Song suggestions for the following chapter: Reptile Theme by Anima Scream (Juno Reactor cover) and Orion by Metallica for the first part and Sinnerman by Extra Fancy for the second. I suggest playing Anima Scream before you read, not during, because it's pretty obnoxious. But it was how Tate was feeling when he first got home.

Demon Alcohol is a song by Ozzy Osbourne and could also be played with this same-named chapter.

You can find other music for this episode in my Profile.


1994 - April 5

Anger. Rage. It burned in Tate's middle and crawled around his guts with the fury of a trapped scream. His pulse was pounding with hatred. It made him dizzy. He thought his heart might actually seize up and stop from so much anger. It wasn't a particular situation or thing or day or person. It was the accumulated stack of shit that had piled up inside him for so long, locked in and unable to get free.

It was the people. People were so fucked up. They'd pretend to be good; they'd polish their kind qualities and think of themselves as likable and all the while they were the same person who would cut you off in traffic or trample you for a Christmas toy. Tate had decided there were two kinds of people in the world: Smart, intelligent, sensitive and introspective people like himself (the minority) and the brain-dead skin-bags that shuffled through life not thinking any further than the space they were in.

Those were the majority, the Christmas toy zombies who were destroying his reality. And they were everywhere. They outnumbered the handful of truly decent, caring, beautiful souls in the world. It just wasn't fair that people who had so much to offer should be treated like crap by people who were so inferior. Pearls before swine. That the asshole, selfish bastards in the world should get ahead, get all the chances, the money, the happy endings. It wasn't just that the world wasn't fair, it was absolutely unfair. A perverse joke on the handful of decent people forced to live in it.

Tate was sick of all the injustice. It started here, with his siblings and their situation. Their lives. But the more he looked around, the more he realized it wasn't just his family. They were just the prototype in a world of human monsters and their victims. Everywhere he looked there was more unfairness to piss him off.

So Tate had done something he knew he shouldn't. But he'd had a really shitty day at school. Nobody else was there when he got home; nobody but the dead people. And Tate didn't want to see them.

He'd been experimenting with drugs since school started that year but even a pinstripe joint was difficult to get a hold of right now so his thoughts went naturally to what was on hand, in his house. The easiest to get to was something he'd been told not to touch since he little: Mama's alcohol.

Constance was so sure she had her children trained that she didn't even keep her liquor locked up or hidden. That would be too much trouble when she wanted it. So he poured himself a tea glass of her favorite bourbon. He then carefully replaced the missing quantity with water from the tap, a secret he'd learned in overheard conversations at school. He swirled the fluids around to mix them. Mama didn't mark the bottles so he couldn't be sure it was exactly the right level but it looked right to him.

He put the bottle back carefully with the label facing the right way in the cabinet. Just as it should be. The perfect crime. Proud of himself, the teen collected his glass. He looked in it. The liquor was brown and smelled like wood varnish. He thought about putting sugar in it but he wasn't sure what that would do to the potency. He'd seen his mother put it in things before but he wanted maximum effect and when Constance wanted that, she drank straight from the bottle.

Tate took a breath and took a drink. He swallowed, gagged and coughed once. His eyes watered fiercely. When he breathed out, his stomach flipped over and he thought he might puke. Drinking straight room-temperature bourbon was a lot like being hit in the gut with a board. He set the glass down on the counter and took a quick drink from the faucet. That did nothing to kill the taste.

Thinking fast, he grabbed some crackers from the pantry and ate one. That helped a lot. By the time he finished the cracker he was ready to try the bourbon again. He was determined to drink the whole thing, no matter how bad it tasted. And he did - in under five minutes.

He rinsed the glass out and set it in the sink. His middle was still burning but it was a whole new kind of fire. It didn't feel any better than anger though. It kind of made him nauseous. He left the kitchen wondering what he was supposed to be feeling. Mama drank when she got really upset so he assumed it made her feel better.

Tate thought maybe laying down would help his stomach so he went upstairs. By the time he got to his room the outside of him was feeling numb. The icky feeling in his middle had subsided a bit but it still burned like crazy. He shut the door and leaned against it. His head was swimming and he was feeling number by the second. He smiled. He just had to be patient, that was all. It wasn't like pot or whip-its; alcohol was a slower high.

He finally pushed away from the door and took a step forward and stumbled to the side as gravity suddenly shifted the other way. "Whoa," he said, stopping. Then he took a smaller step forward and nearly fell the other way. He grinned. It was really funny that he couldn't walk straight. He took another step with the idea of heading over to his desk but the world tilted again and he staggered to the side and ran right into his bookshelf. A couple of things fell to the floor.

Tate laughed. He laughed so hard that he had to hold onto the bookshelf to keep from knocking himself over. More things fell off the top shelf and he laughed even harder. Soon he was laughing so hard he just sank to the floor and laughed till his sides hurt.

When he stopped laughing and could breathe again he looked around, wondered why he'd laughed so hard about falling, then laughed even more about how stupid it was to laugh for no reason.

