When Violet stumbled down the stairs wearily the next morning, she was shocked to find her mother sitting at the breakfast counter, appearing utterly sober. It felt like she had almost forgotten her mother even existed; she had been so caught up in her own issues and Tate that Vivien Harmon had slipped her mind entirely. It had been a welcome break. She looked twenty years older than her thirty-nine year old self; bags permanently etched into her cheeks. Her hair was dull; not the exciting red she used to be renowned for. Her eyes were lifeless and had long lost the sparkle they once held.

Her mother eyed her with a look she couldn't put her finger on. Violet proceeded with her morning routine and stepped around her to fill up her glass at the sink, her back to Vivien. That was when she spoke. "Why did you do it?" Her voice was hoarse, as though she hadn't uttered a word in years. Violet felt a shudder threaten her spine; she had almost forgotten what her mother's voice sounded like. She felt the ghost of an ache in her heart, which was replaced with confusion at her question.
"Do what?" She didn't turn around.
"That school boy," she said calmly. "I saw the newspaper at the store. Why did you do it, Violet?"
Violet swallowed the bile rising in her throat. How could her mother know? She hadn't had a conversation with her for months. She had barely been coherent since the alcohol took hold of her life. But now... "You think I did it?" She scoffed.
Vivien stood, taking the bottle of whiskey from the counter and hugging it to her hip. "You are your mother's daughter." With that, she shuffled upstairs and Violet heard the faint click of her bedroom door.

Violet placed her glass on the side and let out a breath she didn't realise she had been holding. She suddenly felt a pang of emotion in her stomach. It was foreign to her and she couldn't quite place what she was feeling. It was like she could feel the phantom memories of her old life floating around, haunting every cell in her body. She missed how it was before. She missed her mother's laugh and her father's crooked smile as he tried to remain serious. Her subconscious conjured up the last image of her father that she could remember. She couldn't even recall what colour his eyes were, as her last memory of them was when they were closed. She couldn't think about it anymore; tears pricked her eyes and tears were a sign of weakness.

The school week was uneventful and Violet was becoming tired of the lack of activity. The police had not returned and she began to question if they had ever really been there for her. The whole Travis ordeal was beginning to feel like a bad dream, the kind where you wake up in a cold sweat and let out a shaky laugh because it was after all just a nightmare. She noted also that she hadn't seen Tate around school at all and she tried to mute the pathetic longing she felt for his presence.

The principal announced over the loudspeaker that there was going to be a memorial held for Travis on the Friday of that week. Violet almost laughed aloud at the irony if she dared turn up to the service. She then recalled that Doctor Langdon had asked to see her on Friday afternoon. She couldn't blow him off again if she wanted him to keep treating her, but equally she couldn't stand to see his face after what he had done to Tate. The vision of his bruised face and the knowledge that it had come from the hands of his own father made Violet's blood boil. She had a long list of people she'd happily eradicate and he was top of it.

Violet walked home unhappily – more so than usual – and nearly had a heart attack when she spotted the police car parked lazily between her house and Tate's. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat as she saw his mop of blonde curls duck out of the vehicle and she watched him turn, say a few words to the officer in the driver's seat, close the door and step back on to the curb. Violet's eyes didn't leave the car until it had driven away and she could no longer hear the engine. Tate stood and watched her until she finally approached him. "They wanted to question me again," he said bluntly. "There was a detail I had missed in my statement, apparently."
Violet watched his eyes carefully. "What was that?" she asked calmly.
"I didn't mention that I had gone to the party, too. Witnesses," he waved the word off like an annoying bug that was flying around.
"Is everything okay?" Violet couldn't hide the distress in her voice.
Tate nodded slowly. "Yeah, don't worry; I saved your ass again."
Violet looked down at her suddenly very interesting shoes. Was he pissed off at her? He did, in realism, have every right to be annoyed, but Violet couldn't help but feel stupidly hurt that he was angry at her.
"I also heard that you're still seeing my dad," Tate's eyes were hard and flat as slate.
"I have to, Tate. Trust me, I don't want to see his face again after what he did to you... But I... I need help, Tate. I really think he can help me."
Tate's jaw tensed as if he was biting back a response, then he gave a curt nod and walked away, slipping inside his house without another word.

Sorry for the late update; last week of term was a bit hectic and writer's block ensued. But now I have all holidays to bring you gifts of Tate, Violet and some serious angst. Maybe. Sorry this is short (and incredibly badly written) but sometimes filler chapters are necessary. Enjoy nonetheless.