Violet gasped into the musty attic air. Tate's knife pressed dangerously against her neck as he pressed his body against hers. Him hitting her sweet spot, as if he had never forgotten were it was, distracted her from the reality of the situation.
He had stormed up the stairs going on and on about Constance yelling at him. He screamed for so long his eyes almost popped out and his skin turned the color of her blood. She just sat and listened and when that wasn't enough for him he untied her and yanked at her clothes until they ripped off. Violet was definitely not complaining but she couldn't let him know how bad she wanted this. If she did she knew he would stop, he was trying to torture her and if he knew this was exactly what she wanted there would be no hope for relief.
She arched her back and pushed her neck against the blade. His grunts grew louder and so did her moans. Before she could do anything about it the metal sunk too deep into her throat. She sighed at the relief of the pain and pleasure mixed together. She tried to hold back a smirk but couldn't at the look on his face: pure ecstasy, then horror. The blood spilled down onto her chest. Normally Tate would be all about this but instead in his state of confusion he jumped off of her.
"Oh my god! Oh my god!" He screamed over and over. His hands found refuge in his hair and she could almost see clumps of it coming out. "I fucking killed her! Fuck!"
Tate didn't remember that they were already dead. He also didn't remember her name. The panic on his face caused an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, to telling him that she'd be back and alive in a few minutes. In her last thoughts she worried about him remembering this. What if he questioned her reappearance? What would she say to him? How would she explain?
Would she have to remind him of all the bad things he's done and all the reasons he used to believe were the roots of her hatred for him?