"What are you doing?"

Tate looked over and saw Mrs. Nora standing near the door and frowning in a very disapproving way.

"Laughing?" he grinned.

Her expression darkened. "You're drunk."

"Am I?" Tate asked brightly. "I thought I was just... happy."

She moved closer, her long skirts brushing the floor as she glided over to him. He expected her to come down to his level but she didn't. She stayed towering high above him, both hands gripping her handkerchief tightly.

"I cannot believe this!" She looked away, tears in her eyes. "This is absolutely reprehensible. Inappropriate!" She looked at him again and one of those tears slid down her pale cheek. "You are too young to be this... this..." She looked him over and her chin set firmly. "I will not allow you to go the same way all the other men in this house do."

She bent then and hooked a hand under his nearest elbow. He let her help him up but he had to lean on her to stay up. She staggered under his teenaged weight but she got him over to the bed with effort. There Nora shoved him around until she got him mostly atop it. Her work amused him, brought his dimples out. The ceiling was spinning so he let her pull his Doc Marten's boots off without a fight.

She left him for a few moments and he watched the ceiling whirl. His whole body felt like it was spinning too. He hummed tunelessly, trying to imitate a merry-go-round. Then Mrs. Nora was back, pulling him up into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.

"You know I love you," she said in a strange tone. There were more tears in her eyes. "But we have to get those demons out."

Tate sluggishly identified hers as that tone mothers use when they're about to hit you hard for your own good. He was too drunk to understand why he would hear it from Nora, of all people. She never hit him.

Suddenly had hold of his hair. She shoved his head down between his knees where he saw the trash can she'd put there without his notice. Then she jammed her fingers down his throat. He gagged and tried to pull back but she held tight to his hair and shoved her slim fingers deeper into his mouth.

He dimly registered that she wasn't wearing her usual compliment of rings. Then he vomited.

Once the flow started it kept up on its own. She relaxed her grip on his head and used that hand to gently smooth his hair. Then she pet his back until he rid himself of the bourbon he hadn't yet digested. Once he'd purged completely she removed the trash can. He teetered on the edge of the bed, numb and stunned. She returned smelling clean and carrying pajamas for him.

He didn't resist as she changed his clothes. Nora had done it so many times before that he was able to cooperate even though he had absolutely no coordination left in him. She made sure to clean his face before putting his shirt on. She was very quiet the whole time and she never lost that pinched look. Finally she had him tucked in.

"Never, ever, ever do this again!" she said emphatically. "You're better than this! You're smarter than this!"

He reached for her, waving a hand at her in an attempt to grab her dress but she was too far away. "I wanna hug."

She huffed an impatient sigh. "You aren't listening to a word I'm saying." She tsked her tongue and then leaned in to give him a quick hug. "Don't ever do this again," she insisted when she released him. "Or I will break every last bottle of alcohol in the house. "

"No!" Tate's eyes rounded in horror. "Don't do that!"

"Then promise me to never do this again." She lowered her chin and met his eyes with stern sincerity. "Promise me."

He couldn't resist such a direct demand from her. "I promise I won't do this again."

She smiled again, a real smile. "Go to sleep now. I'll sit with you."

And she did. It was less for his comfort and more for his protection. In his vulnerable state the house was as dangerous to him as it had been the day she'd saved him from Thaddeus. Nora sat patiently by Tate's side the whole night, keeping silent vigil.

...

Tate slouched at the kitchen table two days later looking at the huge mason jar of watered down bourbon before him. His hands were tucked between his legs as far as they would go and he had his shoulders hunched up to his jaw.

"I don't want it," he said unhappily.

His mother was standing right beside him, hovering over him with her arms folded and a cigarette in one hand. "Yes, you do. If you didn't want it you wouldn't have taken a third of it already. Drink your drink."

Tate glowered at the glass jar. Tears stung his eyes. "I don't want it, mama."

She slapped the table hard enough to make the jar bounce. He flinched and sank deeper into his sweater.

"Drink it!" she snarled through clenched teeth. Her eyes were wide, wild with that look that meant violence. "You ruined it waterin' it down! You're gonna sit there till you finish all of it!" She turned away and sucked viciously on her cigarette before turning on him again. "Do you really think I'm so stupid I wouldn't notice?"

"I'm sorry, mama," he whimpered. He really didn't want to drink the stuff in the jar. He didn't want Mrs. Nora to break everything and he didn't want to taste bourbon without crackers to get him through.

"Sorry!" she laughed mockingly. "You'll be sorry if you don't start drinkin'!"

Tears dripped off his chin as he reached for the big jar. He brought it to his lips and took a little sip. It tasted awful, even watered down. He made a face and looked up at her pitifully. He was met with stone.

"Drink it all," she said.

He tried to get a bigger drink down, to speed up the process. He gagged and belched and looked at her again, more pathetic than before. "Mama..." he said, crying in earnest now.

