A/N: Well I guess these are vignettes now. Felt like exploring the raw, hardened street urchin side of her. Might have something to do with all the Ghostface Killah I've been listening to, haha.


Violet Harmon

There was this one time I got too curious about Tate. I mean, God, those dark brown eyes looked like they could swallow me whole. Not that I'd even mind. So I asked Dad about his sessions with him, and you know what that fucker told me?

"Stay away from him, Vi. He's a very dangerous boy and no good for you."

Laughable, isn't it? Big ol' Doctor Harmon doesn't know how dangerous his own daughter is. I stabbed that bitch Chloe in the leg for talking shit about me, and you can bet your ass I shanked her so good she never opened her whore mouth again. When I told Tate, he didn't laugh it off and call me his 'spooky little girl' like I thought he would. He just listened. He always just sat there, puffed out neat rings of smoke and listened to me. I liked that. I liked it a lot.

He's a smart boy, I know he is. Even if he doesn't act like it. I'll be reading this passsage from Frankenstein, explaining the meaning I see, but he'll be like "Nah, Vi. The family symbolises the unity of different characteristic traits he wishes he had. Alternatively, the entire book could all just be one big shit-filled allegory for mental illness. The monster he created would be his own mind, formed with his own two hands."

See? Intellectual fuckin' bastard.

I've been missing him. Way more than I should. Yeah, he raped my mom, sodomised Patrick to death with the thing from the fireplace, shot all those kids. But it doesn't scare me like it used to. Goddamn, dying made me straight-edge. I don't even really smoke anymore. My body doesn't need it. I mean, I'll light up if I get particularly bored, but it doesn't do anything for me, not like it used to. I've got Tate now, or at least the concept of him - that's enough for me.

I know I've already forgiven him. He probably does too, with that beautiful brain of his. All the ghosts in this place have heard me say it before. Say that I've finally gotten to that broken place where I miss him more than I could ever be repulsed by his actions. It used to make me sick to my stomach, my sudden inability to be sickened by him. I like to think that it's not my fault, that he's just too gorgeous and too attractive for his own good, but it's always my fault. I killed myself over him and got myself trapped here. No point in blaming him anymore.

I told him to go away.

It was me. All this time I've been pushing the blame onto him, bitching about him with Chad like it really was all his fault. I mean, obviously the people he killed were the direct result of his fault, I just mean... I don't know what I'm trying to say anymore. I lost the need to achieve some kind of higher understanding after I died in that fucking lonely bathtub.

He was there, I know he was. He held me, kissed me, tried to save me, I know – but when you die, you die alone. Always alone. Anything else is just a pretty lie to stop you from ruining the morning announcements at school with your violent suicide. There was a light there, but there was a darkness too. I didn't know what to do, and I guess I waited too long. The house took me back before I could make a choice.

So I don't wait this time around. I choose the closest thing to the light.

"Tate."

He doesn't appear, at first. I think he hasn't heard me.

"Tate."

And he's there, blinking down at me with those black holes for eyes, tugging at the threadbare sleeve of his ragged sweater with an impatient hand.

"What do you want, Violet?"

The sound of his voice washes over me like the ocean. I want it to take me away.

"Tate, you know I forgave you a long time ago."

He nods briskly, and I can almost feel him trying to detach himself.

"I still love you," I confess shakily, and Tate's eyes snap onto mine like magnets drawn too close together.

"You don't want to say that, Vi," he warns in a low voice.

"Well it's true-"

"Really? You should probably think about that. If you haven't been thinking about it, that is. You've had – gee, I don't know – the better part of two years to think about it," he spat bitterly, tears pooling in his eternally bloodshot eyes.

"Tate, I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't tell people like me that you love them, Violet. I might do something stupid, like believe you."

"I do, goddammit. I do love you. I always loved you and I never stopped. You think every day I've been ignoring you has been easy for me? You think I wanted to do that? You made it feel like I had no choice!"

"Bullshit! You always had a choice and you chose to die here, for me. You chose to push me away every goddamn time I saw you and... and..."

He rubs angrily at his eyes, wiping away the fat tears that have escaped.

"Violet, it took me two years to get over your rejection. Imagine what your death did to me. Seeing you, holding you, but as a spirit. You didn't even know. I just – I wanted you to be happy. I still do. Go back to the boy upstairs. He'll make you happy."

"You make me happy, Tate. Us, together. I need it to survive. I should've come to you sooner, I know. But I do need you, fuck that other guy. I've got nowhere to go. Nowhere to run or hide. We're here together now, and I think we can work with that."

A tiny smile creeps across his face, digging dimples in his cheeks that haven't appeared for years.

"Yeah," he agrees, "yeah, we can work with that."

I beam up at him and open my arms cautiously, gesturing for him to come closer. The warmth from his body pressing against me in a hug is the first real sensation I've felt since I died. I hum softly against his chest and he kisses the top of my head, just like he used to.

"I missed you," I whisper to him.

"I missed you more," he replies with a smile, running his fingers over my hair.

And for the first time in my afterlife, I feel happy.