was inadvertently following her until he noticed the figure rounding a corner ahead of him. He recognized the long, floral patterned dress that she had, had on over the long sleeved top. She definitely stood out in this land of fake tans and Gucci. He liked it.
Puffs of smoke periodically drifted from her form as she smoked one cigarette after another. He hadn't decided to follow her - that is, it wasn't a conscious decision, but he found himself reluctant to turn away and take the more direct way to his house. And so follow her he did, finishing his joint about the time she flicked her second cigarette onto the sidewalk. The smell of the smoke filled his nostrils the whole way and he felt as if he were inhaling a little bit of her with every breath. He relished the tiny connection, as imaginary as it may be, and it was easy to imagine that they were walking together rather than twenty feet apart.
No doubt she would be completely and utterly creeped out if she happened to turn around and see him but luckily for him she didn't. When they finally turned onto the street they both lived on he hung back, knowing what a stalker he must look like hiding behind a bush, but not caring. Instead of walking across the street to her house, she continued on the sidewalk that went by his house. His heartbeat quickened slightly when he saw her stop outside of his house, pausing just where the hedge would conceal her from anyone in the house itself.
She stood there for a little while, and then something suddenly made her straighten and resume walking across the street. Tate only began moving again when she had disappeared inside her house, covering the remaining ground to his own door quickly. Addie was outside, fondling a red ball, staring across the street and he figured his sister must have been what had startled the girl.
"Hey Addie, good day?" he asked, holding out his hands to catch the ball that she tossed his way.
"I guess so," she said, after considering the question. "Larry said this morning that he would take me to the movies on Friday." The happiness on her face stilled any angry remark he would have made on the subject of Larry, and instead he tossed the ball back, gave her a stiff smile, and went inside. Immediately he was hit by the voices whispering, taunting, suggesting. He ignored them as he always did.
The clock on the stove read 2:55 and, with a groan, Tate dropped his backpack on the floor and turned right back outside. Addie was now sitting on the porch, rolling the ball to a ginger kid in a striped shirt who gave Tate the finger before rolling the ball back to Addie.
Tate returned the gesture and walked across the street.
He really hated that kid.
Doctor Harmon answered the door with his usual placid smile, inviting Tate in and ushering him to his study. Tate took a seat on the same leather couch, swinging his legs up and spreading out, cushioning his head with his arm. The doctor followed, holding a small contraption in his hand. At first Tate thought it was a cellphone but he realized what it was when Harmon asked if he could tape the session.
Evidence? Tate asked silently but instead said, "No." Harmon pressed the button.
"You taking your medications?" he asked as he sat down and Tate heard the noise as the recorder was set down on the coffee table between them.
Hell no.
"Yes," Tate lied casually, picking his fingernails.
"Any side effects?
Tate looked over at the tape recorder, "I was taking them at night but they kept me up." Liar, liar, liar.
"And what'd you do?" Harmon asked. What do you think?
"Started taking them in the morning." That joint had done its job, he was relaxed and didn't much care about these stupid questions, lying with ease.
The doctor kept going, "Light sensitivity is pretty common." Tate wondered where he was headed with this. Why did the doctor care, as long as Tate was taking the meds?
"Maybe…yeah I think so," Tate responded casually, careful to keep his face blank and his eyes on a hangnail that was bothering him.
"When I was in medical school," Doctor Harmon began and Tate looked over at him, wondering where this was going. Maybe Harmon would tell him some messed up stories after all. "They brought in this CIA interrogator to help us better identify who was lying. This guy was like six foot fifty, crew cut, he must've been one hell of an interrogator because I tell you something I'd be terrified to lie to him."
The implications of the doctor's story dawned on Tate and anger came over him. Not even weed could keep his rage down long. He stood up quickly and met Harmon's gaze.
"You think I'm lying to you?" he asked, challengingly, in the same tone that he used with his mother. The one that came just before the yelling began.
"Light sensitivity isn't a side effect of Lexapro, Tate."
Oh, you son of a bitch. Tate walked around the couch and took a seat in a rocking chair farther away from Doctor Harmon. He unconsciously began rocking back and forth.
"So you lied to me," he deduced, wondering at the slight twinge of betrayal he felt. Tate was used to being the most conniving, manipulative one in the room…that is, if his mother wasn't there. He found it very uncomfortable to realize that he had underestimated the doctor.
Harmon replied, "What is important that is if you're telling the truth about doing these things to your classmates. If you're actually a danger to society the law says that I have to report you to the police."
A small knot of fear settled itself in Tate's belly and he suddenly wished he hadn't smoked the entire joint, "Did you call them?"
"Not yet," Harmon rose from his chair, closing the distance between them and settling himself on the back of the leather couch that Tate had vacated. Tate watched him as he might a rabid dog. "I've treated psychotics before, and people with the right combinations of chemical imbalances and psychological damage… they can't be reached."
