.
Swelling
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I made a horrifyingly embarrassing blunder. I make a big statement many times in the first chapter about how this story takes place in the summer, and yet in the cutting scene I mention he's been going to Westfield where he got attacked with the male version of Leah. So, I fixed it so he's going to summer school. Sorry about that.
Also, while Tate knows that Nora is a ghost, he isn't quite aware of the other ghosts. Or he is, but he refuses to believe in it the way his mother does. He is slowly accepting that the house is evil though, and he does use it to his advantage.
Also, this chapter covers the remains of summer and goes up the Halloween.
*Chelsea smile is an 'altered' smile that is carved into faces, like the Joker from Batman for example.
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Are you're trying to tell me
something with your eyes?
All I wanna do now
is lay down and die.
.
The house is alive, he finally understands.
At night it whispers, voices tangling up inside his skull and making him see a river of corpses in his dreams. Sometimes he catches sight of two little girls running around the house, skin flaking into ashes and leaving behind the horrible smell of burning flesh. Sometimes they laugh at him, peeking around corners and eyes glowing like embers from the darkness of closets. Other times he sees Nora the way he once did when he was a child, gliding through the corridors and searching for something.
The maid frightens him, the way she looks at him with one dead eye. He isn't sure is she's alive or not, but understands that his mother loathes her. She doesn't do a very good job cleaning, occasionally smashing plates in gleeful fits of rage and leaving the floor soaking wet for his mother to slip on. Tate can't help but appreciate her to a small degree, watching her try to find new ways for his mother to crack open her skull.
Larry still pretends that they're a perfect little family, the pretty wife and the handsome son, and unfortunately the handicapped mistakes. Tate hates the way he tries, how he starts up conversations that only sputter and die in the end.
Part of him wants to take the butcher knife from the kitchen and drive it through his mother's chest, right where her heart should be.
.
Someone at the door knocks which makes him curious. His mother has no actual friends, and Larry is far to mind numbingly dull to have any acquaintances that would actually want to drop by for a visit. He creeps to the edge of the staircase, watching the door from his perch above as his mother sashays to the door, Moira conveniently nowhere nearby.
"Hello." She greets the person, her voice shrill with surprise. "And who might you be?"
"I'm Violet."
Immediately Tate lurched to his feet, starting down the stairs as quietly as he could. It was Saturday morning and he hadn't had to go to Westfield for the summer school program. "Beautiful weather, isn't it?" His mother replies and he could only imagine her confusion at the girl on her doorstep.
The weather had been much nicer, he noticed. At some point through the night it had rained, making the vegetation seem so much less depressing than it had before in its burnt state. The sky was a cloudy sort of blue and the sun didn't feel so hot against his skin. They'd only been living in the Murder House for a little over a week, the house slowly shuffling itself into a state that could be considered organized. Addy's dolls were lined up neatly on her shelf and his mother's jewelry tucked away inside boxes safely. Larry had bought Beau a bright red ball to appease him earlier, something that had brought the boy a loud desire to play with anyone who would.
"Can I see Tate?" Violet's voice sounds surprisingly bland, drifting into the house. His mother stands at the door, blocking his view of seeing her. "I go to Westfield with him."
"I don't think my son wants to be seeing people," she sniffed delicately. "such as yourself. You understand, don't you?"
"Hey," he greets her, stepping closer and forcing his mother to step to the side. "What's up?"
She's wearing a faded floral print dress that hangs a little short on her narrow frame and has covered herself in an oversized cardigan. The ends of her one sleeve look like they're fraying, and she's wearing a pair of old converse that had seen better days at one point. His mother is watching her like she'll spread germs over the threshold of her perfect house, and Tate loves how she looks simply not perfect.
Violet looks different from the girls from school, all in jean miniskirts and crop tops. He thinks he prefers girls like this, looking perfectly disheveled with their long brown hair and wide eyes.
She gave him a glossy smile. "I thought we could hang, since school was out for the weekend."
"Come on." He nods up the stairs, silently inviting her into the house. "I've got a new Morrissey album we can listen to."
"What one moment, will you." His mother smiles at him her teeth. "I don't recall you ever mentioning that you made a friend, have you?"
Tate gave her a blank look. "Why would I tell you?"
Violet slipped past his mother and followed him up the stairs smirking. "It was nice meeting you." She tossed over her shoulder, words filled with contempt. "God, she's a bitch." She whispered to Tate as they reached the second floor. "I can't believe you have to deal with her every day without cracking."
