Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.
The world had begun to look different somehow, smaller than it ever had. Violet had always thought that, if she ever recovered from her disease, she would want to travel, to run away from that place where she had spent the entirety of her life thus far. Yet, faced with death and the opportunity to do just exactly what she wanted, die just exactly where she wanted, she found that she wouldn't rather be anywhere else when the time came. That place, that town, had become the breeding ground for her life—whatever it was, whatever it would be. How could she ever leave? She felt a bond that she couldn't seem to break. It even frightened her, but she knew she would never be able to say goodbye.
Violet was sure it was because of Tate. Because he had changed her so completely. He had given her things that she had needed, but not always realized that she wanted. They were necessities to her now, things that she could not live without. As she walked towards home, she knew that she could not leave him, even if the prospects of loving him terrified her. She had never loved anyone before, never allowed anybody to know what loving her would feel like. Letting him touch her that way, speak to her with sweet words that she had never dreamt of hearing whispered playfully in her eat, seemed incomprehensibly unnatural. And yet she thrived on it.
Recalling the night before, Violet surmised a few things about Tate, as well, as a man—on a purely instinctual level. He had always seemed to be so gentle to her, so delicate. He had laid hands on her as though she were the most fragile thing in the world to him. But, that previous night, everything had changed. And what Violet found was that Tate Langdon was not soft or gentle at all. She had assumed that their first time, should it ever come to be, would be slow. But Tate had wasted to time in ripping off her clothes, and he certainly hadn't taken it easy on her. She liked that he didn't though. It had been amazing, anything but sweet. When it came to sex, Violet had determined that he was rough, revealing a darker side to his nature. She couldn't help but smile at the thought.
Likewise, Tate was sure that she had enjoyed herself too. She'd been quite unreserved about the entire thing. He loved that she told him how to move, what she liked. It made his job easier, and it also made him feel more confident that he was doing what he should. When they'd spoken afterwards, long into the hours of the early morning, she had said that she was sure it wasn't his first time. Violet didn't see how it could be. Tate was good looking and attractive and funny—even charming—so how could he have come to be seventeen and had no experience at all? She didn't see it. He had assured her that her assumptions were false. He'd been just as nervous as his lover. Because he'd always been a loner and, to be completely honest, no girl had ever peaked his interest in quite the same way. Violet was different. She inspired him in a way that was necessary, in a way that made him want all of those things so much more. She wasn't obvious about it, wasn't obviously sexy or interested in him in the very least. And it was just that; she made him wonder, made him guess at what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she wanted and what she didn't. She told him just exactly like it was and he could appreciate that, but she never ever tried to trick him into being with her. Violet Harmon was who she was, and she wouldn't change, not even for Tate.
But he knew that he would never ask her to.
He sat in his bed, thinking these things over, just as she sat in hers, doing the same. Each of them could hear their mothers, chatting away on the phone to each other, though neither of them could have known who was on the other line. There were, as always, things that they were no inclined to know about, information that had somehow evaded them. And there was no way for them to know either, no way for anyone to tell them because nobody would. They didn't need to be told.
Constance was a brash woman, a crude and cruel woman and Vivien was simply sad. She didn't have time to be spiteful or mean or to bother with the silly trivialities that Ms. Langdon would consume her days with. She was more concerned about where Mr. Harmon was, who he was with, what he was doing. She could never know in those days and he would never tell her. In the past month, things had only gotten worse. Violet could distinctly hear the words of her mother's woe's through the floor of the bedroom, echoing through the kitchen like a megaphone.
"And all of this with Violet…it's just been too much. I wish it would go away. I wish it would disappear."
This made her wonder if it wouldn't be best. She had thought about it many times before. It was the reason she kept so much supplies in her satchel. Yes, it would be horrible to leave that Los Angeles suburb, the place where her whole being had begun, the place where she had met the love of her life, the only love she would ever have, the place where Tate would be left behind. But wouldn't it be better for her parents, for Vivien and Ben? If they never were to know what had become of her, if she lived for three months more or four? She could die in peace, away from the possibilities of who she could hurt. They would be used to her absence then, once she had reached the point where she could do the deed. They would be freer, and, maybe, just maybe, they could learn to be happy without her troubles to haunt them. They could move on without the weight of her tragedy. Violet thought about this, about whether or not she could really leave, run away and never look back. She liked the idea, to a certain point, though she had no real desire to say goodbye. It was in the best interest of those who cared about her, those who she would leave behind.
But she would not leave Tate behind. He would only follow not long after she herself had passed. He was dying too, Violet reminded herself. And so she picked up her bag, threw it over her shoulder, and ducked through her bedroom window.