"Drink it!" she screamed. She smashed her cigarette in the ashtray. He cowered in the chair but she grabbed his hair with one hand and grabbed the jar with the other. She shoved the rim of the jar into his mouth, crushing his upper lip against his teeth painfully. "DRINK IT!"

She tilted the jar and liquor poured into his mouth. He couldn't breathe. He swallowed as fast as he could but there was too much; it was half a bottle of bourbon. He gagged and inhaled involuntarily. He choked as bourbon scalded his windpipe. She didn't let go of him and she didn't take the jar away. She was still screaming at him but it ceased to make sense to him. He coughed and sputtered. Bourbon went down his front and in his ears thanks to the way she was holding his head.

Then the jar was empty. She slammed it down so hard it was a wonder it didn't break. Tate folded over himself, coughing and retching and very close to throwing up. Irregular sobs punctuated his gasps for air. She staggered back a step, breathing heavily. Her hair was falling slowly from its up-do.

"Get out of my sight," she said in a low, mean tone that implied if he didn't move fast she might just do him worse.

Tate scrambled out of the chair and out of the room, sobbing and coughing as he went. He hit the stairs at a run and got about halfway up before stumbling. He went the rest of the way on all fours, righting himself only once he'd gotten to the landing. He was already feeling that woozy-numb feeling burning out from his stomach.

He staggered down the hall, past Addie's room. She was hiding behind the half-open door and she watched him pass with wide eyes. She knew he was in Big Trouble and she knew better than to interfere. The best she could do was give him sympathy in passing. He didn't notice. He went into his room and leaned on the door to shut it. He hiccupped and burped and sank to the floor with one hand clapped over his mouth. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Then he remembered Mrs. Nora had made him throw up before. He crawled over to the trash can and stuck his head over it. Of course he didn't feel like throwing up then. So he did what she'd done: He jammed his fingers down his throat. That did the trick. He heaved until his sides ached. Then he fell over on his side. He rolled sluggishly away from the trash bin and looked up at the ceiling with eyes that felt raw and swollen from crying.

He didn't know how long he lay there before he saw Mrs. Nora looking down at him sadly.

"Noooo," he groaned. "I didn't... Mama... Mama made me..."

She stooped down next to him and stroked his cheek. "I know."

Tate wished he could articulate his relief and remaining concerns but his brain was too cottony. "Doan break the boddles," he slurred.

"I should," she murmured. "It would serve her right."

"Noooo!" he objected in alarm. "She'll blame me!"

Nora sighed. He was right. "I won't," she promised. "Come along. Let's get you up off of the floor."

Tate was all relief again. It felt so good to be reassured that he giggled a little. "I like the floor."

"You need to sleep," Nora told him.

She took his nearest hand and pulled him into a sitting position. He slouched bonelessly.

"You're going to have to help me," she said. "I can't do this alone."

He grinned and latched onto her middle like he used to do when he was little. That didn't help. She pursed her lips and peered down at the drunk teenager hugging her. He smiled up at her cutely, dimples showing. She didn't like people when they were drunk but it was hard to be stern toward a look like that.

"Come along," she said again and sidestepped to the bed. Tate shuffled along with her, not letting go of her waist till they were there.

With her help he got up onto the mattress where he sprawled out. He was dizzy like last time. Dizzier. He felt Mrs. Nora undressing him and thought it was funny because he couldn't see her. But then he lifted his head and there she was. He let his head drop and the whole world bounced. His eyes felt like they were blinking at different rates. He giggled again.

"Try to sleep," Nora said to him once she got him changed.

He was three sheets to the wind by that time. He smiled at her lazily. "I love you, Mrs. Nora-mama. You're... perfect."

She gave him a tight smile. "If you say that when you're sober it will mean a lot more to me."

He sighed and shut his eyes briefly. The whole world was warm and fuzzy and rocking him. "I love you, you love me," he sang softly. Fortunately Nora didn't know the Barney song so she wouldn't give him grief later about singing it while drunk.

"Sleep," she urged softly.

As before, she stayed by his bedside the whole time he slept. It was the best she could do for him.

...


Author's Note:

If you've been reading this whole story you have probably noticed by now that there are mirrors scattered throughout the whole thing. Little areas where you might find yourself feeling like you've seen or heard it before. It's not a coincidence. This chapter is probably the only place you'll see the mirror-dark reflection right back-to-back because you are in the center of the story now.

Welcome to the middle.

It was pointed out to me after I posted this that April 5, 1994 was the day Kurt Cobain died. Kurt Cobain was Tate's idol. So. Now we know why Tate's day was so crappy. If he would've told me, I would've mentioned it to you sooner. But he was pretty upset at the time. Thanks, Queen Tora (aka The Cry-Wank Kid), for pointing that out to me.

Of course I promised last chapter to be nicer with the one after this so you can go hang out with Constance and Violet while they gossip. But next episode things get really ugly. So ugly, it needed to be a 2-part episode.

American Horror Story 1.5: Fall (part 1 & 2) will be taking you back to Westfield High. And I'm done with playing nice.