"How do you know I haven't?" He asks as he invites her into his room silently. It's surprisingly neat, the bed made and his collections of music and books tidied. Moira had slipped in earlier to do her job, and he's confused at the fact that she actually did her job. "You think she's bad, Larry is worse. He's an idiot just letting himself get screwed. I hate people like that. No backbone. Nothing. They just let themselves get used for nothing."
She snorts, flopping down on the floor on her stomach with her ankles crossed in the air. Violet rested her chin on her hands, looking up at him. "Has he asked you to call him dad yet?"
He tosses himself down next to her, lying on his back and looking up at the ceiling. "He asked my sister earlier." The house is whispering things to him, sickening words that make him want to slice his wrists open and stop. "This place is a goddamn horror show."
"You gotta admit though," she laughs softly. "This house has soul."
.
Tate looks up from the book he was reading, his fingers neatly bending the corner of the page down. It was a habit of his that his mother loathed, along with the cheap appearance of his books that had come second hand. She always hated the way they looked next to her own books, with their red spines and golden titles.
Violet is lying on his bed with her feet dangling off, listening to the music with her eyes shut. For a second he think she's fallen asleep, with how still she looks but then he catches sight of the faint movement of her left foot, barely tapping away to the beat of the music washing over her.
Tate quietly got up from the floor and sat on the bed next to her, unsure of where to actually sit. It feels strange, a pretty girl lying on his bed. "I'm surprised you knocked for once. Doesn't that go against your code of blatantly ignoring social standards?"
Her eyes open. "I figured I was going to give you a heart attack if I kept sneaking around, and then you would die and wouldn't that just be a shame?"
"At least I could haunt you for eternity, you know."
She grins at him, her hair looking like silk as it falls around her neck. "You could try."
Tate would like to, he thinks. Right now all he wants to do is simply kiss her, run his fingers through her soft hair and pull her closer. He doesn't though, because he doesn't want to ruin her yet.
Not yet, anyways.
.
She leaves a little before midnight, but at the same time he doesn't think she's really left.
.
He goes to bed a little after one in the morning, and he wakes up in the backyard with the moon full in the sky. There's blood all over his hands and a dead cat lying just a few feet away with its legs broken and looking mangled. You did this you did this you did this runs through his mind again and again, burning itself to his skull.
Tate doesn't really know what to do, but instead just lies there in the dirt and blood, feeling disgust overwhelming him. He doesn't quite understand how it could have happened, because he remembers still going to bed with the bright red numbers of his alarm clock glaring at him. How the house creaked slightly before he finally gave into the waves of sleep.
The house looks dark in the night, the windows empty and the air still. He wonders if Addy is asleep and sharp stab of guilt is driven into his chest, remembering her affection for cats.
He starts crying.
.
Do it do it do it do it do it do it do it what is he doing?
.
"Are you scared of anything?" He asked her one day, poking her arm lightly.
She's nose deep in one of his books, barely looking up at him with her dark eyes. "No."
.
He finds her sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom slicing open her wrist with one of his razors. She looks up at him briefly before continuing on, making carefully horizontal cuts across her skin. "Someone hasn't been sleeping." She notices, her tone sounding distant as blood bubbles up from her cuts. Her skin looked paler than usual, eyes dark and hazed. "What's going on with you?"
"Thought you were supposed to cut vertical?" He asks as he runs cold water from the tap and shoves his hand beneath the flow. It burns the way cold water shouldn't, but all he wants to do is just stop feeling the blood on his hands.
Violet looks up, halting her movements. "I don't want to die right now." Her expression looks oddly betrayed and for a second it looks like she's become something translucent. "Do you?"
He grins at her from the mirror. "Always."
They become silent, nothing more than the steady rush of water between them. His skin eventually bleeds and she's already bleeding out. After a couple of minutes he becomes concerned with how much blood she's already lost and how lost she looks sitting there biting her lip and peeling apart her skin. "You like looking at me." She informs him quietly, her voice sounding surprisingly quiet.
She doesn't sound the way she should be, tone explosive with sarcasm and sharp remarks. Right now he feels like he's undressed her and watching her in her most vulnerable state. "You're pretty." He replies, sitting down on the edge of the tub beside her, his hands stinging from the roughness of his scrubbing. "I like pretty things."