Tate was worried now - not because of the threat of police, but because it sounded like what every other doctor had said before they permanently dismissed him. Just a week ago Tate thought that he was a hopeless case, that he was too far gone to ever come back from the darkness that had surrounded him. In that week he had found something that he thought was lost forever. Hope. Maybe his fate wasn't sealed…but from the way the doctor was talking Tate was just being an idiot.
There was no recovery for him. In only two hours this stranger had seen what Tate knew in his heart to be true. Then why did he feel so…desperate?
Knowing what the answer would be, Tate reluctantly asked, "You think that's me? You think I can't get better?"
"You? You kidding me? You're hopeless."
For a split second Tate thought that Doctor Harmon was being serious but then he saw the twinkle of humor in his eye and they both chuckled. Tate tried hard to conceal the relief he felt but it came through in the genuine laughter he let out. So the doctor hadn't given up on him after all. He actually thought that Tate had a chance!
"Everybody can get better, Tate, everybody!" Harmon said, punctuating his words with clasped hands. His face sobered and Tate's laughter died as he listened to the doctor. "I just think you're scared, of what – I'm not sure yet. Maybe…rejection - certainly because of what your father did to you." This was getting a little deep for Tate at the moment. He had been pretty terrified a second ago and now he wasn't in the mood to be psychoanalyzed.
Movement caught his eye and he realized that the door was open. A scrap of familiar floral fabric was visible from the corner. How long had she been listening? Tate knew that he should probably be bothered by her spying on his shrink session…but he wasn't. Part of him was excited, thrilled even, that she found him interesting enough to eavesdrop on. From the small amount of time he had been able to observe her she didn't seem like the nosy type. Well, unless it involved him. He had caught her staring at his house on two occasions, hadn't he?
His nerves getting the better of him, Tate reverted to his usual crude self. He wanted to see if he could shock her, get a rise out of her at least. "I was afraid my big dick wouldn't work." Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rest of the girl materialize, peering around the corner. It was difficult not to look at her, but he kept his eyes fixed on the doctor.
Doctor Harmon laughed slightly in surprise, "What?"
"Yeah, That's why I didn't take the meds, I was afraid my dick wouldn't work." He laughed too, a little embarrassed at himself, but refusing to show it. If he hadn't succeeded in driving the girl off, he certainly had succeeded in surprising her father who had a stupid, fake smile on his face. Harmon wasn't the only person who could put people on their toes.
Tate continued, "…Because I met someone." With that he looked past her father and directly at her, meeting her eyes which had widened upon being discovered. She didn't flee though, didn't even move to conceal herself. He was getting a huge rush out of this little game they were playing and if he wasn't determined before to get to know her, he was now, more than ever.
He could see a pretty blush sweep across those perfect cheeks and he was glad that she had spied on them, glad that he had indirectly told her of his feelings. He couldn't just be imagining this connection he felt. There was…something different about this and he knew she felt it too.
She backed up, still holding his gaze before disappearing from view. He knew she was daring him to follow, to repeat the events of the week before and he knew he had no choice in the matter. He had a feeling he would have little choice in any matter regarding this fascinating girl.
The session was over pretty quickly after that - at least Tate thought so because he hardly remembered what he and the doctor had talked about. His mind was already upstairs with the doctor's daughter, playing out scene after scene of what would happen when he finally did go up there for real. They ended with the doctor encouraging Tate to take his medicine and Tate promising that he would. He was unsure if he would actually follow through with that promise but there was no time to think about that now, not when he had a date to keep.
Tate went through the steps just as he had last Monday. Exit room, open and close door, silently glide up staircase. His heart was racing with anticipation, cutting through the lingering haze of the weed. He wiped his palms on his pants and ran a hand through his hopelessly tousled hair. He stopped just outside of the closed door to her room. Go in there, you asshole. She wanted you to follow her.
Tate took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he turned the doorknob, pushing the door open cautiously to reveal her dark room. A slow, sad melody was playing out of the iPod dock and she was seated on her bed, head resting on her knees. She had obviously been waiting for him and did not seem surprised at all that he had entered her room unannounced.
Wordlessly Tate entered the room fully and closed the door behind him, willing his heart to stop thudding. She continued to stare at him silently.
"Hello, I'm Tate," he said lamely, glad that his voice remained strong, and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. A sudden smile spread across her face as she responded with one word - and to him, she was beautiful.
"Violet."
A/N: Aweee I love them together. I am aware that Tate's parts are kind of sappy, the way he thinks about Violet at least, but I always thought that he would have a sensitive, poetic soul underneath all that mad, murderous rage. I hope you like the way I am writing it because it is hard to find a balance between the obsession he has in the show and how he might have been whilst still alive. I, for one, love the fluff and love writing it!
All this typing has given me a mean craving for chocolate chip cookies. Anyone have any that they would like to bring over as my reward? I'll love you forever!
Anywho, you know what to do next! Let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions or requests I'd be happy to listen to them :D Adoration to all of you, my lovely readers.