She swallows, holding her mutilated wrist up. "I like broken things. Things people don't care about."
"Someone should."
Violet rested her head on his shoulder, body feeling like ice next to his own. "Do you believe in heaven, Tate? That if you and I died, we would go there?"
He looks at her, her thick eyes lashes and the plastic buttons of her dark blue cardigan with the sleeves pulled up. The rips on her tights, the bright red blood on her wrist. "I think you would go to heaven. Good people should go." He can't really imagine heaven. Every time he tries, he thinks of the burners in the kitchen turned on and the dead cat, maddening thoughts snarling together in his skull. "You're better than me, Violet."
She gave him a ghost of a smile, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. "I should go."
.
"Your mother tells me you've been sleep walking, Tate." Doctor Harmon informs him, sitting in the exact same place as before and in the same way. Rigid and uncomfortable. He stills looks tired, unshaven and restless. Summer is fading into autumn, leaves looking yellow in the fading light.
His statement surprises him. He never really thought of himself wandering the house in the sleep, but it does solve the gap between when he went to bed and when he woke up in the backyard with some other slaughtered animal in his hands. "Is that a problem?"
"It could be. You could do something dangerous in your sleep without realizing it. Your mother said you've been turning on the burners to the stove. You're concerning her, Tate."
He snorts. "Nah, she just doesn't want the house to burn down in her sleep."
Doctor Harmon rubbed his cheek irritably. "That is a reasonable concern, don't you think?"
Tate shrugged, lifting his hands up casually. He tries to imagine the house burning down, skeletal remain of a structure emerging from the ashes. His mother and Larry burning in their bed, the way they should. It's a nice thought, one that makes him wants to smile and actually light the damn house on fire. "I really don't care about my mom, to be honest."
"Alright, then. Why don't you tell me about your dreams then? Can you recall any of them?"
He grinned sharply at the doctor. "Yeah, actually. Do you really want to hear them?"
"Yes."
Tate pauses before speaking. He forces his expression blank. "I kill everyone, and it's beautiful. I slice open their necks and they bleed, and it's like I'm saving them from the freak show that we're living in. I see the kids from school, kids I don't even know. I don't care. I just kill them, smash their skulls against the floor and leave them to rot. They're all dying, and it's like I'm saving them."
The doctor scribbles down notes on his thick pad of paper, and Tate hates that. He hates the way he picks and choses at what Tate says that could be potentially important and what isn't. "Do you ever kill someone in your dreams that you care about?"
He doesn't always dream of death.
"There's this girl."
Tate dreams of Violet sometimes, in her ripped up tights and floral dresses that hang just a little above the knee. In his dreams she's never sad, but looks vibrant. Sometimes she laughs, or sometimes she tells him stories that never make sense but he tries to hang onto each of her words before they fade away entirely.
Doctor Harmon looked surprised, leaning forward in his leather chair. "You're seeing someone?" Tate could imagine the conflict of worry running through the man's mind, the idea that a fuckup like himself would be enticed by some girl. The man was probably already concerned for her wellbeing.
"Sorta."
"I think that's a good thing to do. You could benefit from the social interaction."
Tate frowns at the man. "She's a virgin, you know. Virgins get wet so easily." Tate doesn't actually know if Violet is a virgin, but he'd like to imagine that she was untouched. He feels satisfied at the look of revulsion that flickers across Doctor Harmon's face, clings to it. "She looks like she'll be a good lay."
Doctor Harmon ended the session at that, letting himself easily out the front door.
.
Violet is always close by it seems. Sometimes he finds her smoking in the backyard by the trees where it's harder to spot from the house or other times she's in his bedroom listening to his music playing on a loop. Occasionally she'll knock on the door, making his mother scowl and criticise the moment she's gone. He doesn't really understand how she keeps sneaking into the house, ghosting up the stairs and avoiding the inhabitants easily.
Tate keeps her away from his family, but in the end she discovers them.
Larry had stuck his head into Tate's room carelessly one afternoon, just a week before school started. Summer school had been finished already, leaving him with nothing to do but lounge about in his room, occasionally brushing up against Violet.
He had found the two lying on his bed together, the Ramones playing softly in the background. "Who's this, Tate?" He had asked pleasantly, his expression revealing unbridled curiosity. Violet's pale legs were bare, her dress daringly short.
"Violet." He replied shortly, not even glancing up from his book as irritation seized him. Violet was sitting close, her head resting on his shoulder as she looked up from her own book, eyes dark. She gave him a smile filled with teeth.
Larry entered the room, making Tate put down his book and straighten up on his bed, his arm slipped around Violet's waist tightly. "You've never introduced us before."
"That's because you're a sleaze." Tate replied coolly, recalling the times he'd seen the man watching the little girls who lived next door with their short dress and bare skin. "What do you want?"
He looks horrified with his statement. "Now, I don't know where you got that idea from but we do not talk like that in this household. As the man in this house, you will obey what I say."
Violet slithered out from Tate's grip and off the bed, wandering closer to the man. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Do you like children, mister?" She asked him softly, cocking her head slightly at him. "My mother did. She had a baby that she adored. I hated him. I put a pillow over him and made him go to sleep. I sung a little song." Her voice sounded odd, like her words were drawn out and floating. Larry looked horrified, his expression grey and gaping. "There's something wrong with my mind, you see. That's why they couldn't lock me up. Did you ever hear about it? They called me the Monster from Boston."
Larry stumbled to leave the room, slamming the door loudly in his wake. Violet laughed loudly, tilting her head back. "Did you actually?" He asked, seating aside his book carelessly.
"Would it matter?" Violet blinked at him.
He paused for a moment, thinking if it really did. "Not really."
"My mom had a miscarriage before we moved here from Boston. I never killed anyone." Tate could tell she was telling the truth, but at the same time it sounded too twisted to be true.
.
"Why can't we ever go to your place?" He asked her once and only once.
Violet had been sorting through his collection of music searching for a song she liked. "My dad's an asshole. We didn't really get along so I just stopped trying."
They never talked about it again.
.
It's a dog this time, with a black collar around his neck.
Tate can't stop crying.
.
Voices start echoing in his head. Sometimes he imagines he sees his father in the reflection of his mirror, watching his with sad eyes and a longing expression, but every time Tate turns around the man disappears. Sometimes he hears laughter ringing through the house, footsteps above him when no one should be in the house but Beau and him.
He screams sometimes, when his family isn't around to hear him howl and rage. He cuts deeper into his skin, marking up his wrists and legs without a care.
It takes him a second to realize that he's finally cracking. That the house is speaking to him.
.
"That girl is a menace." His mother hisses over the dinner table, her eyes looking bright in the candle light. Addy watches curious, smiling faintly at Tate. Larry serves himself a large helping of whatever it is his mother had made for dinner, Tate turning down him offer of filling his plate mutely. "I do not want you to be associating yourself with her any longer, do you understand me?"
Tate grinned. "Does she scare you?"
"She just admitted to murder! Have you killed all your brain cells with that ruckus you call music yet?" She spoke shrilly, her hand latching onto the arms of the chair tightly. "I will not tolerate this twisted friendship anymore."
He rolled his eyes. "She was joking. Larry was pissing us off coming into our room like that. He wasn't going away, so you can calm down." Tate then glared at the man. "Have you even looked up what she supposedly admitted? It was just a joke, Jesus Christ."
"I do not like the way she gallivants around in those short dresses, attracting all those stares." His mother steamrolled on, barely pausing. "I've seen the way you look at her, her bare legs indecent! She's a she devil, and you will keep away from her. I will not permit you to be associating with that little witch."
"No! I won't!" He jumped up from the table, slamming his hands down hard on the surface. "Violet it my friend. She's the only good thing about living here! I fucking hate this dump. I like her, and I'm not going to stop hanging out with her just because you don't think it matches up to your fucked up standards."
His mother narrowed her eyes. "What on earth could you possibly like about her? What could you two have in common?"
Tate gave her a ghost of a smile. "She likes birds."
.
He hates the first days of anything, really.
He hates the first day of school the most.
It's repulsively bland, people running around in new shoes and expensive shirts and throwing themselves in other people's faces. The girls at his school like to dress up in pretty dresses with the buttons half done up and their skirts pulled up higher than the dress code permitted. Everyone was eager to display themselves, a jock and a cheerleader sucking face just outside the front doors to the building. He hates everyone.
For the first little while he searches. He doesn't know for sure whether or not Violet still goes to Westfield, but he hopes she does. He feels loneliness curling up inside the hollows of his bones, anxiety rushing through his veins and turning his blood to ice. If he could find her, she'd say something sarcastic and cutting to the gothic girl, something about how she's only looking for attention. He could imagine her smoking like a dragon, little white cancer stick hanging loosely in her grip.
He never finds her, but he does find Joey. Or Joey finds him, out behind the school.
"Freak. Murder House Freak." He taunts, grabbing hold of his arm and leering in his face. "Whatcha doing back here? Looking for your balls?"
Tate glowered, wanting to snap his neck. "Get off of me."
All throughout summer school he had tolerated the jock's presence, allowed him to lash out and drive him into the ground, his fists leaving a rainbow of bruises across his chest.
"What's it like sleeping where a bunch of dead people slept?" Joey continued, slamming him against the brick wall roughly. His head hurts from where it connects with the brick, making him cry out sharply. The pain stings but it helps clear his mind.
Do it do it do it do it.
"You do cocaine, don't you?" He grins at him, widening his eyes slightly the way Violet did to Larry. "I can get you better stuff, you know. My dad has his own on the side business that he runs. If you want in. He won't notice if some of it goes missing."
Joey looks at him hard.
"Where the fuck is your stash?"
"Back at my house. Wanna skip?"
.
They skip.
.
"Why's it down here?" Joey demanded as he followed him cautiously further into the shadowy basement. The place was a dark mess of cobwebs and boxes of junk that had been left by previous owners. "You better not be messing with me, freak. I'll cut your throat if you try anything funny."
"Shut up." Tate replied, leading him further down the stairs. Larry had gone to work before Tate had left for school, Addy and his mother going shopping for the day. They were alone and the house knew it, guiding the two further and further into the shadows. "No one looks for it down here."
He knows this is wrong but he doesn't care anymore. He's been violated again and again by the house, it whispering terrible secrets and luring him in his sleep. Violet doesn't know how far gone he's become-how he trembles when he finds grass stains on the knees of his jeans and blood beneath his nails. Violet can't save him from himself.
"Swear, I will fucking ruin you if this isn't top notch stuff. You better not try to bullshit me, you little freak."
He ignores him, ushering into the room that's the coldest in the house. There's nothing but a chair and emptiness. Joey falls silent, standing still as the door slams shut behind him, Tate sliding by easily and throwing himself into the chair. The house is almost screaming around him, sounding like chains snapping and bullets being fired and matches being struck. He feels comfortable in the chair, slouching forward casually as he watched his antagonist gape at him.
Do it do it do it-
"Where is the stuff?" Joey's voice wavers in the space between them. "You know what, fuck you." He tries to leave but the door won't open.
"You hit me because I was different, right?" Tate asks, resting his chin on his palm. He feels bored, watching the boy struggle with the door. "I mean, why else? I didn't do anything to you. I didn't do anything to anyone. I just wanted to be left alone."
The pipes in the house groaned.
"Yeah, you were different." Joey gestured to the differences in their clothing. His brand new shirt and jeans compared to the scuffed versions he had purchased from the thrift store downtown. "Listened to that weird ass music and always acting like you were better than the rest of us."
"And different is bad, right?"
Tate slowly stands up from his seat, striding towards the boy as he fumbles for a reply. He doesn't give him a chance before he decks him, feeling the bruising force on his knuckles. Do it do it do it do it.
Joey's crumpled up at his feet, trembling. The image makes power surge through his veins, filling him with sheer pride and satisfaction. The house is coming alive all around him which makes his skin tingle and eyes burn in the dim light of the basement. "Joey?" He asked softly, kneeling down and looking at the boy in the eye, feeling joy at how he was crying at his feet.
"W-what?"
Tate smiles brightly at him. "You should have left me alone."
Do it do it do it do it do it do it DO IT!
He flicks the light off and all he can hear is the screaming.
.
Joey goes flying out of the room, the door swinging open at Violet's touch. "What the fuck did you do to him?" She shouted at him, watching him as if he'd hit her. As if he'd turn out the lights on her and let her be ripped apart.
"That was the guy who's been attacking me all summer." He informs her blankly, confused at how guarded she seems. "I fixed it."
She isn't laughing the way he thought she would, not even smiling. She looks horrified at the blood on the ground. "How could you do this? How could you hurt anyone like this?"
He kicked the chair violently, watching it fall onto its side. "What are you talking about? I fixed it. I didn't just give in and let him beat me up all over again. I took a chance, and it'll work. That bastard will never hurt anyone ever again."
"The house is getting into your mind, isn't it? It's twisting you. God, Tate. You can't let this place break you apart. You can't hurt others like this." Violet whispered, bringing her hands up to her forehead and shutting her eyes. "This place will only fucking destroy you. I can't watch this happen."
She turned on her heel and walked away, the darkness of the basement swallowing her. "I THOUGHT YOU WEREN'T AFRAID OF ANYTHING!" Tate howled, pain stabbing his heart again and again.
.
Tate feels like she's everywhere, always watching him. He searches for her, looking in the bathroom and wandering out by the trees hoping he'll stumble across her smoking and lounging in the long grass. He can never quite find her, but he imagines he can still hear her listening to Morrissey and playing solitaire. He's depressed, something his mother has picked up on and noted to Doctor Harmon about.
"How have things been, Tate?" The man asks, not even looking at him when he throws himself down on the seat across from him. "I haven't seen you in a while. Things must have been busy. How has school been for you?"
"Fine." He grinds out, his hands clenching in fists. He feels anger seizing him; rocking through his body and making him bite his tongue. He thinks about the thing in the monster that had tore at Joey, dragging his claws across his face and lurching onto the struggling teen. How it screamed, how Joey had screamed. How Tate had enjoyed it.
He looks frustrated, waiting for a response that'll explain something. He'd never gotten one word answers from Tate in previous therapy sessions. "Your mother says you aren't eating anymore. That you've been quieter. What's been going on?"
Tate shrugged.
The doctor sighed. "You got to tell me something here." He paused. "What's been happening with that girl you mentioned last time?"
He looked at his battered boots. "She's mad at me."
"Why's that?" The man jotted down a quick note onto the piece of paper, his eyes never once leaving Tate's face. He looks anxious to know if he hit her or held her to a wall, forcing himself upon her. Except, he never tried to hurt her.
She hurt him though.
Tate swallowed, slouching in his seat. "I did something she didn't like."
He had been defending himself, and yet she threw in his face as if he had been wrong. As if he was something vile and worth her contempt, when all he did was not give in. (except, didn't he?)
"Did you hurt her?"
"NO!" Tate shouted, jumping to his feet. "I didn't do anything!"
Doctor Harmon raised his hands slowly. "Relax. Just sit down, and let's discuss this." He set aside his pad of paper. "You never mentioned her name, you know."
He gave him a faint smile. "Violet." Her name sounds like violate in the way his sounds like taint.
"I'm afraid we'll have to end the session for the day." All of the colour in his face had been drained, making him look so much older than he should have. "Goodbye, Tate." The man slowly stood up from his chair, gathering up his fancy pen and his papers. "I'll see you next week."
.
In the end she does return, sitting on the edge of his bed with her hands folded neatly in her lap. He shuts the door softly, afraid that the noise might ruin it. That she might take off again, running up the stairs and away from him. Except she doesn't this time, just instead watches him with hazed eyes that reminds him of early morning rain showers. "Hey." She greets as he steps further into his bedroom.
"Hey."
"Look." She begins but stops, her hands clenching into fists as he waits patiently for her to speak when all he really wants to do is grab hold of her and never let go. "You don't understand something about this house. It gets inside your head and it makes you rot. It ruins people, turns them into monsters. There is darkness inside this place, and it'll never let you go."
He sits down next to her slowly. "You don't think I could resist it?"
"No, I don't." She tells him quietly, pulling at the ends of her oversized cardigan, a dusty purple colour looking flattering against her pale skin. "No one ever can, Tate. The darkness will make you crave it, make you do things you shouldn't ever do."
"Are you still mad at me? For what I did to that guy?"
She shook her head. "That guy was an asshole." Violet's expression looked distant, her hand inching closer to his. "I don't want to lose you to this place, Tate. This place is a nightmare that you'll never escape."
"How do I keep this place from taking over me?" Tate asked her, squeezing her hand tightly, never wanting to let her slip away again. "Tell me, I'll do anything."
"I'll fight for you." Violet smiled softly at him. "I can wear the shining armour and fight the monsters. Just don't give into this place. It'll warp you into your worst qualities."
"How do you know so much about this place?" Because he can't stop wondering. The way she talks makes it sound like she knows how he wakes up surrounded by death into backyard with the scent of blood drowning his senses. How the voices in his head sounds like war drums rattling away, making him want to smash his fists against his reflection and watch himself break into a million pieces.
Violet winked at him. "I did my research."
.
That night he dreams of a woman spread out on the dining room table, body sliced in half. Black curls fall around her neck, eyes bright and glittering as she tells him she's going to be famous, does he know who she is? Eventually she starts asking for the doctor to see her, to fix her but he doesn't understand her, doesn't understand her Chelsea smile.
She turns to ash, leaving him tasting dust when he wakes up.
.
Violet does fight for him, curling up around him when he goes to sleep. Her arms were like iron, holding him still despite the persistent tugging of the house. The voices sounded quieter when she was near, her lips pressed to his neck and fingertips ghosting over his skin. He avoids the basement, avoids the tangles of shadows that coil together in the hallways.
She drifts through the house with him, her hand clenched in his own. Somehow his mother never catches sight of the two, oblivious to their presence. Larry avoids her, eyes glaring into the floorboards when they happen to cross paths. She hums an odd lullaby when they're within his earshot to make Tate laugh, and he can't stop wanting her.
She persistently knocks on the door, enjoying the satisfaction she gains from spoiling his mother's better moods within a few short greetings. Eventually his mother leers in her face, drunken and mindlessly seeking to drive her away. "What do your parents think of you wandering over here, little Violet? Surely they'd want you to be close by, wouldn't they?"
Tate flinches from her words, feeling the heat from the outdoors sneaking past his frigid mother guarding the door. "My mother went off her rocker, actually." Violet informs her pleasantly, smiling thinly. She looks different that afternoon, her hair pinned up. "Hey, Tate."
"Do you think it's right to be spending so much time alone with a boy? Surely you have other friends, don't you? A," she faltered, "pretty girl like you must have plenty of girlfriends to be hanging about with your free time."
"I did. They're dead now, though." Violet's tone plummets to iciness.
There's a deadly silence that grew between the two before his mother broke it, leaning closer to Violet.
"I don't think you should be spending so much time with my son, luring him into temptation. Jesus H. Christ," his mother swore, leaning heavily on the doorframe. "You flashing your bare legs at him and prancing around half naked. What the neighbours must think of my son. There is a time for decency!" She cried, striking her hand against the wood of the door.
"Mom, let her be."
"You're an indecent little bitch, you know. I won't tolerate this association any longer!" Violet's eyes were becoming harder than ice as she watched his mother continue her drunken tirade, saying nothing to defend herself.
Tate mouthed for her to go to the side door, watching Violet turn on her heel and stride away, flipping his mother off. "Go fuck yourself." He mumbled, moving away from the front entrance.
She slammed the door shut. "I try so hard, to make you happy. But you shut yourself away, hating us all! What can I do to make you satisfied? Why can't you just be perfect? Can't you see?" Her face was flushed from the heat, hands trembling as she drew nearer and nearer. "I'm sick of you, the way you go about thinking you're too good for this family."
His mother slapped him hard, snapping his face to the side from the force of her hit. The house seemed to groan around them, floorboards creaking and pipes rattling. "Go hang yourself." He spit at her, stalking away from her.
Tate waited long enough for her to slip into the sitting room with a glass of vodka before opening the door and letting Violet slip in quietly. Hand in hand they crept up the stairs, mindful of the stairs that creaked.
Eventually they stepped into his room where the spell of silence was broken. "She just called me indecent." Violet stated calmly, brushing by him to browse through his growing assortment of CDs before settling on a Nine Inch Nails album. "While she was drunk at nine in the morning. That's just hypocritical."
"My mom's a bitch." Tate shrugged, watching her sway to the low sound of the music.
"She also hit you. Remind me to poison whatever the hell she drinks on my way out. Or maybe I'll wander around the house naked, give her a heart attack. What do you think?" She questioned, lifting a brow in mock seriousness. Violet placed her hand gently on his face, inspecting the darkening bruise. "Damn, she was wearing rings to."
Tate doesn't care that his mother hit him; he doesn't care about anything at the moment. Except for one thing. He spins her around so her back is against the wall, his mouth furiously pressed against her own. Eventually they break apart, breathing roughly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be so rough."
Violet grinned wickedly at him, making the voices and nightmares dissolve into nothing. "Let's be indecent together."
.
if you're gonna do it,
you better do it right-
or my heart won't stop swelling.
.